THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Direct Action planted "James Smith" a 
 suit-case, and a raincoat in the middle of the 
 county of Norfolk at ten o'clock one night, 
 with rain imminent. 
 
 After wandering aimlessly about, he ap- 
 proached a large house and rang the bell. The 
 butler immediately recognised him as "Mr. 
 Alfred" the missing son of the house. 
 
 From that point, "Smith" found himself in 
 for an exciting time. Not only had he in- 
 herited the friends of "Mr. Alfred," but the 
 odium of his misdoings. 
 
 Protestations were useless. "He's lost his 
 memory, the poor lamb," said his old nurse, 
 and everybody clutched joyfully at this ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Extraordinary complications ensued, and 
 the most impossible situations arose, because 
 the actual Alfred was well, not all he ought 
 to have been. Then there was Marjorie 
 the worst complication of all. 
 
 W CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE 
 
 AUTHOR 
 
 OF 
 
 "PATRICIA BRENT, 
 SPINSTER" 
 
 NEW HlMK YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 THE RETURN OF ALFRED. II 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 THOSE IN MANY COUNTRIES 
 
 WHO HAVE GENEROUSLY ASSUMED 
 RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE AUTHORSHIP OF 
 
 PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 S133491
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW . . . ,. 1 1 
 
 II A QUESTION OF IDENTITY . . .. . 31 
 
 III WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD . ., ... . 45 
 
 IV THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT . . .. . 56 
 V LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK . . 70 
 
 VI THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE . . .84 
 
 VII LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT . . 103 
 
 VIII ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT * . 118 
 
 IX Miss LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY . 130 
 
 X SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS . . 140 
 
 XI MR. TASSELL Is SURPRISED . . . .151 
 
 XII LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH . . 163 
 
 XIII NERO IN DISGRACE ,.176 
 
 XIV SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO . . . 188 
 XV A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF ,. 217 
 
 XVI P.C. POSTLE ASSUMES His UNIFORM . . 233 
 
 XVII MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL . . .. . 241 
 
 XVIII ERIC PLAYS A PART .... . '. 260 
 
 XIX SIR JOHN HILDRETH INSERTS AN ADVERTISE- 
 MENT 275 
 
 XX LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WTTH DRAMA . 286
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGZ 
 
 XXI MARJORIE HEARS THE NEWS .... 305 
 
 XXII THE UNMASKING OF SMITH . . . .. 315 
 
 XXIII MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH . . . 326 
 
 XXIV ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF . . . ... 337
 
 THE RETURN OF ALFRED
 
 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 
 
 "ALL change!" 
 
 r\ The station-master was weary of the phrase. 
 He had shouted it, murmured it, purred it, and 
 threatened with it, until he felt it the most odious 
 combination of words the language contained. 
 
 "All change, sir!" he repeated irritably, as the pas- 
 senger for whose benefit he had made the statement 
 showed no sign of movement. "Strike begins at ten," 
 he added. 
 
 "But it's not ten yet," smiled the young man, as he 
 glanced at his wrist-watch. 
 
 "There won't be time to get on to Upper Saxton," 
 was the reply. "We've had instructions to warn all 
 passengers that trains may be left derelict at ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Anyway, I think I'll chance it," was the imperturb- 
 able reply, and the fair-haired passenger with the smil- 
 ing blue eyes proceeded to light a cigarette. 
 
 "Well, sir, I've warned you," said the station-master, 
 with the air of a man who wishes to clear himself of 
 all responsibility. 
 
 "You most certainly have," agreed the passenger, 
 as he dropped the match upon the carpeted floor of 
 
 11
 
 12 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the first-class compartment, and put his foot upon it. 
 
 The station-master had promised to be home by 
 nine o'clock to a stewed-steak-and-onion supper, a dish 
 dear to his heart, and now he had been delayed nearly 
 an hour by this miserable business of trying to explain 
 to congenital idiots that if they persisted in their 
 folly they would, in all probability, be left stranded, 
 and that it was no use threatening him with legal pro- 
 ceedings. In return they had done nothing but pester 
 him with their ridiculous questions as to what the Com- 
 pany meant to do. Could he recommend a good hotel? 
 Where could a motor-car be obtained? 
 
 He banged-to the door viciously. He hated strikes, 
 he hated trade unions, he hated railways he hated 
 everything connected with locomotion. It was only 
 from sheer lack of inspiration that he did not curse 
 the day that gave to the world George Stephenson. 
 
 "Right, sir?" queried the guard, his whistle lifted 
 towards his lips. 
 
 "Right!" echoed the station-master. "One passen- 
 ger won't get out," he added, and he waved his hand 
 with the air of a Pontius Pilate repudiating all responsi- 
 bility for the folly of others. He was wondering what, 
 in the natural order of things, would be the effect of 
 half-an-hour's delay upon stewed-steak-and-onions. 
 
 There was a shrill whistle, a green light described 
 an arc-like movement, and the station-master turned to 
 escape from a fiery-faced little man with an eye like 
 a fish and a moustache like a walrus. On his lips the 
 station-master saw imbecile questions framing them- 
 selves. 
 
 "Why didn't that gentleman get " 
 
 The station-master fled. Realisation had suddenly 
 come to him that every passenger who had alighted
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 13 
 
 from the train at his suggestion would inevitably ask 
 the same question. 
 
 As the train gathered speed, the solitary passenger 
 found himself wondering whether or no he had been 
 wise in disregarding the advice officially tendered. 
 There was something about the station-master, he de- 
 cided, that had irritated him. He disliked taking ad- 
 vice from men who, because they were fair, spared the 
 use of a razor. It was almost as bad as not washing 
 your neck because you are addicted to high collars. 
 
 He had been warned at Liverpool Street that the 
 strike would begin at ten o'clock, and that it was 
 more than doubtful if the train would get through to 
 Norwich, its destination. Anxious and misguided offi- 
 cials even refused to book beyond Upper Saxton, where 
 they were due at 9.58; but the train was late, and 
 on arrival at Bittleborough the station-master had be- 
 come almost hysterical in his efforts to thwart the 
 N.U.R., which he hated. 
 
 Arguing that the leaving of trains derelict was 
 against all precedent, and anxious to get on to Cromer, 
 where the Grand Garden Hotel had a room booked 
 for "James Smith, Esq.," the passenger had decided to 
 carry on. Once at Norwich, he knew he could get a 
 car, or a taxicab, to run him to his destination. 
 
 Now ^that he was committed to the adventure, he 
 found himself curious to see what actually would hap- 
 pen at ten o'clock. At least he could sleep in the first- 
 class compartment he occupied. He had known less 
 comfortable quarters in France, during the Somme 
 battles for instance. 
 
 "James Smith!" How familiar the old name had 
 seemed as he added it to the telegraph form. "Private 
 James Smith." Why had he given the name to the
 
 14 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 recruiting officer on that August morning seven years 
 before? He had often wondered. He had no thought 
 of enlisting other than under his own name; but some- 
 how when the moment came, "Darrell Hildreth" had 
 seemed to cry aloud for a commission, and that was 
 just what he was most anxious to avoid. He was de- 
 termined to do his bit in the ranks; yet, four-and-a- 
 half years later, he had returned to private life as 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Darrell Hildreth, D.S.O., M.C, 
 M.M. 
 
 He smiled a little grimly at the recollection. 
 
 Those five years had meant something more than a 
 temporary military rank, and a string of initials after 
 his name. They had somehow or other changed things, 
 just how he had never been able quite to decide. Some 
 new and strange influence seemed to have asserted 
 itself. His perceptions had become keener, his judg- 
 ments more critical, his general outlook more fatalistic. 
 
 He had returned to his old niche; but somehow it 
 did not seem to be his. He had gone away one of 
 England's "young barbarians," as Matthew Arnold ex- 
 pressed it, and he had returned what? 
 
 What had happened "out there" to bring about such 
 a change? There had been killing, suffering and 
 yes; perhaps that was it brotherhood. Class differ- 
 ences had been brushed aside. The man who at home 
 would have touched a respectful cap to him, had 
 called him "chum" or "matey," had spoken of his 
 mother and family, of his own feelings. There had 
 been no attempt to disguise emotion. Strong men had 
 wept, big enough of heart not to feel ashamed. There 
 had been self-sacrifice, too, and sentiment, and a be- 
 lief in God. 
 
 Suddenly a sort of time-machine had thrust him
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 15 
 
 back five years into an environment that no longer 
 fitted. 
 
 By Jove ! They were humming along at a spanking 
 pace, was his thought as he glanced out of the window 
 at^ the flying hedges and trees, Direct Action or no 
 Direct Action. 
 
 Yes, he now saw things that hitherto had evaded 
 him, among others those little crinkles that manifested 
 themselves in Vera Truscombe's nose when she 
 laughed. Hitherto she had seemed to him charming, 
 a typical healthy-minded English girl, good-looking, 
 well-born, popular, everything she should be, in fact; 
 and all the time her nose had crinkled and he had 
 not seen it. 
 
 In a vague way he had known that his uncle was 
 set upon joining-up the Hildreth and Truscombe es- 
 tates, and when Sir John Hildreth, ninth baronet, set 
 his mind upon a thing, it invariably meant either the 
 thing became an accomplished fact, or as an alternative, 
 that there was a series of violent explosions. 
 
 "What the devil does her nose matter?" his uncle 
 had shouted that day in the library at Hildreth Hall, 
 when he heard of the impending rupture of his plans, 
 and his nephew had found it utterlv impossible to 
 explain that those crinkles in Vera Truscombe's nose 
 were to him what the contemptible little army had 
 proved to the Germans, an insurmountable obstacle. 
 
 With the assurance of a confirmed bachelor, Sir 
 John had plunged into his match-making schemes with- 
 out even consulting his sister, Mrs. Compton-Stacey, 
 whose sound commonsense and tact had rescued him 
 from many an awkward situation into which his im- 
 pulsive egotism had plunged him. 
 
 "Isn't he my heir?" Sir John had thundered.
 
 16 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "To the title and estates, yes," she had replied 
 calmly; "but not to your taste in women." 
 
 "He's a damned ungrateful young scoundrel!" 
 
 The words had been rapped out with all the force of 
 Sir John's volcanic nature. His short white moustache 
 had bristled, his naturally rubicund complexion had 
 taken on a deeper hue, as it always did when he was 
 angry. 
 
 In a vague way the little red-faced passenger on the 
 platform had reminded the adventurous passenger of 
 his uncle. 
 
 "He's as bad as that infernal fellow Peters!" Sir 
 John had exploded. Sooner or later he always dragged 
 in the name of his late butler, with whom the growing 
 of a moustache had been the cause of his feudal undo- 
 ing. At the first sound of war Peters had enlisted, 
 just how he had got his fifteen stone past the critical 
 eye of the doctor into the army, no one knew. Sir 
 John Hildreth was furious at losing the best butler 
 he had ever known, and had called it "damned unnec- 
 essary." 
 
 When, four-and-a-half years later, Peters had 
 stepped from behind that veil of mystery known as 
 Demobilisation into the bright glare of civilian life, 
 plus a henna-coloured moustache of gigantic propor- 
 tions, the irate baronet had become almost apoplectic 
 with rage. 
 
 "What the devil do you mean by it, Peters?" he had 
 exploded. "Go and shave that damned thing off at 
 once." 
 
 During his years in the army, Peters had discovered 
 in himself a new and hitherto unsuspected capacity. 
 Nature had endowed him with the ability to grow a
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 17 
 
 moustache of exactly the same curve and tint as that 
 of Lord Kitchener only more so. 
 
 Sir John had stormed and sworn, damned the war, 
 execrated all moustaches as unhygienic and obscene 
 ("damned filthy" was his phrase) ; but Peters remained 
 obdurate, and he had given notice. 
 
 At this Sir John had sworn the more. He vowed 
 that the very sight of the auburn wealth upon Peters' 
 upper lip made all thought of soup revolting to him. 
 He reminded Peters of his fifteen years' service with 
 the Hildreths, he offered to raise his wages, and ended 
 by telling him to go to hell. 
 
 Peters had temporised by going to Haslemere, where 
 he possessed a sister in the Trade. 
 
 Darrell Hildreth had suggested that his uncle should 
 advertise for a modern Delilah, which had resulted in 
 an even greater flow of eloquence and profanity from 
 Sir John, who had failed to catch the allusion, a cir- 
 cumstance that increased his annoyance. 
 
 Realising that a butler with an auburn moustache 
 of gigantic proportions would be like a fox terrier 
 with an unbitten tail, Peters had subsequently accepted 
 service as a gentleman's gentleman with the nephew 
 and heir, a post that would give him greatar liberty 
 to cultivate his moustache and indulge his passion for 
 motor-cycling. 
 
 As it began to dawn upon Sir John that he was in 
 danger of a second defeat, he had proceeded to explode 
 like the back-firing of a high-power racing car. Finally 
 he had delivered an ultimatum to his nephew. It was 
 either marriage with Vera Truscombe, or being cut 
 off with a shilling. 
 
 Smith could almost hear the final terrific explosion
 
 18 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 which had taken place when he had made it clear 
 that he could not accept his uncle's matrimonial views. 
 
 He had been told to go to the devil, and go pseudony- 
 mously, in other words he was told not to drag the 
 ancient name of Hildreth into the mire. 
 
 He had striven to explain to his uncle that the war 
 had made a difference, only to be told that any fool 
 could see that by the Income Tax. 
 
 The upshot of the interview was that he had vowed 
 to drop the family name, and never use it again with- 
 out his uncle's permission, whereat Sir John had 
 vociferated that he was "a damned ungrateful young 
 puppy," and had shot out of the library like a howitzer 
 shell. 
 
 Within the next hour he had discharged his chauffeur, 
 the head-gardener, and a frightened housemaid, whom 
 he encountered in a corridor. 
 
 Smith smiled at the thought of the periodical dis- 
 charges to which the domestics at Hildreth Hall were 
 subject. No one ever took them seriously. Sir John 
 had been known to discharge the same man half-a- 
 dozen times in one week. 
 
 From the scene at Hildreth Hall, Smith's thoughts 
 travelled to another scene at his own chambers in 
 Jermyn Street. It had been less dramatic; but every 
 whit as interesting. Peters had 
 
 Suddenly he glanced at his wrist-watch. The hands 
 pointed to five minutes to ten. In a flash Sir John, 
 Peters' moustache and Vera Truscombe's nose had dis- 
 appeared. The moment of drama was approaching. 
 His eyes remained fixed upon the white dial of his 
 watch. Would Direct Action triumph? If it did he 
 would find himself in the very devil of a hole.
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 19 
 
 As the hands crept on, he found himself experiencing 
 a pleasant thrill of excitement. He realised the feel- 
 ings of the man in a film he had once seen who, bound 
 to a chair, watched a candle slowly burn down to the 
 point when it would ignite a fuse attached to a hun- 
 dredweight of High Explosive immediately beneath 
 him. 
 
 Ten o'clock came; still the train pounded on at a 
 good forty miles an hour. One minute, two minutes, 
 three minutes passed. Smith began to congratulate 
 himself upon his foresight. He was conscious of a feel- 
 ing of superiority over the passengers who had been so 
 easily intimidated into relinquishing their journey. 
 
 Such a triumph of mind over Direct Action was a 
 thing worthy of another cigarette, he decided. Select- 
 ing one he struck a match. As he did so, there was a 
 sudden and violent grinding of brakes, and the train 
 began to lose speed. 
 
 In a flash he remembered that at Liverpool Street 
 his watch had been four-and-a-half minutes fast. 
 
 He laughed, and the neglected match burned his 
 fingers. 
 
 "Damn!" 
 
 He struck another match, lit the cigarette and, with 
 a quickening interest, rose and thrust his head and 
 shoulders out of the carriage-window. 
 
 In the gathering dusk, little was to be seen beyond 
 a curve of dingy railway-carriages. There was no 
 signal in sight, no township or village, in fact nothing 
 but a flat landscape, over which heavy rain-clouds were 
 hurrying, as if anxious to get home before night finally 
 closed in. 
 
 The head of the guard appeared at the rear of the
 
 20 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 train. He waved his hand and appeared to shout 
 something which Smith could not hear above the noise 
 of the brakes. Presently the man swung himself out 
 upon the footboard, where he stood with a leg and 
 arm extended, looking like some mechanical figure fixed 
 to the side of the train. 
 
 As they jerked to a standstill, the guard dropped 
 to the permanent way, and approached the carriage 
 from the window of which Smith leaned, an interested 
 spectator of Direct Action in process of application. 
 
 "We're not going any further," said the guard. 
 
 Smith regarded him curiously. 
 
 "I'm going on to Norwich and eventually to 
 Cromer," he said, with an assurance he was far from 
 feeling. 
 
 "I'm afraid you can't, sir," said the guard civilly. 
 He had now reached a point immediately beneath 
 Smith. "The strike's begun." 
 
 Smith did not reply immediately. The news re- 
 quired digesting. 
 
 "They warned you at Bittleborough." 
 
 "But what's going to happen to you?" queried 
 Smith. "Camping-out here until the strike's all over?" 
 
 "We shall run the train on to the Upper Saxton 
 siding, and go home." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "If you'll hand down your luggage, sir," said the 
 guard, his professional instinct triumphing over his 
 trade unionism. 
 
 "I think I'll go on with you to Upper Saxton, 
 wherever that may be," said Smith, with the air of a 
 man who has just solved a difficult problem. 
 
 "I'm afraid you can't, sir," was the reply, uttered
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 21 
 
 with just a tinge of impatience. "The strike's begun. 
 It's against orders to carry passengers after ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Then consider me a member of your union," smiled 
 Smith. "I'll pay the subscription now." He drew 
 from his pocket a letter-case, and proceeded to extract 
 a one-pound note. 
 
 "Chaaaaaaaaaarley !" came a voice from the engine. 
 "Wot the 'ell are you doin', bor? Stoppin' 'ere all 
 night?" 
 
 The guard waved his hand in acknowledgment of 
 the remark; but without diverting his gaze from the 
 note in Smith's hand. 
 
 "It can't be done, sir," he said, regretfully. "Orders 
 are orders. You'll have to get down, sir." 
 
 "But your quarrel isn't with the passengers, it's with 
 the Company," suggested Smith. 
 
 "If we didn't do something, the passengers wouldn't 
 know there's a strike on." 
 
 "Oh! little things like that are bound to get about," 
 said Smith pleasantly, as he returned the note to his 
 case, and the case to his pocket. 
 
 The guard turned aside with a sigh, and Smith lifted 
 down his suit-case and gathered up his raincoat. Open- 
 ing the door of the carriage, he dropped down beside 
 the guard, just as a further shout from the engine, 
 again invoking the speaker's hereafter, reminded his 
 comrade that he was no longer a servant of the 
 public. 
 
 "Well, perhaps you're right, guard. It will be quite 
 a novel experience, camping-out on the up-track." 
 
 With a shrill on his whistle and a wave of his arm, 
 the guard swung himself up on to the footboard,
 
 22 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 and proceeded to haul himself along the carriages, 
 towards his own van. 
 
 "I'm sorry, sir," he called down to Smith, a few 
 seconds later as he was drawn past. "I would have 
 done it if I could." 
 
 "Which means," muttered Smith, "that the instinc- 
 tive venality of railway-guards remains unimpaired by 
 any action, direct or otherwise." 
 
 Slowly the train pushed its way into the night, its 
 tail-light gleaming evilly at the stranded traveller 
 marooned upon the up-track. 
 
 Smith watched the red eye turn to pink, the pink 
 to a blur, which finally became absorbed in the grey 
 wall of the landscape. 
 
 The rumble of the train still crescendoed back to 
 him, accentuated by the low-lying clouds. When that 
 in turn ceased, he became conscious of a strange sense 
 of loneliness. From where he stood, he commanded 
 a limited view; but nowhere could he detach from the 
 varying degrees of shadow anything that was definitely 
 suggestive of a house. 
 
 A spot of rain on the back of his hand gave warning 
 that it was time to think of shelter for the night. He 
 glanced up at the clouds, which appeared desirous of 
 showing how close they could get to the earth without 
 actually touching it. Somewhere in the distance an 
 owl hooted its challenge to the oncoming night. "Di- 
 rect Action," he muttered, as he picked up his suit-case 
 and clambered down the embankment, "can be the very 
 devil." 
 
 There seemed nothing to do but to walk on until 
 he struck some habitation, where he might either en- 
 quire the way to an inn, or else obtain shelter until
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 23 
 
 morning. Instinctively he turned to the west, where 
 a faint grey light still lingered. It seemed less inhos- 
 pitable than the rest of the landscape. 
 
 The pervading flatness of the countryside made it 
 impossible to identify those hedges which bordered 
 roads. The landscape gave the impression of being 
 as trackless as the prairie, and as destitute of popu- 
 lation as the Sahara itself. 
 
 Occasionally some unseen beast, wrapped to the 
 horns in the greyness of evening, would send forth a 
 subdued low of foreboding; but no other sound broke 
 the stillness. 
 
 As the last flicker of grey vanished from the west, 
 the rain began to fall, as if it had held back only in 
 deference to the departing day. 
 
 Putting down his suit-case by a gate giving access 
 to a field of what looked like barley, Smith struggled 
 into his coat. A few minutes later, he was trudging 
 against a slant of wetness that left him in no doubt 
 as to its determination to soak him to the skin. 
 
 With head down and shoulders hunched, he con- 
 tinued on his way, conscious of only two things; that 
 the man who had labelled his coat "rain-proof" was 
 a liar, and that Direct Action was the invention of 
 Satan himself. 
 
 At the end of half-an-hour's steady plodding, he 
 had dropped Direct Action and found himself concen- 
 trating, with all the misanthropy of which he was pos- 
 sessed, upon the maker and the vendor of his coat. 
 
 At length a gate brought him quite unexpectedly 
 to a promising-looking road. Even in this land of 
 apparent troglodytes, there must be some progressive 
 spirits who lived above ground.
 
 24, THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 As if Fate had wearied of the game, and had de- 
 cided to throw in her hand, a few minutes later Smith 
 found himself standing before a pair of wrought-iron 
 gates, opening on to what appeared to be a drive. 
 
 He tried them ; they were locked. He struck a match 
 the wind blew it out. He struck another, a spot 
 of rain extinguished it. After exhausting some half- 
 a-dozen matches and all his patience, he decided to 
 make an effort to scale either the gates or the wall 
 visible on either side. In all probability this was the 
 only house for miles round. 
 
 He realised the risk he was running. He might 
 be shot, or arrested, or even torn by dogs; but any- 
 thing would be preferable to his present intolerable 
 condition. He had already roundly cursed the station- 
 master for not possessing a more compelling person- 
 ality. 
 
 To ensure greater freedom of movement, he re- 
 moved his rain-coat and threaded one of the sleeves 
 through the handle of his suit-case. He then tied the 
 two sleeves round his neck, and swung the case behind 
 him. The sensation of being half-choked was not 
 pleasant. 
 
 Grasping the iron-work of the gate, he proceeded 
 to haul himself up. In the course of the next few 
 minutes, he realised that the high priests of obstacle- 
 races had proved themselves lacking in imagination. 
 To climb a high gate in drenched garments, with a 
 suit-case tied to your back by the sleeves of a rain-coat, 
 epitomised a veritable Grand National of obstacles. 
 
 When he eventually descended on the inner side of 
 the gate, he was conscious that the front of his right 
 trouser leg was ripped from knee to hip, two buttons
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 25 
 
 had been torn from his coat, together with about two 
 square inches of material. He had dropped his hat 
 on the road side of the wall, and the rain-coat had 
 caught on a spike, leaving a considerable section of the 
 skirt fluttering somewhere between heaven and earth. 
 In short, he had left about those gates sufficient 
 apparel to enable a really intelligent detective to de- 
 duce both the act and the gender of the perpetrator. 
 Allowing the suit-case to remain strung behind him, 
 Smith began to explore what was obviously the drive 
 belonging to a residence of some size. A few yards 
 up he was able to identify the porter's lodge. 
 
 He paused irresolutely, and glanced at his wrist- 
 watch. The luminous hands pointed to five minutes 
 to eleven. Should he make his appeal to this unknown 
 Horatius, or proceed to the house itself? 
 
 Arguing that a servant was not likely to manifest 
 hospitable tendencies to a wayfarer appearing before 
 him minus a hat, two buttons from his coat, a strip 
 of his trousers and about a third of his rain-coat, he 
 decided to make for the house and risk the possibility 
 of being treed by a dog. 
 
 It was foolish to look on the dark side of the ad- 
 venture. The owner might possibly prove to be an 
 eccentric, who would see nothing unusual in one man 
 scaling another's gate after dark, in order to offer 
 to spend the night with him. The place might even 
 turn out to be a private asylum, which would render 
 explanations unnecessary. If it were a ladies' school, 
 his act would appear in the light of romance. He 
 would, in all probability, be handed over to the gar- 
 dener, and in the morning become the hero of a hun- 
 dred pig-tailed hearts.
 
 26 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 There was always the possibility of his host-to-be 
 turning out to be a bad temper and a good shot, in 
 which case the responsibility for the explanation would 
 devolve upon him. It was all very interesting; still 
 the dark, tree-bordered drive was devilishly long, and 
 the rain on his uncovered head infernally wet, and that 
 suit-case had got in a real strangle-hold. 
 
 Just at the point when he had decided that the 
 drive was bewitched and, like Vanderdecken's efforts 
 to round the Horn, continued for ever, Smith suddenly 
 stopped dead. He blinked several times, as if to make 
 certain that he really were awake. The strain of his 
 suit-case, however, reassured him. 
 
 There, a few yards ahead, was a girl at a window, 
 apparently occupied in gazing down at him, whether 
 in sorrow or in anger he could not say. He was pre- 
 pared to swear that she had not been there five sec- 
 onds before. She seemed suddenly to appear from 
 nowhere, like rain at Henley Regatta. 
 
 She must have drawn back a curtain, or suddenly 
 switched on a light; but whatever it was, she was now 
 looking out into the night, possibly at him. The light 
 behind threw out her slim figure in strong silhouette. 
 She was of medium height, he noticed, and was dressed 
 in green. She 
 
 Then the picture was blotted-out, leaving him gaz- 
 ing at a blank of darkness, and speculating as to 
 whether or no there were sufficient left of the skirts 
 of his rain-coat to hide the rent in his trousers. 
 
 Approaching the house warily, he mounted the steps 
 and felt about for a bell with which to announce his 
 presence. Nowhere could he find anything suggestive 
 of how a guest was to apprise the occupants of his
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 27 
 
 arrival. It required the expenditure of two matches 
 before he saw the handsome wrought-iron bell-pull 
 on his right. 
 
 Without hesitation, he tugged at it, the strain of 
 the suit-case was becoming intolerable. He thought 
 he detected the distant whirr of an electric-bell. 
 
 As he waited for his summons to be answered, he 
 found himself speculating as to the identity of the girl 
 at the window. Was she the mistress, or the daughter 
 of the house? Was she beautiful, or did her nose 
 crinkle when she laughed? Would she realise the 
 humour of the situation, or would she see in him 
 only a vagrant who had audaciously climbed the an- 
 cestral gates to arouse the household at dead of night? 
 Possibly she kept a covey of hungry hounds, which 
 were automatically loosed at the first alarm. For one 
 thing he was thankful, it would not be she who would 
 open the door. Should she appear subsequently, there 
 would in all probability be some hospitable chair or 
 table behind which he could take cover, and thus hide 
 the deficiencies of his clothing. 
 
 Suddenly he became conscious of the grotesque fig- 
 ure he must present with a suit-case tied to his back 
 by the saturated remnants of a rain-coat, which really 
 was not a rain-coat at all; but a vivid, palpitating 
 lie, which Direct Action and Norfolk weather had been 
 successful in exposing. 
 
 He essayed to undo the sleeves tied under his chin; 
 but they seemed reluctant to part, the tension coupled 
 with the rain had hardened the knot. 
 
 The sound of bolts being withdrawn hastened his 
 movements. Pulling his suit-case round to the front, 
 he tried to slip the rain-coat over his head, and thus
 
 28 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 disembarrass himself of the two encumbrances in one 
 movement. Something, however, had apparently 
 caught; for what remained of the skirts of the tattered 
 garment fell over his eyes, effectually blinding him 
 to anything that might result from his summons. 
 
 He struggled to free his head, or at least his eyes; 
 but the wretched garment seemed suddenly to have 
 assumed the proportions of a marquee. 
 
 The sounds in front of him continued. From what 
 he heard of the drawing of bolts, he decided that the 
 girl at the window must be in nightly fear of abduc- 
 tion. 
 
 As he struggled with the enveloping folds, he be- 
 came conscious that a light had somewhere broken out 
 from the darkness. He could see it indistinctly through 
 the material of the lying rain-coat, with which he was 
 unwillingly playing at blind-man's-buff. 
 
 Suddenly a tear manifested itself just in the line of 
 his vision. The door had been opened some ten or 
 twelve inches where it was held by a chain. Through 
 the slit, he saw the figure of an old man, garbed in 
 a royal-blue dressing-gown, time-worn and obviously 
 made for one of slimmer build, a pair of carpet slippers 
 and a bandana handkerchief loosely twisted about his 
 neck. 
 
 At the sight of two eyes peering at him from the 
 khaki-coloured folds of the tattered rain-coat, the old 
 man started back. 
 
 "I'm frightfully sorry," apologised Smith, in 
 muffled tones, as he continued to struggle with the 
 infernal thing that seemed determined to envelop him 
 for ever. "I'm frightfully sorry; but could you pos- 
 sibly put me up for the night?"
 
 THE GIRL AT THE WINDOW 29 
 
 The expression on the old man's face at this unusual 
 request struck Smith as irresistibly funny, and he 
 laughed. At the same moment the rain-coat fell away 
 from him, carried to the ground by the weight of the 
 suit-case. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred!" 
 
 The old man whispered the words as if afraid of 
 being overheard. In his eyes was a look, half of fear, 
 half of incredulity. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred!" he repeated, as his trembling fingers 
 began to fumble with the chain on which the door 
 was held. A moment later it was opened to its widest 
 extent. Smith stepped across the threshold, tripped 
 over the suit-case and lurched forward. As he fell 
 he clutched wildly at the dingy dressing-gown, got the 
 wearer round the knees, and brought him down in 
 real Rugby style. 
 
 A moment later the two men were sitting toe to 
 toe, gazing into one another's surprised eyes. The 
 dressing-gown had parted up to the knees, exposing 
 grey worsted under-wear, and what looked like the 
 tails of a nightshirt. 
 
 Throwing back his head, Smith laughed. The ex- 
 pression on the old man's face, suggestive of a medley 
 of emotions, coupled with the wild absurdity of the 
 adventure, rendered him almost hysterical. The more 
 he looked at the quaint figure opposite, the more ridic- 
 ulous the thing appeared. 
 
 "What is the matter, Willis?" enquired a quiet 
 and perfectly inflected voice. 
 
 Srmth looked up, sobered as if by magic. There, 
 standing at the head of the stairs and looking gravely 
 down at them, as if accustomed to seeing two men
 
 30 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 in nondescript garments sitting on the hall-mat late 
 at night, was the girl he had seen at the window. 
 
 The question seemed to break the spell. The butler 
 scrambled awkwardly to his feet, hastily wrapping the 
 dressing-gown about him, whilst Smith rose behind 
 the remains of the rain-coat, which he modestly draped 
 over the tear in his trouser leg. 
 
 "It's Mr. Alfred come back, Miss Marjorie," whis- 
 pered the old man hoarsely and, clutching Smith by 
 the coat-sleeve, he broke down and sobbed like a child. 
 
 "Great Gulliver!" cried Smith, and in his astonish- 
 ment he dropped the tattered remnants of the rain-coat.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 
 
 A he gazed down at the bent figure of the old 
 man, whose shoulders were heaving convul- 
 sively, Smith realised, from the slight swaying 
 of his body, that he was on the verge of collapse. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Alfred!" he murmured, as Smith placed 
 a steadying arm across his shoulders. "How we've 
 all prayed for this day," and the tears coursed un- 
 checked down his cheeks. 
 
 Through Smith's mind flooded a medley of impres- 
 sions. He was torn between a desire to laugh and a 
 feeling that he wanted a glass of water with which to 
 wash down the lump in his throat. He was acutely 
 conscious of his torn trouser-leg, which he was unable 
 to cover up until the butler, he was obviously the butler, 
 began to manifest signs of stiffening into a more rigid 
 position, after which Smith decided to take cover be- 
 hind a chair. 
 
 The whole affair brought back to his mind a scene 
 from "The Silver King," which he had seen as a boy. 
 
 "Please let him sit down." 
 
 The girl had descended the stairs, and now stood 
 regarding the butler with anxious eyes. Smith turned 
 to find himself gazing into a pair of large violet eyes, 
 grave and steady; but capable, he felt, of breaking 
 into mischievous light. 
 
 He moved closer to the butler, that the dilapidation 
 of his clothing might be less obvious. 
 
 31
 
 32 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Turning Willis in the direction of the nearest chair, 
 Smith half-led, half-propelled him towards it, taking 
 short steps that his right leg might be in close proximity 
 to the skirts of the dingy dressing-gown. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Mr. Alfred," murmured the old man, 
 as he was gently lowered into the chair. "It was a 
 shock and and my heart I'm getting old, sir," he 
 added apologetically, his pale blue eyes smiling weakly 
 through the tears with which they were still swimming. 
 
 "Keep quite still, Willis," said the girl, looking at 
 him with grave concern. "You will feel better pres- 
 ently." 
 
 By a quick movement Smith placed himself behind 
 the chair on which the old man sat, his eyes fixed upon 
 the rain-coat lying a few feet away; but out of reach. 
 
 The girl looked at him curiously. His sudden dive 
 to cover seemed to strike her as odd. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Marjorie! What is it? Is it a burglar? 
 Is Mr. Willis hurt?" 
 
 Smith looked up suddenly at this new diversion. 
 Coming down the stairs was a bright pink dressing- 
 gown, enveloping a little round woman with a little 
 round face surmounted by iron-grey hair, roughly 
 bundled into a net. 
 
 She seemed in a great hurry as, with both hands 
 gripping the banisters, she pulled herself from stair 
 to stair like a child. She was so round that Smith 
 felt her best chance of reaching the hall quickly would 
 have been to bounce down. 
 
 The eyes of the three in the hall were fixed upon 
 the quaint little figure descending the stairs. Smith 
 began to wonder if he were passing through some new 
 manifestation of the Arabian Nights. In all proba-
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 33 
 
 bility houris and dancing-girls, flute-players and negro 
 slaves bearing great baskets of fruit would appear in 
 due sequence. The whole affair was too ridiculous 
 for an ordinary common-place mind. Such things did 
 not happen in well-ordered Norfolk mansions and 
 well, the whole thing was utterly and egregiously ab- 
 surd. 
 
 A sudden movement from the chair before him dis- 
 tracted his attention. The butler still seemed unde- 
 cided as to whether or no he should faint. 
 
 A moment later Smith felt his right arm clutched 
 firmly, almost fiercely, and he found himself looking 
 down into a pair of china-blue eyes that gazed up at 
 him from a round, cherubic little face. 
 
 "Oh, my lamb, my lamb!" cried the little creature 
 in the pink wrapper, who, on reaching the level, had 
 covered the distance between herself and Smith with 
 remarkable speed. "You've come back to us at last!" 
 
 "I I beg your pardon." 
 
 Even as he uttered the words, Smith was conscious 
 of their absurdity. 
 
 "I knew you would came back to us, you poor 
 lamb," she cried, "and, oh, look at you !" She stood 
 back from him and gazed at his torn clothing. "Look 
 at your poor trousers!" 
 
 His trousers were the last things upon this earth to 
 which Smith desired attention to be drawn. He was 
 conscious that the eyes of all three were fixed upon 
 the lower part of the rent, not quite hidden by his 
 coat, which he had managed to fasten by the top 
 button. 
 
 "You poor dear!" wailed the little woman again. 
 "What have they been doing to you? Tell Higgy."
 
 S4, THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 The position was one full of embarrassment. Smith 
 happened to catch the eye of the girl. He could have 
 sworn he detected a glint of laughter; but it was gone 
 in a flash. 
 
 "I thought you must be a burglar!" continued the 
 round little body, "and that you had killed poor Mr. 
 Willis. I heard him come down. Oh, Mr. Willis!" 
 she cried, turning to the butler, "to think that we 
 should live to see this day." 
 
 Willis uttered something suggestive of a sympathetic 
 moan. 
 
 "Really," broke in Smith, smarting at the recollec- 
 tion of the laughter in the girl's eyes. "I don't know 
 what all this means but " he stopped. It was devil- 
 ishly awkward to explain to three people that he had 
 climbed an iron gate at eleven o'clock at night in order 
 to seek shelter. 
 
 "We must cable to her Ladyship," murmured Willis, 
 making an effort to rise, "I " he sank back again, 
 however. Obviously the shock had shaken him badly. 
 
 "Not to-night, Willis," said the girl with decision. 
 "It's too late, and the post-office is closed." Then 
 turning to Smith, she added, "She is not strong, and 
 she went to South Africa for a voyage." 
 
 "But " began the little woman in pink, then she 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 Willis was nodding his head in approval of the girl's 
 words. 
 
 "Don't you think, Mrs. Higgs, you had better re- 
 lease this gentleman's arm?" enquired the girl with 
 a little friendly smile. "He looks very tired." 
 
 "This gentleman !" cried the little woman addressed 
 as Mrs. Higgs. "Why, Miss Marjorie, he isn't a gen-
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 35 
 
 tleman, he's Mr. Alfred, our Mr. Alfred. Surely you 
 but then you were only in short frocks when he 
 when he went away, wasn't she, Mr. Willis?" 
 
 "You had better show Mr. Alfred to his room 
 when you feel well enough, Willis." There was a 
 noticeable pause before the girl pronounced the name, 
 "and then I think we might all get to bed. It's late," 
 and she glanced at her wrist-watch. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Marjorie," murmured Willis, with the 
 air of one accustomed to receiving orders from her. 
 
 With a slight bow to Smith the girl turned, crossed 
 the hall, and ran lightly up the stairs, leaving him 
 speculating as to what would be the attitude of "her 
 Ladyship" in regard to his sudden appearance in the 
 family circle and, above all, what relationship was 
 supposed to exist between them. He more than half 
 suspected that he was to be proclaimed an erring son, 
 returned to the ancestral roof after years of wandering. 
 
 Would Marjorie turn out to be a sister? What 
 wonderful hair she had, and what ankles! He was 
 sure that she could laugh without crinkling her nose. 
 
 "Feeling better?" he inquired of Willis, as the girl 
 disappeared at the top of the stairs. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Alfred," was the grateful reply, 
 as the old man looked up, an expression in his eyes 
 that was almost adoration. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Alfred. 
 I ought to " He made another ineffectual effort to 
 rise; but sank back again. 
 
 "That's all right," said Smith cheerily, "you just 
 sit down there until you're feeling fit again." 
 
 "Isn't that just like Mr. Alfred, Mr. Willis?" She 
 whom the girl had called Mrs. Higgs, having relin- 
 quished Smith's arm, now stood looking up at him
 
 86 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 with an affection which he found positively embarrass- 
 ing. "Your poor trousers, how " 
 
 "Between you and me," said Smith with a smile, 
 "my trousers are my Achilles heel." 
 
 "So?" she crooned, without understanding the clas- 
 sical allusion. "You poor lamb, and how wet you are." 
 
 Once more she made an effort to clutch his arm; but 
 Smith was too quick for her. He stepped quickly back, 
 ostensibly to move his suit-case to theside.of the hall. 
 
 "Do you mind telling me who I am supposed to be?" 
 he enquired, looking from Willis to Mrs. Higgs. 
 
 "You're Mr. " began the butler, when he was 
 interrupted by the old lady. 
 
 "Who you are supposed to be !" she cried. "Why, 
 you're our Mr. Alfred, my Mr. Alfred," she added, 
 as if to remove from his mind any possibility of doubt 
 as to her share in him. "Didn't I nurse you when 
 you were a baby, didn't I " 
 
 "Hush," said Smith, "let us draw a veil over these 
 embarrassing intimacies." 
 
 "Isn't that just like Mr. Alfred?" she crowed, show- 
 ing a perfect set of teeth, as she turned to Willis for 
 corroboration. He nodded, and rubbed his eyes with 
 the back of his hand. 
 
 "But who is Mr. Alfred, or who was Mr. Alfred?" 
 asked Smith, "and who is everybody, incidentally who 
 are you?" He smiled down into the china-blue eyes. 
 He felt that the time had come to make an effort 
 to escape from the skein of mis-identification in which 
 he had become involved. 
 
 "As if you don't remember your poor old nurse, 
 your old Higgy." 
 
 "Oh! that's it, is it? You're Mr. Alfred's nurse, 
 and Willis, I take it, is the major domo."
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 37 
 
 "I'm the butler, Mr. Alfred. Surely you haven't 
 forgotten " 
 
 "And who is Miss Marjorie?" interrupted Smith, 
 a and who is her Ladyship?" 
 
 "Miss Marjorie is a friend, Mr. Stannard's daugh- 
 ter, Master Eric's sister," she explained in the soothing 
 accents one adopts with a refractory child, "and her 
 Ladyship is your mother, Mr. Alfred." 
 
 He was conscious of a feeling of relief that the con- 
 sanguinities left the field clear in one direction, although 
 the sudden possession of an unknown mother might 
 prove an embarrassment; still she was in South Africa. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," he said at length, "but I'm not 
 Mr. Alfred I" 
 
 "Not Mr. Alfred!" cried Mrs. Higgs. 
 
 "Not Mr. Alfred!" repeated Willis. 
 
 The two gazed up at Smith incredulously, the ex- 
 pression on their faces so ludicrous that he found it 
 difficult to restrain a smile. Willis struggled to his 
 feet, as if such an amazing statement could be con- 
 futed only in an upright position. 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Alfred perhaps you've lost your 
 memory," he suggested. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Mrs. Higgs, clutching at the straw as 
 if it had been a Boddy lifebelt. "You've been ill and 
 lost your memory." She seemed quite satisfied with the 
 explanation. 
 
 "Anyway, if you will let me dry my clothes, I shall 
 be eternally grateful to you both," said Smith. "Nor- 
 folk seems rather a wet county," he added. 
 
 The effect of his remark was instantaneous. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Mr. Alfred," cried Willis, picking up 
 the suit-case, whilst Mrs. Higgs clucked round him like 
 a broody hen, feeling the wetness of him and murmur-
 
 38 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 ing "you poor lamb" and "look at your poor trousers." 
 Without further argument the procession formed, 
 Mrs. Higgs leading the way, using both hands to help 
 herself up the shallow stairs, whilst Willis brought up 
 the rear with the suit-case. He had made a valiant 
 effort to attach to himself the rain-coat; but Smith, 
 quicker off the mark, secured what was, in reality, the 
 only thing between him and flagrant indelicacy. 
 
 Never, Smith decided, had a more extraordinary 
 procession mounted a staircase. The three might easily 
 have formed the characters in a knock-about farce. 
 
 The pink of Mrs. Higgs's wrapper clashed wick- 
 edly with the blue of Willis' dressing-gown, whilst as 
 for himself, surely never in the history of prodigals 
 had one returned in a more thoroughly dilapidated con- 
 dition. The one thing that began to trouble him was 
 the prospect of securing a few husks. He was uncom- 
 monly hungry. 
 
 The act of walking up this strange, heavily-carpeted 
 staircase seemed to bring him to a realisation of the 
 hopelessly false position in which he had become in- 
 volved. What would happen if the real Alfred were 
 to turn up? He, Smith, would be branded as an im- 
 postor and, in all probability, booted out, or perhaps 
 even prosecuted. 
 
 At the head of the stairs, Willis took the lead, still 
 tottery; but making an effort to control his weakness. 
 
 Beside Willis toddled Mrs. Higgs, the two whisper- 
 ing together. Smith distinctly heard the words "lost 
 his memory." Half way along the corridor, they 
 paused at a door on the right, which Willis threw open. 
 
 Mrs. Higgs once more grasped Smith's coat-sleeve. 
 
 "Oh, my dear !" she murmured in tones that were 
 none too steady. "Mr. Willis will look after you."
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 39 
 
 "I assure you " Smith began, then he paused. It 
 seemed so futile to attempt to dispute the testimony of 
 these two good souls who seemed, without question, to 
 accept him as the missing Alfred. 
 
 "There has been an extraordinary mistake," he con- 
 tinued. "My name isn't Alfred. It's Smith, James 
 Smith of " he paused, then quickly added, "of Lon- 
 don. I came to ask " 
 
 "Hadn't you better change your clothes, Mr. Al- 
 fred?" interposed Willis, pushing open the door to its 
 fullest extent. "You're very wet, sir." 
 
 It seemed to Smith absurd to be ordered to change 
 into dry clothing on the assumption that he was some- 
 one else; still, he had to spend the night somewhere, 
 and shelter seemed difficult to find in Norfolk. Any- 
 how, everything could be explained in the morning. 
 
 "He must have a hot bath at once, Mr. Willis." 
 The words broke in upon his thoughts. "The poor 
 lamb," continued Mrs. Higgs. "Many's the time I've 
 bathed him. Ah! Mr. Alfred," she added reminis- 
 cently, "you were such a beautiful child in your " 
 
 Suddenly she sneezed. This seemed to remind her 
 of the hour; for, with a hurried grip of Smith's hand in 
 both her own, she turned and trotted down the cor- 
 ridor, obviously reluctant to leave to Willis the hon- 
 ours of the occasion. 
 
 Smith entered the room followed by the butler. 
 Having closed the door, the old man stood alternately 
 blinking and dabbing his eyes with a coloured handker- 
 chief, which he had just produced from somewhere. 
 
 As he entered the room, Smith looked about him 
 curiously. The first thing that struck him was, not the 
 atmosphere of luxury, or the obvious comfort of the 
 room itself; but two bowls of roses, one on a table in
 
 40 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 front of the window, the other on the dressing-table. 
 There was something pathetic and touching in these 
 silent symbols of memory. 
 
 He walked across to the dressing-room, and then into 
 the bath-room. Slowly he was becoming convinced that 
 it was a dream, from which he would presently awaken 
 to the realities of trudging across rain-soaked fields in 
 search of shelter. He had heard that policemen some- 
 times fell asleep when on their beats at night. 
 
 "Don't you think you ought to get your things off, 
 Mr. Alfred?" he heard Willis saying in an anxious 
 voice. "You know where everything is " he paused, 
 as if suddenly recollecting Mrs. Higgs's suggestion 
 about his loss of memory. 
 
 "The cigarettes are over there, Mr. Alfred," he con- 
 tinued hastily, "and the whisky-and-soda there." He 
 indicated where each was to be found. "You look so 
 tired, sir, a hot bath " 
 
 "It's not a bad idea," said Smith, as he glanced across 
 at the bed. "Yes, I think I will, and turn in afterwards. 
 You'd better turn in, too," he added, smiling in spite of 
 himself at the quaint figure the butler presented. 
 
 "I'll put your things out, Mr. Alfred, and prepare 
 your " 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the sort," said Smith with de- 
 cision. "You had better have a whisky-and-soda to 
 pull you together, and then get a good sleep." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Alfred," said the old man grate- 
 fully; "but" 
 
 "Never mind about the 'but,' do as I say," was the 
 smiling retort. There was something very lovable 
 about the old fellow. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Alfred," said Willis obediently; he still
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 41 
 
 lingered, however. Smith looked at him interrogat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "I I only wanted to say, sir, how how happy this 
 will make us all." His voice shook. "Her Ladyship 
 has been ill, we were afraid she was but she'll be bet- 
 ter now," and he left the room, blinking rapidly. 
 
 Having turned on the water in the bath, Smith pro- 
 ceeded to undress, walking about the room as he did 
 so, examining first one thing, then another. Selecting 
 a cigarette from a silver-box on the dressing-table, he 
 lighted it, and then continued his wandering, into the 
 dressing-room and on to the bath-room again, like a 
 man who is puzzled at finding himself in unaccustomed 
 surroundings. Luxury there was everywhere, comfort 
 and happiness. Yes, and the cigarettes were good. 
 Evidently somebody had a delicate taste in tobacco. 
 
 He opened the wardrobe and peeped in. The clothes 
 had every appearance of being unworn. Out of curi- 
 osity he tried on the jacket of a lounge-suit, and stood 
 regarding himself in the long mirror. Certainly Al- 
 fred's figure was not unlike his own. The jacket was 
 a very passable fit. 
 
 Walking over to the dressing-table, he tested the 
 razors. They were sharp and ready for use. In short, 
 everything seemed to indicate that the room was in 
 occupation. 
 
 His eyes suddenly caught sight of a pin-cushion. 
 The bright heads of the pins with which it was stuck 
 gave him an idea. Taking a final deep inhalation from 
 his cigarette, he selected a pin and deliberately stuck it 
 into his forearm. It hurt. He looked about him. No, 
 he had not awakened. 
 
 Once more he ran the pin deep into the flesh, this
 
 42 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 time of the other arm. He waited a moment; but still 
 he did not awaken. He gazed at the pin between his 
 fingers, then stabbed it back into the pin-cushion. 
 Walking over to the bath-room, he discarded his re- 
 maining clothing, and stepped into the grateful 
 warmth. 
 
 "Well, it isn't a dream anyhow," he said with a sigh 
 in which there was a supreme contentment. "It isn't 
 drink, and it isn't cocaine. I wonder what the deuce 
 it is." 
 
 As he lay smoking, Smith found himself wondering 
 what Peters would think if he could see him in another 
 man's bath, endowed with another man's identity. In 
 all probability he would just re-arrange the bath-mat, 
 enquire if there were anything more, and with a "Very 
 good, sir," pad his fifteen stone noiselessly out of the 
 room, closing the door softly behind him. 
 
 That was the best of Peters, nothing seemed capable 
 of diverting him from his natural orbit. When he had 
 been told that in future Darrell Hildreth was to be 
 known as James Smith, his "Very good, sir," was as 
 perfect in its inflection as if he had been instructed to 
 get a taxi. 
 
 With a face as expressionless as the entrance of a 
 tunnel, Peters had heard the news. Smith thought 
 he detected a slight starting forward of the prominent 
 blood-shot eyes, which in the army had contributed to 
 the nickname of "the whiskered-prawn" ; but he could 
 not be absolutely certain. 
 
 How different he was from Willis. How would they 
 get on together? 
 
 Within an hour everything had been arranged. 
 Peters had declined both the notice and the month's 
 salary, He had placed himself upon board wages,
 
 A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 43 
 
 packed two bags for his master, and announced his in- 
 tention of setting out upon a motor-cycling tour. The 
 future he had brushed aside with the unconcern of a 
 confirmed fatalist. 
 
 All was done with that quiet efficiency that had 
 gained for him in the army three stripes on the sleeve, 
 garnished with a crown above. 
 
 Smith realised that Peters regarded the breach be- 
 tween himself and his uncle as a merely temporary rift. 
 
 It was impossible to argue against Peters' convic- 
 tions; Smith had discovered that years ago. He would 
 say, "Very good, sir," and there the matter would end; 
 but the course of events remained unchanged, if in 
 Peters' opinion a disarrangement were undesirable. 
 
 Yes; Peters would certainly bully Willis, and Willis 
 would as certainly submit. But of course that could 
 not be allowed. 
 
 Among other things, Peters knew that Smith was in 
 no immediate need of money. His gratuity lay at Cox's 
 Bank untouched and, to Peters' practical mind, money 
 meant power. Life in the army had but confirmed a 
 belief he had held from childhood. 
 
 In the languorous comfort of a hot bath, Smith 
 found the difficulties of the situation vanishing. Why 
 should he not accept what the gods offered? The old 
 niche had proved a mis-fit for the new man, why not 
 try another? Possibly Alfred Warren's was the very 
 one he was seeking. Did not the hermit crab change 
 its habitation according to the demands of its physical 
 growth? Why should not he, James Smith, apply the 
 same rule to his physical growth? 
 
 It would, at least, solve one problem of the future. 
 There would be no puzzling what to do when his stock 
 of money was exhausted; no striving to decide whether
 
 44 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 to enlist or become a clerk at three pounds a week. No 
 trudging along dusty roads ribboning-out interminably 
 before him, hungry and thirsty, dreading the approach 
 of rain that would drench his couch for the coming 
 night. Instead, there was all this comfort and luxury, 
 with money to spend, clothes to wear, and food to eat. 
 If it were ever discovered that he was not the real 
 Alfred, he could easily say that he himself had been 
 the first to point out the mistake. 
 
 It was an adventure, and life was fearfully tedious. 
 Then, there was the girl in the green frock. Why had 
 she left him as she had? It seemed a bit odd. Any- 
 how he must see her again several times. Why should 
 he not grasp this splendid opportunity? No one would 
 know, he was not robbing any one. He 
 
 "Here, get out of it!" he cried aloud, as he turned 
 on the cold-water tap. "Hot baths caused the down- 
 fall of Rome and the ruin of Moorish Spain." 
 
 "A Spartan could be a casuist in a hot bath," he mut- 
 tered ten minutes later, as he towelled himself vigor- 
 ously. "Still, it's been rather jolly, and it will cer- 
 tainly last the night," he added. 
 
 When he returned to his dressing-room, he found a 
 goodly plate of sandwiches, flanked by a decanter of 
 whisky and a syphon of soda. 
 
 "Great Gulliver be praised!" he muttered. "The 
 very thing," and he proceeded to mix himself a drink, 
 and set to work upon the sandwiches with the earnest- 
 ness of a hungry man. 
 
 Suddenly his busy jaws ceased working. There had 
 flashed across his mind a question that startled him. 
 What sort of a niche was this that fate seemed deter- 
 mined he should occupy? In other words, why had 
 Alfred Warren left home?
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 
 
 WHEN Smith opened his eyes the next morn- 
 ing, it was to see Willis padding about the 
 room with stealthy tread, as he gathered to- 
 gether the clothes he had thrown off the night before. 
 
 For some minutes he lay watching through half- 
 closed eyes. The old man shook his head sadly as he 
 noted the torn and dilapidated condition of Smith's dis- 
 carded clothing. When, however, he picked up the 
 boots, sodden and encrusted with mud, he blinked sev- 
 eral times, as if striving to keep back the tears. 
 
 Having gathered together the various items of 
 Smith's rain-soaked apparel and placed them on a chair 
 by the door, the butler glanced at the clock, the hands 
 of which pointed to ten minutes past eight. Tip-toeing 
 over to the bed, he stood for a moment gazing down at 
 the apparently sleeping man. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred, sir," he whispered, "it's ten minutes 
 past eight." 
 
 "So it isn't a dream after all," yawned Smith, as he 
 sat up and proceeded to stretch luxuriously. 
 
 "A dream, Mr. Alfred?" repeated Willis. 
 
 "Yes, that I'm here. I thought it was a dream, you 
 know," and he laughed, a little self-consciously. 
 
 Willis smiled sympathetically. "It's almost too good 
 to be true, Mr. Alfred," he said. "I'm sorry to wake 
 you, sir. I've put everything ready," he indicated the 
 clothes. 
 
 45
 
 46 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Feeling better?" enquired Smith, mentally register- 
 ing the opinion that black suited the old man's com- 
 plexion better than royal blue. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Alfred, I'm all right again now. 
 It was the shock, sir. Would you like me to remain, 
 Mr. Alfred?" 
 
 "Yes, I want to talk to you," said Smith, springing 
 out of bed ; "but I'll have a bath and shave first. Ah !" 
 as his eyes fell upon the tea-tray by the bedside. 
 
 "It's cold, Mr. Alfred, I'll get some more," and, 
 picking up the tray, Willis left the room. 
 
 When he returned, Smith had finished his bath and 
 was half-way through shaving. 
 
 For the next quarter-of-an-hour he devoted himself 
 to his toilet, assisted by Willis. Some difficulty arose 
 as to what clothes he was to wear. Willis had made 
 the selection from Alfred Warren's wardrobe, whereas 
 Smith insisted upon the contents of his own suit-case 
 being drawn upon. 
 
 With a sigh of obvious regret, Willis returned 
 Alfred Warren's clothes to drawers and wardrobe, 
 whilst Smith completed his toilet. 
 
 "Now I feel equal to meeting even dragons," he 
 cried, as he buckled on his wrist-watch, with him always 
 the last act in his preparations for the day. 
 
 Willis smiled benevolently. He appeared to have 
 reached that stage of happiness where words seem un- 
 necessary. 
 
 "By the way, how long ago is it that I am supposed 
 to have disappeared?" Smith enquired. 
 
 "Seven and a quarter years, Mr. Alfred," was the 
 reply. "You went away on March loth." 
 
 "And yet all those clothes are new?" he nodded in 
 the direction of the wardrobe.
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 47 
 
 "Her Ladyship looks after your wardrobe herself, 
 sir. Every year she sends orders to your tailor for new 
 clothes. She always looked after the flowers too until 
 she went away, and put fresh cigarettes here, so that 
 when you came back you would be able to " the old 
 man broke off, his voice failing him. 
 
 Smith picked up a cigarette and, for some minutes, 
 smoked in silence. He was wondering what sort of a 
 son Alfred had been to inspire such devotion. 
 
 "Now, Willis," he said presently. "I want to have 
 a little chat with you. Sit down over there and be com- 
 fortable." 
 
 "But breakfast, Mr. Alfred?" he queried. 
 
 "Breakfast can wait," was the reply. 
 
 As Smith glanced at the clock, Willis walked 
 swiftly over to the dressing-table, opened a drawer and, 
 a moment later, returned with a gold cigarette-case. 
 
 "I quite forgot, Mr. Alfred," he said apologetically. 
 Smith took the cigarette case and proceeded to examine 
 it. On the side was engraved the monogram T.W.A., 
 orA.T.W. 
 
 "Sit down, there's a good fellow," said Smith, as 
 Willis still hesitated on the brink of a chair, whilst he 
 himself dropped into an arm-chair by the window, first 
 returning the cigarette case to the dressing-table. 
 
 Willis complied, seating himself on the extreme edge 
 of a chair opposite. 
 
 "Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?" asked 
 Smith. 
 
 "No, sir," replied Willis, apology in his tone. "I 
 never was much of a one for reading, except the news- 
 papers." 
 
 "That's a pity," murmured Smith, as if to his 
 cigarette.
 
 48 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Alfred," he began hesitatingly. 
 "So am I, Willis. It would have helped. How- 
 ever," he continued, puffing contentedly. "What I 
 want you to do is to tell me something about Mr. 
 Alfred." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Alfred." 
 "Tell me all about him." 
 
 "You are Mr. Alfred Warren, sir, only son of Lady 
 Warren and the late Sir Joseph Warren." 
 
 "Good Lord!" cried Smith, "not a baronet?" Vi- 
 sions of further and even more embarrassing complica- 
 tions presented themselves. 
 
 "No, Mr. Alfred, Sir Joseph was knighted for his 
 charities." 
 
 Smith sighed his relief. 
 
 "Good. Burke's Landed Gentry will tell the rest. 
 Now we shall get on better." 
 
 "Had this Mr. Alfred any marked peculiarities?" 
 enquired Smith. "Are there any points you can give 
 me? Did he take red or white wine, English or conti- 
 nental cheese, dry ginger-ale or champagne? In short, 
 tell me any little details that you think may be helpful." 
 For a moment Willis hesitated, he was obviously 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "Come, out with it, man ! Whatever may have been 
 laid against Mr. Alfred, does not affect me," he was 
 beginning to find the situation amusing. 
 
 He had no doubt that eventually his alleged mother 
 would set matters straight. In anno domini 1921 it 
 did not require a Solomon to decide little affairs like 
 this. In the meantime, he was determined to enjoy to 
 the full a novel experience, later he would apologise 
 for his likeness to Alfred and go his way.
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 49 
 
 "You you generally drank whisky, sir, with ," 
 he hesitated. 
 
 "With ?" repeated Smith helpfully. "Were there any 
 other pussyfoot characteristics?" 
 
 "Sometimes with a little soda; but mostly neat, Mr. 
 Alfred." The words seemed to come almost apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 Smith gave a little whistle. "So that was it," he 
 muttered under his breath, then aloud, "Well, I'm 
 afraid I can't line up to that standard now. I prefer 
 soda with a very little whisky." 
 
 As he made this statement, there flashed into the 
 old man's eyes a look which, if it were not relief, was 
 something closely akin to it. 
 
 "Any other marked peculiarities?" continued Smith. 
 
 "You smoked cigarettes and cigars mostly, Mr. Al- 
 fred. You didn't take coffee for breakfast " 
 
 "And whisky for tea," suggested Smith. 
 
 "Tea and coffee didn't agree with you, sir," said 
 Willis loyally. 
 
 "Was Mr. Alfred a pleasant sort?" enquired Smith, 
 watching Willis' face intently. He saw the old man 
 wince slightly. "Was he popular? Did his con- 
 temporaries serenade him at night, or burn him in effigy 
 by day?" 
 
 "You, er a pleasant sort " he hesitated. 
 
 "Was I what you could call well, on good terms 
 with people?" asked Smith helpfully. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Mr. Alfred," replied Willis, and then, as 
 if it were forced from him in spite of himself, he added, 
 "Of course everybody has enemies, sir." 
 
 Smith regarded the end of his cigarette thought- 
 fully.
 
 50 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "And friends as well, I take it?" He looked up. 
 Again there was in the old man's expression the same 
 look of embarrassment he had noticed before. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Alfred. You you had friends," he 
 stammered. 
 
 "What sort of friends?" questioned Smith. 
 
 "Well you " began Willis, then he paused, gaz- 
 ing helplessly at Smith. 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "You you were always rather democratic, Mr. Al- 
 fred. You used to say so, sir." 
 
 "I see," said Smith, half to himself. 
 
 " 'When Adam delved and Eve span, 
 
 Who was then the gentleman ?' ' 
 he quoted. 
 
 "Yes, sir. You often used to say that," replied 
 Willis, with obvious relief. 
 
 "The deuce I did!" muttered Smith. "Had Mr. 
 Alfred many women friends?" was his next question. 
 
 This time the expression in Willis' eyes was that of 
 fear. He looked away from Smith, then back again, 
 then down at the carpet. He cleared his throat, and 
 made an effort to speak; but without result. 
 
 Seeing his obvious distress, Smith refrained from 
 pressing the question. After all, it was no affair of 
 his to probe into the depths of Alfred Warren's murky 
 past. 
 
 "Drink, low company and women," he mused, as he 
 pressed down the lighted end of his cigarette upon the 
 ash-tray on the small table beside him. 
 
 So that was why Alfred left home. It wouldn't be 
 surprising if the man who doubled his own part with 
 that of Alfred found that he had come into rather an 
 awkward inheritance.
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 51 
 
 "Now, Willis, your attention," he said, as he selected 
 another cigarette. "I want you, as a man of the world, 
 to give me your opinion on something of importance." 
 
 Willis became all attention. 
 
 "If you were strolling along Piccadilly, say, and 
 some one came up and hailed you as the King of 
 Montenegro, for instance, and persisted in it, bringing 
 forward other people to prove that you were His 
 Montenegrin Majesty, what exactly would you do?" 
 
 "I should tell them, Mr. Alfred, that I was not the 
 King of Montenegro," he replied gravely. 
 
 "But if they insisted that you were, how would you 
 get out of it?" continued Smith. "Suppose they brought 
 the Queen of Montenegro, the Prime Minister, the 
 Commander-in-Chief, the Lord High Admiral and the 
 whole blessed lot to swear that you were the King of 
 Montenegro. What then?" 
 
 For some minutes Willis pondered deeply over the 
 question. 
 
 "I should tell them that I was George Willis, Lady 
 Warren's butler," he said at length. "There are hun- 
 dreds of people who can prove it," he added. 
 
 "Ah, well !" said Smith after a pause. "I don't sup- 
 pose any one will ever mistake you for the King of 
 Montenegro, Willis. Besides, Kings are out of date in 
 these Bolshevist days." 
 
 During the next quarter of an hour Smith gained 
 much information about the menage at The Grange. 
 He learned that Marjorie Stannard, the girl he had 
 seen at the window, was almost a daughter to Lady 
 Warren. Marjorie, it appeared, was the daughter of 
 Miles Stannard, a recluse, who lived some thirty miles 
 away. After his wife's death at the birth of Eric Stan- 
 nard, his fourteen years' old son, he had retired to his
 
 52 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 library and his historical studies, leaving the upbringing 
 of Eric to an old nurse and Marjorie, then seven. 
 
 Smith gathered that Marjorie spent much of her 
 time at The Grange, where she had her own bedroom. 
 Her horse Nero, a present from Lady Warren, had 
 a sumptuous loose-box in The Grange stables, there 
 being no accommodation for him at her home. 
 
 He also learned that Lady Warren was a semi-in- 
 valid, and that she depended more and more upon 
 Marjorie. Although Willis did not actually say so, it 
 was clear to Smith that Lady Warren's state of health 
 was largely due to the shock she had experienced at the 
 sudden disappearance of her only son. She had never 
 been strong, and this sorrow seemed to have prostrated 
 her, leaving her heart permanently affected. A famous 
 London physician had insisted upon a sea voyage as 
 absolutely necessary. 
 
 "Now about breakfast," Smith cried finally. "Your 
 Norfolk air has made me hungry." 
 
 "Will you take it here, Mr. Alfred?" 
 
 "No. I'll be down in five minutes. I suppose I 
 shall be able to see Miss Stannard and explain." 
 
 "Miss Marjorie always breakfasts early, Mr. 
 Alfred; but I'll tell her," and he turned and walked 
 across the room. As the door closed behind him, Smith 
 threw himself back in his chair. 
 
 "The good fellow has put his finger on the weak 
 spot in my armour," he murmured. "I can no more 
 prove that I am not the egregious Alfred by the means 
 he suggests, than I can bring evidence to show that I 
 am the Grand Khan of Tartary." 
 
 "I was wrong," he murmured, as he rose. "Alice 
 in Wonderland was nothing to it. I wish, however,
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 53 
 
 that his name had not been Alfred. I think I could 
 have borne almost anything but that, with all respect 
 to the royal amateur baker. I wonder if my intimates 
 will call me Alf." 
 
 Half-way across the room, he was arrested by a 
 slight tapping at the door. 
 
 "Come in," he cried, pausing. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Alfred!" 
 
 It was Mrs. Higgs, tightly encased in a black gown, 
 with a cameo locket suspended over her ample bosom 
 by a heavy gold chain. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Alfred, Mr. Alfred!" she cried. "To 
 think that I should live to see this day." 
 
 "It is rather jolly," he said, glancing out at the 
 blue and green of it all. 
 
 "You're you're not angry, Mr. Alfred?" There 
 was such appeal in the eyes, and such a childish tremor 
 in her voice that Smith laughed. 
 
 "Angry!" he cried. "What about?" 
 
 "With me for coming, Mr. Alfred." Her tone was 
 that of a child fully expecting to be scolded. "I ought 
 to have asked if I might." 
 
 "Why, you dear, sweet creature, I'm only too de- 
 lighted," he cried heartily, "but as I said last night, I 
 don't in the least know who you are. I " 
 
 "Don't know who I am!" The statement seemed 
 to startle and revive her. "Don't know Higgy, as you 
 used to call me when you were a little toddler in blue 
 pinnies. Don't know Martha Higgs!" 
 
 Smith shook his head with a smile of deprecation. 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but handicapped as I 
 am, I can't say I do; still, I'm very glad to make good 
 the omission now," he added.
 
 54 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "But I nursed you," she cried. 
 
 He smiled down at her and she, too, broke into a 
 smile, showing a set of beautifully even, white teeth 
 that owed nothing to the dentist. 
 
 "You see," he continued, "there has been an awful 
 mistake. It's a most extraordinary case of mistaken 
 identity." 
 
 "Mistaken identity!" she cried. "Mistaken identity! 
 No, Mr. Alfred," she continued with decision, "you 
 might deceive a mother; but you can't deceive a nurse. 
 I should have known you anywhere as my Mr. Alfred," 
 she added with conviction. 
 
 "The deuce you would!" he muttered under his 
 breath. 
 
 "Didn't Mr. Willis recognise you at once?" she en- 
 quired. 
 
 "He most certainly did," he responded. "That's 
 the peculiarly embarrassing part of it. Everybody 
 seems to recognise me. I'm afraid the epidemic may 
 continue." 
 
 "Then doesn't that convince you?" she enquired. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It might," he said dubiously, "if I didn't happen to 
 know I'm some one else." 
 
 "You poor lamb," murmured Mrs. Higgs. "To 
 think of what you must have suffered, and us not able 
 to do anything. Now you've lost your memory; but 
 we'll make up for everything now, Mr. Alfred, and 
 you'll never leave us again, sir, will you?" There was 
 such earnest entreaty in her voice, that Smith felt like 
 a fellow about to rob a widow of her all. 
 
 "If " he began, then stopped. It seemed so utterly 
 futile to endeavour to convince these good people that
 
 WHAT THE BUTLER TOLD 55 
 
 he was not the missing heir. The more he protested 
 the more convinced they seemed to become. 
 
 "You won't, Mr. Alfred, will you?" she pleaded. 
 
 "Now, if you want to be very nice," he said per- 
 suasively, "you will let me go and get breakfast. I 
 want that more than anything else on earth. I'm as 
 hungry as a buffalo." 
 
 "You poor dear," cried Mrs. Higgs, as she turned 
 towards the door, "and to think of all the times I've 
 put your bib on and fed " 
 
 "Well, this is one of the times that you're not going 
 to put my bib on and feed me. I'm quite a clean eater," 
 he added with a smile, as he walked along the corridor, 
 his hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 Suddenly she seized his hand, carried it swiftly to 
 her lips, then, dropping it hastily, turned and trotted 
 down a side corridor. 
 
 There was something confoundedly affectionate 
 about the domestic atmosphere of the place, he decided, 
 as he passed downstairs, prepared for the worst; but 
 hoping that it would be Marjorie.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 
 
 " 4 LFRED WARREN'S back." 
 
 /"\ The vicar paused in the act of unfolding 
 
 his napkin across his knee, and gazed across 
 
 at his sister over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 "Where did you hear it, my dear?" he enquired 
 mildly, as his eyes wandered to the French windows 
 opening out on to the lawn, where the sun spread a 
 golden carpet of light. "I have often wondered," he 
 continued irrelevantly, "why we do not breakfast out 
 of doors." 
 
 "Because it's better to take eggs and bacon hot, and 
 marmalade without wasps," replied Miss Lipscombe 
 grimly. 
 
 "True," said the Vicar, "I had forgotten that. 
 Thank you, Hannah," he added, as he took from her 
 the cup of coffee she handed him. 
 
 For fully a minute there was silence as the vicar 
 stirred his coffee, awaiting the arrival of Janet with 
 the bacon and eggs. 
 
 "The instinct towards sun-worship is easy of under- 
 standing," he murmured, as he continued to gaze out 
 of the French windows, where an impatient robin was 
 hopping about, awaiting the breakfast of bacon-rind 
 
 56
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 57 
 
 and crumbs that Miss Lipscombe never failed to supply. 
 
 "The passing of the night with all its dangers," he 
 continued dreamily, "the return of the life-giving 
 sun" 
 
 "I said that Alfred Warren had returned," remarked 
 Miss Lipscombe, then, a moment later, she added a 
 warning "shsss " 
 
 The vicar's wandering thoughts returned to the 
 breakfast-table, and he gazed with short-sighted eyes 
 across at his sister, as if puzzled to account for her 
 sudden admonition to silence. The sight of Janet, how- 
 ever, with a dish of bacon and eggs explained matters. 
 
 "He arrived last night," continued Miss Lipscombe, 
 as the girl closed the door behind her. "Tom Bassing- 
 thwaighte told Janet this morning when he brought 
 the letters." 
 
 "Ah!" said the vicar, as he reached for the plate 
 Miss Lipscombe handed to him. 
 
 "What do you think will happen if he meets Bob 
 Thirkettle?" demanded Miss Lipscombe. 
 
 "An excellent fellow, Thirkettle," he murmured as, 
 with great deliberation, he cut the rind from the rasher 
 of bacon on his plate. 
 
 "A murderous ruffian," retorted Miss Lipscombe. 
 
 "My dear!" expostulated the vicar in a tone of 
 gentle surprise. 
 
 "You haven't answered my question," persisted Miss 
 Lipscombe, who was accustomed to her brother's ab- 
 sent-mindedness. "What will happen if they meet? 
 Thirkettle might return any day." 
 
 "What will happen?" repeated the vicar vaguely. 
 "What should happen, Hannah?" 
 
 Miss Lipscombe looked across at her brother with
 
 58 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 tightly-closed lips, and something in her large grey 
 eyes that was half amusment, half rebuke. Her pose 
 was to be uncompromising, grim, material. At first 
 glance she gave this impression, with her smoothly 
 brushed grey hair, parted in the middle and carried to 
 the back, where it was done up into a neat knob, her 
 lined, almost colourless face, her steady-gazing grey 
 eyes and the nose that spelt character. 
 
 "Have you forgotten why Alfred Warren left Little 
 Bilstead?" she enquired. 
 
 For a moment the vicar gazed at her as if foraging 
 somewhere at the back of his mind for an explanation. 
 Suddenly he laid down his knife and fork upon the 
 plate, and there crept into his eyes a look of concern. 
 
 "Bless my soul, Hannah !" he exclaimed, "Fm afraid 
 I had." 
 
 "How like you, John." The tone was that of one 
 making an excuse rather than an accusation. 
 
 "I am very forgetful, Hannah, very forgetful," he 
 said humbly. "I sometimes feel that I am unworthy 
 of being the shepherd of a flock. I am not sufficiently 
 watchful " 
 
 "Rubbish!" Miss Lipscombe's mouth re-assumed 
 its line of grimness. 
 
 "You always say that," he continued; "but I often 
 feel that I ought to write to the bishop relinquishing 
 a charge I am no longer worthy to hold. A shepherd 
 should be watchful," he added sorrowfully, "and 
 and I forget, I seem to forget everything." 
 
 "Including the fact that Alfred Warren has re- 
 turned," she said. "Get on with your breakfast, John, 
 and we'll talk about it afterwards." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the vicar, gazing with unseeing eyes 
 at the robin. "I really must give it serious considera-
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 59 
 
 tion," and once more he took up his knife and fork and 
 proceeded with his meal. 
 
 It was never wise to discuss parish matters with the 
 vicar during a meal. Either he wandered from the 
 conversation, or forgot the plate before him, and it 
 was his sister's self-imposed mission to see that his 
 body was properly nourished. If no meals were an- 
 nounced for a week on end, she fully believed that he 
 would not notice the omission. When rebuked for his 
 absent-mindedness, he would acknowledge his lapse 
 with such humility that Miss Lipscombe felt it was she 
 and not her brother who was the guilty party. 
 
 The meal finished, Miss Lipscombe gathered to- 
 gether the crumbs from the various plates and the 
 bread dish, cut up the bacon-rind into small pieces and, 
 putting them all on one plate, carried them to the win- 
 dow and threw them on the lawn for the birds. 
 
 There was a whirr of wings, and soon a group of 
 starlings, blackbirds, thrushes, sparrows, together with 
 two pigeons and a robin was busily engaged upon 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Now, John, come and smoke your pipe on the lawn, 
 and try and listen to what I am going to say," said 
 Miss Lipscombe as she picked up her knitting. With 
 an admonition to her brother to mind the birds, she 
 assumed the old faded blue linen sun-bonnet she 
 habitually wore out-of-doors, and passed quietly 
 through the windows so as not to disturb her visitors 
 at their meal. The vicar wandered off to find his 
 pipe, which he invariably lost a dozen times a day. A 
 few minutes later he joined his sister on the lawn. 
 
 "You were saying, my dear," he began tentatively, 
 as he proceeded to fill the generous-size bowl from a 
 dingy chamois-leather tobacco-pouch.
 
 60 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "That Alfred Warren is back." 
 
 The vicar made no response, he was busy with the 
 filling of his pipe. 
 
 "And Bob Thirkettle may return any day," she con- 
 tinued, as if determined that the full flavour of the 
 drama should be reached. 
 
 "An excellent fellow, Thirkettle," he murmured, as 
 he proceeded to light his pipe, "an excellent fellow." 
 
 "A murderous ruffian," repeated Miss Lipscombe. 
 
 "My dear," he expostulated, "Thirkettle is one of 
 the steadiest " 
 
 "Do you call it steady to go about with a gun threat- 
 ening the life of a fellow creature?" she demanded. 
 
 The vicar looked startled. 
 
 "I had forgotten that, Hannah," he said humbly. 
 "Yes," he added a moment later, "that was wrong, 
 very wrong." 
 
 "And what will happen if Alfred Warren meets 
 Bob Thirkettle?" she demanded, pausing in her knit- 
 ting to look across at her brother. 
 
 "What will happen?" he repeated mechanically, 
 then, as if with sudden inspiration, he looked across at 
 his sister. "They must shake hands and be friends, 
 Hannah, they must forget their differences," and the 
 vicar puffed peacefully at his pipe, as if he had solved 
 a difficult problem. 
 
 Miss Lipscombe dropped her knitting on her lap, 
 and sat gazing fixedly across at her brother. Conscious 
 of her gaze, he fidgeted like a boy discovered in some 
 misdemeanour. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Hannah," he said presently. "Have I 
 said anything I ought not to?" 
 
 She smiled, a superior, loving smile.
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 61 
 
 "Have you ever thought what will happen to you, 
 John, when I go?" she asked. 
 
 "When you go, Hannah?" he queried, startled in 
 spite of himself. "When you go where?" 
 
 "When I die," she said uncompromisingly. 
 
 "My dear, you're not feeling unwell," he leaned for- 
 ward anxiously. "If so you must see Crane at once, I 
 will ." In his concern he had half risen from his 
 basket-chair. 
 
 "Sit down, John." 
 
 At the quiet resolute order he resumed his seat. 
 
 "You are so drenched with the milk of human kind- 
 ness, John, that you cannot understand that a man who 
 has gone about with a gun, threatening to shoot another 
 man, cannot be expected when he does meet him to 
 hold out his hand and say, 'How do you do.' ' 
 
 "True, true," said the vicar; "I had not thought of 
 it in that light, Hannah. I am sorry; but you are 
 quite sure you are not ill?" he added after a pause. 
 
 "Rubbish!" she cried, as she smiled across at him; 
 it was the smile of a mother for a child that is unable 
 to look after itself. 
 
 "You have never understood the Norfolk character, 
 John," she said. The Lipscombes hailed from Devon- 
 shire. 
 
 "True," said the vicar. "A remarkable people; but 
 not English, Hannah, not English. Scandinavian in 
 origin," he continued a moment later. "People of 
 strong passions, resolute wills " 
 
 "There you have expressed it," she broke in. "You 
 need not go beyond that. When a man of strong 
 passions threatens the life of another man, it is hope- 
 less to expect them to meet and be friends. Besides
 
 62 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Bob Thirkettle has every reason in the world to hate 
 young Warren." 
 
 "But it was never proved," suggested the vicar in 
 the tone of a man desirous of finding extenuating cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 "There are some things too obvious to require 
 proof," was the grim retort. 
 
 "True," said the vicar, nodding his head slowly. 
 
 "I will see Thirkettle when he returns, Hannah. I 
 will reason with him. I will " 
 
 "You had much better see Alfred Warren and per- 
 suade him to go away," said his sister. 
 
 "Persuade him to go awav," repeated the vicar; 
 "but, my dear, I couldn't. What would Lady Warren 
 say to me when she comes back?" 
 
 "What will she say if Thirkettle kills her son?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Oh! but he mustn't, he mustn't," he protested. 
 "We cannot have anything " 
 
 "John," she said, rising, "for unadulterated unworld- 
 liness recommend me the Rev. John Lipscombe of Little 
 Bilstead," and with that she walked into the house, 
 leaving the vicar wondering what he had said to cause 
 her to put so sudden a termination to their con- 
 versation. 
 
 For half an hour he sat smoking and thinking. 
 Slowly there was coming back to his mind the memory 
 of that time, five years ago, when Little Bilstead 
 seemed to live in a ferment, when Robert Thirkettle 
 was to be met wandering aimlessly about the country- 
 side, a gun under his arm, his face dark with hate. 
 
 To none would he vouchsafe a word until one day 
 the vicar planted himself in his path and, with Chris-
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 63 
 
 tian tactlessness, besought him to remember that he 
 who had a sin requiring forgiveness had best himself 
 forgive. For a few minutes Thirkettle had listened, 
 then he had terminated the interview by saying, "Give 
 over prating, sir. This is a man's job, not a parson's. 
 If I get that mucky slink, I'll blow him to hell, the 
 varmen," and with that he had passed on, leaving the 
 vicar staring after him in astonishment. 
 
 At the end of half an hour the vicar rose and, pass- 
 ing indoors, picked up his hat from the hall-table. As 
 he did so, Miss Lipscombe came out of the dining- 
 room. 
 
 "I will call and see Alfred Warren," he said. 
 
 "You might call in and see Postle on your way and 
 warn him to be on the look-out," she said grimly. John 
 Postle was the village constable. 
 
 "True, Hannah," said the vicar, "it will do no 
 harm." 
 
 "With a man like Bob Thirkettle," she said, "a 
 policeman is better than Christian charity." 
 
 Having given vent to this passing shot, Miss Lip- 
 scombe went into the kitchen, leaving the vicar to 
 digest it as he walked down the drive and turned his 
 steps towards the village. 
 
 II 
 
 Whilst the vicar and his sister were discussing the 
 dramatic possibilities of the return of Alfred Warren, 
 Smith was enjoying a meal of which he stood in con- 
 siderable need. When at length he leaned back in his 
 chair, it was with the air of a man who has at last 
 caught up with his appetite. 
 
 Breakfast had not passed without incident. It
 
 64 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 seemed that at every step there was to be some new 
 manifestation of the strange tastes of the absent 
 Alfred. 
 
 The first thing that had caught Smith's eye on seat- 
 ing himself at the breakfast-table was a large decanter 
 of brandy, flanked by a syphon of soda-water. His next 
 discovery was that, although Willis furnished the 
 solids of a really pukka meal, he seemed entirely to 
 have forgotten the liquids. 
 
 The embarrassment of the butler, when his attention 
 was drawn to the fact, made it clear that Alfred passed 
 tea or coffee at breakfast in favour of brandy-and- 
 soda. It was Willis' hushed assurance that it was "the 
 sixty-five, Mr. Alfred," that convinced him of the prodi- 
 gal's devotion to a hair from the dog that had bitten 
 him. 
 
 Smith was engaged in reviewing this and other cir- 
 cumstances of the past eleven hours, with the philo- 
 sophic detachment of a man who can meet a good meal 
 with an equally good digestion, when Willis entered. 
 
 "Dr. Crane would like to see you, Mr. Alfred, if 
 you have finished. I have shown him into the library." 
 
 "Dr. Crane !" he repeated. "Who is Dr. Crane and 
 why should he want to see me?" 
 
 "He is her Ladyship's doctor, sir," explained Willis. 
 "Miss Marjorie telephoned for him." 
 
 "I see. Does he want to go over me with a stetho- 
 scope, or is he to assist in my identification by mole, 
 mark, or dimple?" 
 
 "I don't know, sir," was the grave reply. "Perhaps 
 Miss Marjorie thinks you may have caught cold," he 
 added. 
 
 Smith had already realised that Willis could be safely
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 65 
 
 looked upon to supply the most charitable explanation 
 possible for any one's action. 
 
 "You have a kind heart, Willis," he remarked, as 
 he rose. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Alfred," said Willis gratefully, 
 as he held open the door, and Smith passed out into 
 the hall. 
 
 No doubt the family doctor had been summoned by 
 Marjorie, Smith decided, to advise her as to what 
 action she should take in Lady Warren's absence. It 
 was a little difficult to have to meet an entire stranger, 
 who, in all probability, would insist on proclaiming him 
 the missing heir. However, he must go through with 
 it now. He had eaten the bread and salt of The 
 Grange, and now he must make some sort of effort to 
 disentangle the family skein, which Willis and Mrs. 
 Higgs seemed to have got into a thoroughly disordered 
 state. 
 
 In all probability Dr. Crane would be whiskered 
 and pompous, refer to his parents as "we," and insist 
 on going over him with a magnifying-glass. After all, 
 the stepping into another man's shoes was not quite so 
 easy as it had seemed the evening before. 
 
 When the butler threw open the library door, Smith 
 saw with relief that the doctor was clean-shaven and 
 human, with the lean, lithe poise of body suggestive of 
 a man who took exercise and plenty of it. 
 
 In his greeting and handshake, Smith saw the doctor 
 rather than the man. Then there was a perceptible 
 pause. Evidently Dr. Crane was finding it a little diffi- 
 cult to begin. 
 
 "You arrived last evening," he said by way of an 
 opening.
 
 66 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Last night, to be meticulously accurate," replied 
 Smith. He, too, was weighing-up his man. "I climbed 
 the gates of The Grange." 
 
 "Miss Stannard telephoned asking me to call," said 
 Dr. Crane. "You see, she is 'n rather an awkward posi- 
 tion, with Lady Warren away." 
 
 "The position is even more awkward than it appears 
 at first sight," said Smith pleasantly, and he proceeded 
 to explain exactly how matters stood. 
 
 It was something of a relief to him to find that 
 there was some one in Little Bilstead who did not 
 recognise him at sight. His satisfaction, however, TOas 
 modified to some extent by Dr. Crane's explanation 
 that he had acquired his present practice only some 
 four years previously. 
 
 "Then you won't be able to establish my identity by 
 the shape of my finger-nails?" he enquired. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," was the grave reply. It was clear 
 to Smith that he had yet to convince the medico that 
 he was not Alfred Warren. 
 
 There was a pause. Dr. Crane glanced from time 
 to time across at Smith, as if weighing the pros and 
 cons of the case. 
 
 "It is obvious that you do not accept mv story," 
 Smith said at length. 
 
 Dr. Crane gazed at him steadily for nearly a minute. 
 
 "I would not say that," he said at length. "I un- 
 derstand from Miss Stannard that you have lost your 
 memory." 
 
 "That's merely Willis' idea to account for my not 
 proclaiming myself the returned prodigal," explained 
 Smith. 
 
 Dr. Crane nodded.
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 67 
 
 "There is Lady Warren to consider," he said. 
 "Somebody is sure to write and tell her, and then " 
 he paused. 
 
 "If I disappear it will complicate matters," sug- 
 gested Smith. 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "And if I stay I shall probably get into the very 
 deuce of a mess all round." 
 
 "In all probability you will," was the dry retort. 
 
 "And what would you advise?" enquired Smith. 
 
 There was another long pause. Dr. Crane was 
 obviously a man who thought before he spoke. 
 
 "It is a matter on which I cannot advise," he said 
 at length. 
 
 "Is it possible for two men to be so much alike as to 
 deceive even their most intimate friends and rela- 
 tives?" 
 
 "It is rare; but I should say it is possible," was the 
 doctor's reply. "In such matters we can judge only 
 from what we know has taken place." 
 
 "There was the Adolf Beck case, for instance, where 
 every mark on the body of both men was known and 
 recorded; yet twice Adolf Beck was convicted of crimes 
 that are known now to have been committed by his 
 double, a man named Smith, by the way. Then I saw 
 it stated in the papers some time back, that a woman 
 had applied to a magistrate saying that she was doubt- 
 ful if it really were her husband who had returned 
 from the war, and with whom she had been living for 
 three months." 
 
 Dr. Crane nodded. 
 
 "Again there was the case of a man, also a Smith, 
 who murdered women in baths," he continued. "One
 
 68 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 woman identified him as her husband; yet months later 
 her real husband turned up and she recanted in the 
 
 High Courts." 
 
 "I remember," said Dr. Crane, with the inevitable 
 nod. "But why not establish your own identity?" he 
 suggested, turning to Smith a gaze of keen professional 
 appraisement. 
 
 "That is just what I am not prepared to do at the 
 moment," was the quiet reply. 
 
 "It puts you in a false position." 
 
 "It does," agreed Smith. t ^ 
 
 "It might even involve you in certain difficulties, 
 suggested Dr. Crane. 
 
 "It has already," said Smith, with a smile, as he re- 
 called the episode of the night before, "and I have 
 every reason to assume there are more to come," he 
 added. 
 
 "Why?" The interrogation came like the snap of 
 
 a pistol-trigger. 
 
 "Because I have been here long enough to get a 
 general idea that Alfred Warren led a fairly hectic 
 life." 
 
 Once more Dr. Crane's head moved up and down 
 like that of a mandarin. 
 
 "I want you to tell me frankly what you advise," 
 said Smith. "Couldn't you cable to Lady Warren?" 
 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 
 "The shock would be too great," he said. "It might 
 kill her." 
 
 "And your advice?" 
 
 "Do you ask it professionally, or as man to man?" 
 
 "As man to man." 
 
 "I advise you to clear out," came the prompt reply,
 
 THE VICAR DECIDES TO ACT 69 
 
 "and I shouldn't lose any time about it if I were you," 
 he added. 
 
 Smith was startled by the decisiveness of the tone in 
 which the advice was given. It was obvious from the 
 doctor's manner that the position was a serious one. 
 Perhaps, after all, it would be the best thing to get 
 away from what might involve him in serious diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 "Why?" he demanded. 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders with the air of a 
 man who has said all he intends to say. 
 
 Smith walked over to the French windows, and gazed 
 out upon the lawn where a starling was strutting about, 
 as if trying to impress upon everybody that he had not 
 over-slept. 
 
 Suddenly Smith heard Marjorie's voice asking Willis 
 something about a bowl of roses. Decision came to 
 him with a flash of inspiration. 
 
 "I'll be damned if I do!" he said, turning to Dr. 
 Crane. 
 
 "That is inevitable, in any case," was the grim 
 retort.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 
 
 MATTERS were becoming interesting, and there 
 was certainly the promise of drama later, 
 Smith decided, as he walked down the drive 
 of The Grange a few minutes after Dr. Crane had 
 taken his departure. 
 
 Why had the medico been so uncommunicative? 
 Why had he not been frank with him, and given some 
 idea of what it was he was up against? 
 
 Only once had the man triumphed over the general 
 practitioner, when he had referred to the inevitable 
 damnation of Alfred. Why? Did he know too much, 
 or was what he did know so bad that he was fearful of 
 becoming mixed-up in a scandal? 
 
 In any case no man could desire a situation more 
 promising in exciting possibilities. 
 
 As he passed through the iron gates, Smith glanced 
 up to see if any portion of his rain-coat still clung to 
 them, as evidence of his unconventional entry; but 
 some one had evidently collected the clues. 
 
 Following Willis' instructions, he turned to the left 
 in the direction of the village, conscious of a curious 
 feeling of expectancy. 
 
 After the departure of Dr. Crane, and left to his 
 own resources, Smith had decided upon a visit of ex- 
 ploration, with the object of giving the villagers a 
 chance of passing judgment upon his likeness to Alfred 
 
 Warren. 
 
 70
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 71 
 
 He had heard of men completely forgetting their 
 own identity, or who had deliberately traded upon the 
 likeness they bore to others. Never, however, had he 
 heard of any one being plunged into such a position as 
 that in which he now found himself. 
 
 There was Adolf Beck, as he had remarked to Dr. 
 Crane; but that proved nothing beyond the fact that 
 one man could be so like another as to have his identity 
 sworn away by a score of witnesses including prison- 
 warders in whose charge he had been for months at a 
 time. 
 
 The dramatic possibilities of the situation were end- 
 less. Clearly there was some mystery about the 
 original Alfred, an unsavoury mystery he decided, judg- 
 ing from the embarrassment of Willis and Mrs. Higgs, 
 and the curious attitude of Dr. Crane. 
 
 If Alfred Warren had done anything which rendered 
 him amenable to the law, then the possibilities might 
 become something more than merely dramatic. What 
 if he were secretly married? He shuddered at the 
 thought. 
 
 Through no merit of his own, he had acquired a new 
 mother, now mercifully some two or three thousand 
 miles away; but a hitherto unknown "wife !" He won- 
 dered how it would feel to be claimed as a long-lost 
 husband. 
 
 One thing was clear, he could not continue at The 
 Grange. He could swear an affidavit that he was not 
 Alfred Warren, it was true; but a judge might not un- 
 reasonably enquire why he had continued to occupy an 
 obviously false and invidious position. He could not 
 appeal to the Courts to restrain people from identify- 
 ing him as Alfred Warren. The obvious thing was to
 
 72 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 make a bolt of it; but, somehow or other, that was the 
 last thing he desired to do. 
 
 It was all very ridiculous, he decided as, plucking a 
 long blade of grass, he hoisted himself upon a gate 
 giving access to a meadow, and proceeded to clean his 
 pipe with the leisurely deliberation of an inveterate 
 smoker. After all, the situation might develop quite 
 naturally and pleasantly, although at the moment he 
 had to admit the portents were not favourable. 
 
 He was roused from his thoughts and the enjoyment 
 of his pipe by the sound of approaching footsteps. 
 Coming towards him from the direction of Little Bil- 
 stead were two quaint little figures engaged apparently 
 in an animated discussion. They looked as if they 
 might have stepped straight out of a Jane Austen novel. 
 They appeared to be discussing some topic of absorb- 
 ing interest upon which they were not in entire agree- 
 ment. 
 
 When within a few yards of the gate on which he 
 sat, the one nearer to him glanced in his direction. She 
 started, paused, then stopped dead. The other, fol- 
 lowing the direction of her companion's gaze, paused 
 in turn, then, seizing the arm of the first, hurried her 
 along. 
 
 As she who had first seen Smith passed, she bowed 
 slightly, with a nervous, apprehensive side-glance at 
 her companion. Smith lifted his cap and, a minute 
 later, they passed out of sight round the bend in the 
 road. He watched them disappear from view. Obvi- 
 ously the one who had bowed was getting it in the neck. 
 
 For some minutes he sat speculating as to the identity 
 of the two quaint little ladies. Who could they be? 
 Why had one hesitatingly acknowledged him, whilst 
 the other ignored him altogether? Were they involved
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 73 
 
 in some family feud with the Warrens, or was their 
 attitude typical of what he might expect from Little 
 Bilstead society? In any case, he told himself as he 
 slid from the gate, the true humour of the situation 
 would develop later. 
 
 He had been walking for about five minutes enjoy- 
 ing the warmth of the sunshine, when, a few yards 
 ahead of him there turned out from a heavily-rutted 
 lane a man in labourer's corduroys carrying a pick and 
 a spade over his shoulder. At the sight of Smith his 
 jaw dropped, and he stared to the full extent of his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well, I'll be grimed!" he stuttered at length, 
 swinging the pick and spade from his shoulder and rest- 
 ing them on the roadway. "If it aren't Mist' Alfred," 
 and he broke into an evil ripple of mirthless chuckles. 
 "Mist' Alfred!" he repeated. "Well, I'll be grimed." 
 
 Incredibly dirty, bent and misshapen, he seemed the 
 embodiment of evil as he stood, his slobbering lips set 
 in a sinister leer, his shifty little eyes fixed on Smith, 
 who had involuntarily come to a standstill. 
 
 "You 'ave got a nerve, mister," he said at length, 
 gazing up at Smith. "You 'ave got a nerve," he re- 
 peated, as if finding satisfaction in the words. 
 
 "You think so?" remarked Smith easily, as he looked 
 down at the sinister figure before him. 
 
 The man's stoop threw his head forward and, as he 
 gazed up at Smith, he looked strangely like a toad. 
 
 "I do," was the response, uttered with an air of con- 
 viction; "but there, you always was a rum 'un"; and 
 there was grudging admiration in the man's tone. 
 
 "So you think I am Mr. Warren?" enquired Smith 
 calmly. 
 
 "Think!" repeated the man. "I 'aven't no need to
 
 74 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 think. You wait till old Bob Thirkettle gets back, 
 then you'll cop it a rum 'un. He's going to give you 
 cosh. Used to go about with a gun for months, he 
 did, and here you be a-comin' back. Well, you 'ave 
 got a nerve." 
 
 "And who is Bob Thirkettle?" asked Smith, sensing 
 revelations from the man's dark hints. 
 
 "Who's Bob Thirkettle!" Again he broke into a 
 slobber of chuckles. "I fare to think you'll know all 
 about who Bob Thirkettle is when he comes back. He 
 ain't forgot what you done to his mawther." 
 
 "Mawther," repeated Smith in a puzzled tone. 
 "What is a mawther?" 
 
 "Ho! ho! ho!" cackled the man. "What's a 
 mawther? So you come back, Mist' Alfred, and don't 
 know the meanin' o' good Norfolk. You wait till old 
 Bob gets back. He'll kill you, Mist' Alfred, sure as 
 you're there," he added with satisfied conviction. 
 
 "And when will he be back?" asked Smith. 
 
 "Ho I ho ! ho !" A cunning glint sprang into the 
 man's eyes. "I beant going to tell you, or you'll just 
 hike off, I know you That's what you did afore," he 
 added, as he swung his pick and spade once more upon 
 his right shoulder. "Fare you well, Mist' Alfred," and 
 then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he added: 
 "I suppose you don't know who I be?" 
 
 "I haven't the foggiest idea." 
 
 "Don't know Tom Simmons, don't you ? I suppose 
 you've forgotten about the whisky," and he leered up 
 at Smith from under his hat brim. 
 
 "I suppose I must, as I have no recollection, either 
 of you or of the whisky." 
 
 "Well, I'll be grimed," exclaimed Simmons. "If
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 75 
 
 that ain't a good 'un. Well, I must be getting along, 
 Mist' Alfred," he said, with a tinge of respect in his 
 voice. "Fare you well; but you wait till old Bob gets 
 you," and he shuffled off, murmuring, "Who's old Bob's 
 mawther? Well, if that ain't a good 'un." 
 
 Smith continued on his way, his opinion of Alfred's 
 unpopularity confirmed. He reached the village with- 
 out further incident, apart from the fact that two 
 labourers had saluted and stared at him as if he were 
 an apparition; but he took that merely to indicate the 
 courtesies of the countryside. 
 
 Little Bilstead consisted of a spatter of houses and 
 shops lying in a slight fold of the ground, on either side 
 of the main road. It seemed a disappointing place, 
 neither populous, nor picturesque. There were two or 
 three people to be seen; but the general atmosphere 
 was one of intense somnolence. 
 
 He walked through the village, past the post-office, 
 and general store, and an insignificant little inn called 
 The Pigeons, from the door of which came the smell 
 of rank tobacco smoke and stale beer, tainting the 
 sweetness of the morning air. 
 
 Several people seemed to appear from nowhere, and 
 stood staring at him, just as the evil old man had 
 stared a few minutes previously. 
 
 As no one saluted, or made any move to accost him, 
 he walked leisurely on. Continuing along the main 
 road, he strove to evolve something like a definite 
 course of action from the tangle of his thoughts. Wis- 
 dom told him that the best thing to do was to leave 
 Alfred Warren and Little Bilstead the one to his 
 destiny, the other to its dulness. There was something 
 else, however, that bade him see the thing through.
 
 76 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 He had all the time there was, as the Americans say, 
 why not stay on for a few days and see what Drama 
 really had in her pouch ? 
 
 At the end of an hour he turned and retraced his 
 steps. As he neared Little Bilstead again, he found 
 himself more than ever reluctant to abandon what 
 promised to afford an interesting, not to say exciting, 
 adventure. 
 
 As he entered the village for the second time, it was 
 obvious that unseen eyes had been on the watch. 
 
 The whole place seemed suddenly to have come to 
 life. Groups of women stood at their doors, and there 
 was a generous sprinkling of men. 
 
 As Smith approached they seemed all to be smitten 
 with a great silence. Some saluted him as "Mist' Al- 
 fred"; but there was no cordiality in either their looks 
 or their words. 
 
 At the door of The Pigeons stood a big man with a 
 bald head surrounded by a fringe of sandy hair, a 
 heavily jowled face, with small pig-like eyes destitute 
 of lashes. 
 
 "Morning, Mist' Alfred," he called out when Smith 
 was within a pace or two of him. 
 
 Smith nodded and paused. 
 
 "Surprising seeing you back," said the man. 
 
 For a moment Smith hesitated as to whether or no 
 he should enlighten the fellow as to his real identity; 
 but he decided that it would be useless to do so; for 
 wherever he went he was accepted as "Mr. Alfred" 
 without question. 
 
 "Seen Bob Thirkettle?" enquired the man with a 
 sly look in his little eyes. 
 
 "Bob Thirkettle," repeated Smith. "No, who's he?
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 77 
 
 I saw a queer old fellow on the hill; but he said his 
 name was Tom Simmons." 
 
 The man took his clay pipe from his mouth and 
 stared at Smith in frank amazement. 
 
 "Oh! Give over, Mist' Alfred," he cried. "There 
 aren't narthen' to joke about, that's a sure moral." 
 
 There was something in the man's manner that 
 prompted Smith to pass on with a curt nod. Things 
 were becoming quite interesting, he decided, as he 
 walked slowly in the direction of The Grange. 
 
 "What about Bob Thirkettle's mawther?" 
 
 The suddenness of the cry from behind caused him 
 to start perceptibly, otherwise he took no notice, and 
 the cry was not repeated. The attitude of the villagers 
 made it clear that, whatever Alfred Warren's popu- 
 larity with the servants at The Grange, there was 
 obviously some very good reason why he had left Little 
 Bilstead, and an even better one for his not returning. 
 
 Everything seemed to turn upon old Bob's mawther, 
 whatever that might mean. Possibly Willis would be 
 able to enlighten him. He did not attach serious im- 
 portance to the statement that Bob Thirkettle, who- 
 ever he might be, really threatened his life; still an 
 encounter between them would inevitably result in 
 awkwardness, if not in an open breach of the peace. 
 
 What puzzled him most was that in his own house- 
 hold Alfred Warren had apparently been idolised; but 
 outside his immediate circle he appeared to be ex- 
 tremely unpopular. 
 
 When clear of the village, he suddenly became aware 
 that a short distance ahead of him was a tall, bent form 
 garbed in clerical black. With hands clasped behind 
 him, head bent forward, and a large green umbrella
 
 78 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 thrust under his left arm, he gave the impression of one 
 whose thoughts were far away. 
 
 Smith increased his pace slightly, making as much 
 noise as he could in order to attract the old man's atten- 
 tion. He drew level and, for nearly a minute, walked 
 abreast; but the vicar's thoughts were far away from 
 Little Bilstead. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," he said at length. 
 
 The effect upon the vicar was that of a Dumdum 
 bullet it stopped him; but with a suddenness for which 
 Smith was entirely unprepared. 
 
 "Why, it's, it's " the old man stopped, as if search- 
 ing the records of his memory for Smith's identity. 
 
 "My name is Smith, sir, James Smith; but I'm sup- 
 posed to be rather like " 
 
 "Bless my soul!" broke in the vicar. "It's Alfred 
 Warren," and, dropping his green umbrella into the 
 road, he clasped Smith's hand with both his own, and 
 shook it warmly. 
 
 "Hannah said you were back," he said, still working 
 Smith's hand up and down. "In fact, I came out to 
 look for you, I've just remembered," and he gazed at 
 Smith with near-sighted blue eyes as if expecting a 
 rebuke. 
 
 "I knew there was something," he added, as if by 
 way of extenuation. "I'm very forgetful," he con- 
 tinued, "terribly forgetful. I would write to the bishop ; 
 but Hannah says no." 
 
 "But I am not really Alfred Warren. You see " 
 
 "Hannah will be delighted, she will want to see you. 
 She " He paused, as if something had just occurred 
 to him casting doubt upon the greatness of Hannah's 
 joy. "You remember Hannah," continued the vicar.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 79 
 
 "A wonderful manager, they call her the curate in the 
 village." 
 
 "Hannah!" repeated Smith. "I'm afraid" 
 
 "My sister," explained the vicar. "We were talk- 
 ing about you at breakfast. That is why I came out to 
 warn you about " He paused, in his eyes the puzzled 
 expression of the man who has forgotten. 
 
 "I was saying, sir, that I am not Alfred Warren. 
 My name is Smith, James Smith. We must be very 
 much alike." 
 
 Smith was conscious how stilted his words sounded. 
 As a diversion he stooped and picked up the vicar's 
 umbrella, which seemed to bring back to the old man 
 a realisation of his mission. 
 
 Dropping Smith's hand, he took the proffered um- 
 brella and thrust it beneath his left arm. 
 
 "And now you must come and see Hannah," he said. 
 "She will explain what it was I came to tell you. She 
 will be delighted to see you." 
 
 Judging by the expression on the faces of the two 
 old ladies he had met that morning, Smith felt doubt- 
 ful as to the accuracy of the prophecy. 
 
 "I'm afraid I have to go " he paused; but the vicar 
 proved himself a man of action. 
 
 Transferring the umbrella to his right arm, he linked 
 his left through Smith's and, a moment later, was strid- 
 ing along, once more apparently lost in thought. 
 
 Smith had perforce to keep pace with him. He 
 could not tear himself away from the old man's friendly 
 grasp, and there seemed nothing for it but to acquiesce 
 in the vicar's determination to take him to Hannah. 
 
 At the end of five minutes, the vicar suddenly swung 
 round and, before Smith knew what was happening, he
 
 80 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 had entered a gate-way and was walking up a drive, 
 obviously leading to the vicarage. 
 
 A minute later they passed through the French win- 
 dows into the drawing-room, where the vicar left him 
 with a murmured excuse that he would "go and find 
 Hannah." 
 
 It was a bright and cheerful room and, with a sigh 
 of content, Smith dropped into a comfortable-looking 
 chair. He was feeling pleasantly tired with his walk, 
 and after the warm sun without, the coolness of the 
 vicarage drawing-room was peculiarly soothing. 
 
 Somewhere in the distance a door banged, and then 
 the heavy silence of a summer mid-day descended upon 
 the room, broken only by the loud ticking of the ormolu 
 clock upon the marble mantelpiece. 
 
 Five minutes lengthened into ten, ten minutes into a 
 quarter-of-an-hour, a quarter-of-an-hour into half-an- 
 hour, and still no vicar. Obviously the absent-minded 
 cleric had forgotten about him, and in all probability 
 was deep in the composition of Sunday's sermon. Still, 
 it was very restful, and time was to him of no object 
 
 Suddenly he sat upright and blinked several times 
 at a tall spare woman with calm grey eyes and a firm 
 mouth, who stood gazing down at him. A moment 
 later he had scrambled to his feet. As he did so he 
 caught sight of the dial of the ormolu clock its hands 
 chronicled that just an hour had elapsed since he had 
 entered the room. 
 
 "I'm I'm afraid I was asleep," he apologised. 
 
 "Did Janet show you in here?" asked the owner of 
 the grey eyes. 
 
 "No, the vicar," smiled Smith, realising that he had 
 indeed forgotten.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 81 
 
 "My brother is very forgetful. I must apologise," 
 she said as she extended her hand. "Have you been 
 here long? We heard you were back." 
 
 "An hour," said Smith, taking the long, tapering 
 hand in his, "and I am not Alfred Warren," he added. 
 
 With a motion of her head, she bade him resume 
 his chair, seating herself upon a high-backed chair 
 opposite. For some seconds she sat eyeing him 
 steadily. 
 
 "Not Alfred Warren?" she said at length, and 
 Smith realised from her tone that another had gone 
 over, bag and baggage, to the enemy. 
 
 "I am in a most unhappy position," he continued, 
 wishing he could remember the vicar's name, Willis had 
 mentioned it. "Every one here insists that I am Alfred 
 Warren, and it's a little embarrassing," he concluded 
 lamely. 
 
 For fully a minute Miss Lipscombe sat regarding 
 him with a keen steady gaze, as if intent upon seeing 
 right into his soul. 
 
 "My brother recognised you?" she queried at length. 
 
 "In a flash," he replied gloomily. "Everybody does. 
 That's what makes it all so embarrassing. May I tell 
 you the whole story?" he added. There was something 
 about her that inspired confidence. 
 
 She nodded. Miss Lipscombe was notorious for her 
 economy in words upon certain occasions. In the vil- 
 lage it exercised an excellent effect; for, with every 
 wrong thought that entered a Little Bilsteadian brain, 
 was a vision of the grey eyes and steady gaze of the 
 vicar's sister. 
 
 In as few words as possible, Smith told of the hap- 
 penings of the last twelve hours, omitting all mention
 
 82 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 of the reference to Bob Thirkettle's mawther he must 
 first find out what a mawther actually was. 
 
 At the end of his recital, Miss Lipscombe was still 
 gazing straight into his eyes. 
 
 "And now," he added with a smile, "if you go over 
 to the Warrenites, I shall feel that I am in a hopeless 
 position." 
 
 "But why not prove who you are?" she asked. 
 
 "Because there are reasons why I can tell you only 
 that I am plain James Smith," he replied gravely. 
 "That is not my real name," he added hastily. "I think 
 I ought to tell you that; but it will serve for the time 
 being." 
 
 "The likeness is remarkable," she remarked, still 
 fixing him with her keen grey eyes. 
 
 "But surely " he began, and then paused. It 
 seemed mean to call attention to the weaknesses of 
 Alfred Warren's character by enquiring if it were not 
 stamped upon his features. 
 
 "There are no differences that could not be accounted 
 for by six years of changed " she paused as if search- 
 ing for the correct word. 
 
 "Environment?" he suggested, relieved that she 
 should have read his thoughts aright. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "That is what has puzzled me," he said, feeling 
 that her remark had established a bond between them. 
 She was obviously a clear thinker and a sound reasoner. 
 
 "Six years change a man," she remarked musingly. 
 "You look stronger and harder, both mentally and 
 physically. You served during the war?" 
 
 "Every hour of it," he said simply. 
 
 '"Physical discipline begets moral and mental dis-
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD RECEIVES A SHOCK 83 
 
 cipline," she remarked, still as if to herself rather than 
 to him. 
 
 Again Smith saw the straw at which he was clutch- 
 ing about to be swept beyond his reach. 
 
 "You had better come and stay at the vicarage." 
 
 At this startling announcement, he sat bolt upright. 
 
 "Stay at the vicarage!" he repeated. "Why?" 
 
 "You cannot very well continue at The Grange 
 whilst disclaiming your identity." 
 
 "The identity of Alfred Warren," he corrected her 
 gently. 
 
 "It amounts to the same thing," she replied grimly. 
 "You had better arrange with Willis to send your things 
 over," she added practically. "And now I must go and 
 see about my brother's luncheon," and she rose. 
 
 "So you won't believe in me as James Smith," he 
 said as he rose. 
 
 "I preserve an open mind," was the response, as they 
 stood facing one another, each trying to read beyond 
 the reserve-barrier of cultured people. 
 
 "I give you my word that I am not Alfred Warren," 
 he said quietly. 
 
 "We dine at half-past seven," was the reply; but 
 the firm line of her mouth broke, and Smith realised 
 that she had indeed an open mind.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 
 
 ON his return to The Grange, Smith immediately 
 went in search of Willis, finally running him to 
 earth in Alfred's bedroom. 
 
 As he entered, the old man turned, a trouser- 
 stretcher in his hand. 
 
 "I've been looking for you everywhere, Willis." 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Alfred, if I wasn't" 
 "Oh ! it's all right," said Smith, sinking into a chair, 
 striking a match and proceeding to light a cigarette. 
 "What do the Little Bilsteadians mean by Bob Thir- 
 kettle's mawther?" 
 
 With a crash the trouser-stretcher fell to the floor. 
 At the sight of Willis' face, Smith sprang to his feet 
 and went over to him. In a flash the butler seemed to 
 have become ten years older. He was trembling vio- 
 lently, the colour had gone from his face, and in his 
 eyes there was fear. He appeared on the point of col- 
 lapse, and Smith led him over to the chair which he 
 himself had just vacated. Fetching a glass of water, 
 he held it to Willis' grey lips. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said soothingly, as the butler 
 swallowed a little of the water, gazing with wide-open 
 eyes at Smith as he did so. "I didn't mean to upset 
 you." 
 
 84
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 85 
 
 Willis lay back in the chair with closed eyes, as if de- 
 sirous of shutting out something. 
 
 Smith forced him to drink some whisky and water, 
 and presently the colour began to come back to his grey 
 cheeks. 
 
 Smith studiously avoided any further reference to 
 the cause of the butler's collapse, and when he even- 
 tually left the room it was with strict injunctions to 
 Willis to remain where he was until quite recovered. 
 He had a feeling that his presence acted only as a re- 
 minder of the shock the old man had suffered. 
 
 The return of the modern prodigal was not without 
 its attendant excitements, was Smith's thought, as he 
 descended the stairs. He must at all costs find out the 
 meaning of the word "mawther," a term that appeared 
 to be full of sinister menace, judging from the evil leer 
 with which the old road-mender had uttered it, the fact 
 that it had been shouted after him in the village, and 
 the distress shown by Willis on hearing it repeated. 
 
 Refilling and lighting his pipe, he made his way 
 round to the stables, where he hoped to encounter 
 some one from whom he could obtain the information 
 he sought. He heard sounds issuing from the harness- 
 room, first a hissing, dear to the heart of the horse- 
 keeper, followed by a few shrilly whistled bars of an 
 air he did not recognise. These suddenly developed 
 into a song in a high, but not unmelodious tenor. 
 
 Walking across the yard, Smith looked in at the 
 open door. As he did so, the song broke off and the 
 hissing was resumed. 
 
 "Mornin', Mist' Alfred." 
 
 A spare, sandy youth paused in the task of polishing 
 a set of harness.
 
 86 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Good morning," said Smith. "Busy?" 
 
 "Things get that mucky in no time," said the youth. 
 " 'Orses mean a mort o' work," he added, as he re- 
 turned to the polishing of the metal-work. 
 
 "What's your name?" enquired Smith. 
 
 "Nudd, Mist' Alfred," he replied. "Dick Nudd. 
 Father keeps The Pigeons." 
 
 That was the worst of village communities, was 
 Smith's mental comment, everybody was either some- 
 body's father or somebody else's son. He hesitated 
 a moment before putting his fateful question. In all 
 probability Dick Nudd would spread the story of his 
 interrogation throughout the village. What if he did? 
 It would only go to prove that Smith was entirely 
 ignorant of anything and everything concerned with 
 the Thirkettle Affair. 
 
 "Can you tell me what a mawther is, Nudd?" he 
 asked, striving to make the question sound casual. 
 
 It was a relief that Nudd did not collapse. Instead 
 he looked up from his polishing, a sheepish grin on 
 his freckled face. Obviously the question was not so 
 distressing to him as to poor Willis. Possibly it was 
 due to the difference between youth and age. 
 
 "A mawther, Mist' Alfred," repeated Dick Nudd, 
 his grin broadening. "Fancy you a-askin' a question 
 like that. I don't have no truck with 'em, myself," he 
 added, as if by way of exculpation. 
 
 There was nothing disrespectful in his tone. The 
 enquiry appeared to him obviously in the light of a 
 joke; yet it was equally obvious that, in his opinion, 
 Alfred Warren had no need to put such a question. 
 
 "Well?" enquired Smith quietly; but in a tone that 
 made it clear he required an answer. "What does it 
 mean?"
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 87 
 
 "A mawther, Mist' Alfred," he repeated, scratch- 
 ing his head through a black-and-white check cap of 
 sporting design and cut, "a mawther's a gal, Mist' 
 Alfred, a woman." 
 
 In a flash the truth dawned upon Smith. Bob Thir- 
 kettle's mawther was his daughter, perhaps his wife, 
 and his jaw set squarely. 
 
 A man doesn't go looking for another with a gun 
 because of something done to his women-folk, unless 
 that something be serious. Everything was now clear 
 to him. Tom Simmons' salacious slobberings, Nudd 
 pere's contemptuous remark, Willis' distress, and 
 young Nudd's clearly-expressed surprise that Alfred 
 Warren should require enlightenment as to the mean- 
 ing of the word "mawther." 
 
 "I'm afraid I've been under-estimating the dramatic 
 possibilities of the situation," he murmured, as, with 
 a nod to Nudd, he turned and walked slowly towards 
 the house. 
 
 II 
 
 "I wish I could convince you that I am not Alfred 
 Warren," remarked Smith half-an-hour later, as he 
 unfolded a napkin and spread it across his knees. 
 
 Marjorie gazed at him with grave politeness, an 
 almost imperceptible frown puckering her eyebrows. 
 
 "You see," he continued, "it's just a dream. I am 
 no more Alfred Warren than I'm the Missing Link. 
 It's all very awkward though," he added. 
 
 He had already decided that, in a blouse and skirt 
 she looked as attractive as she had the night before 
 in green. 
 
 "Willis tells me you have lost your memory."
 
 88 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Willis beamed on him as, with soft tread, he moved 
 about the room. 
 
 "Willis is a part of the dream," said Smith. "In 
 fact, he is not a little responsible for all the trouble." 
 
 He watched Willis pour hock into Marjorie's glass, 
 his interest centred in the decanter he carried in his 
 left hand. As he approached, Smith made a motion 
 of refusal of the decanter. 
 
 Willis seemed surprised, and looked irresolute. 
 
 "Perhaps you would prefer champagne, Mr. Alfred. 
 There's some of the 1900 that was kept back," he 
 murmured. "This," making a movement with his left 
 hand, "is the sixty-five brandy." 
 
 "I never drink it." Smith glanced up at him with a 
 smile. 
 
 Marjorie looked from one to the other, her ex- 
 pression for the first time manifesting interest. 
 
 Recovering himself, Willis replaced the decanter 
 upon the sideboard. Smith realised that he was mak- 
 ing things difficult for the real Alfred, should he ever 
 return. 
 
 For some minutes the meal proceeded in silence, 
 Marjorie's brow slightly puckered, as if there were 
 something about it all that puzzled her. 
 
 "The weak point in my position," said Smith pres- 
 ently, "is that I cannot prove who I am, although I 
 can say definitely that I am not Alfred Warren. In 
 the village this morning," he continued, smiling in spite 
 of himself at the look of anxiety on Willis' face, "every- 
 body seemed to know me, and I knew nobody. It 
 will lead to all sorts of complications," he added. 
 
 Again there was silence. Several times during the 
 meal, Smith was conscious that he was being gravely
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 89 
 
 scrutinised by Marjorie. Immediately she caught his 
 eye, however, her own were lowered, to remain fixed 
 upon her plate. She was certainly a difficult girl to 
 talk to. 
 
 During these periods of silence, he had ample oppor- 
 tunity of looking at her and confirming his first impres- 
 sion. Her well-modelled head was crowned with a 
 dense mass of auburn hair that seemed to hold some- 
 where in its depths the sunlight of June. He noted the 
 little tendrils framing her face. They seemed to laugh 
 at their own cleverness in escaping restraint. Her eyes 
 were a deep violet, and there were little cuts at the 
 corners of her mouth suggestive of the fact that humour 
 lurked there. Yes, she was beautiful. 
 
 Her attitude was correct, whilst entirely lacking in 
 cordiality. There was in her manner almost stiff- 
 ness. Her eyes were capable of sparkling with mis- 
 chief, he told himself, her short upper lip, the im- 
 pudent cuts at the side of her mouth, and the nose that 
 was just the tiniest bit retrousse, all conspired to render 
 her piquant and provocative; yet her demeanour was 
 that of a vicar's wife towards the village reprobate. 
 She could have been little more than a child, he argued, 
 when Alfred had disappeared. She was certainly not 
 more than twenty-one now. 
 
 He waited until Willis had finally withdrawn. He 
 was determined to try and solve the mystery of Mar- 
 jorie's dislike. 
 
 "I wish you would try and dislike me for myself 
 alone," he said suddenly. 
 
 She looked up quickly. For the fraction of a second 
 the little cuts at the corners of her mouth quivered; 
 but it was only a momentary lapse. She gazed at him,
 
 90 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 her head a fraction on one side, her eyebrows slightly 
 lifted. 
 
 "At the present moment," he continued, "you are 
 disliking me because you think I am Alfred Warren. 
 You might at least give me the chance of earning your 
 dislike by sheer merit." 
 
 Then she laughed, a short, gurgling sound, which 
 died away almost immediately. Smith thought he had 
 never seen a girl's face so transformed. Where she 
 had been beautiful, she now became fascinating, ir- 
 resistible. 
 
 "Some one has given Alfred Warren a bad name, 
 and you are going to hang me for it," he continued as 
 she made no comment. 
 
 "Is there not something between friendship and 
 and the other thing?" she queried. 
 
 It was obvious that, whatever Alfred had done, he 
 had sinned beyond forgiveness. It must be something 
 very grave indeed, to place him beyond the pale of her 
 forgiveness. 
 
 He had already gathered sufficient to convince him 
 that Alfred's private life had been full of hectic episode 
 and florid incident. This, in all probability, was re- 
 sponsible for Marjorie's uncompromising attitude of 
 disapproval. He knew enough of women to appreciate 
 that it would be hopeless to endeavour to modify the 
 bad impression. She was too young and unsophisticated 
 for philosophy, or the development of social charity. 
 
 Inwardly he cursed Alfred Warren and all his ways. 
 To inherit a man's relatives and friends was sufficiently 
 embarrassing; but to be saddled with his past was 
 intolerable. 
 
 "Of course, I cannot stay on here," he said pres- 
 ently.
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 91 
 
 "Why?" She looked up quickly, a startled expres- 
 sion in her eyes, as if he had said something quite 
 unexpected. 
 
 "I am in an utterly false position." 
 
 "But " She stopped short, her fingers playing 
 nervously with a piece of Chinese jade suspended from 
 her neck by a black silk ribbon. She seemed embar- 
 rassed, as if she wished to say something she found 
 it difficult to express. 
 
 "It's horribly awkward," he said with a smile that 
 did not reflect the mood of his mind. 
 
 She gazed at him gravely. In her eyes there was 
 a question, of that he was convinced. 
 
 "I shall be leaving this afternoon," he said. 
 
 "This afternoon!" There was alarm, consternation 
 in her voice. Smith was thrilled. Could it be that 
 she really wished him to stay? 
 
 "Yes; if I can evade Willis and dodge Mrs. Higgs." 
 
 I__I__ She paused. "Lady Warren would- 
 
 In a flash he saw her perplexity. There was Lady 
 Warren to be reckoned with. If he were allowed to 
 go, what would she say? How would it affect her? 
 
 "You are great friends?" 
 
 "Yes." Her eyes still gazed across into his. 
 
 "And you are wondering whether or no you ought 
 to instruct Willis to lock me up in the wine-cellar until 
 she returns." 
 
 Immediately he had uttered the words, he regretted 
 them. The reference to the wine-cellar had been as 
 unfortunate as it had been unintentional. He could 
 have kicked himself as he saw her stiffen. 
 
 "I am afraid some one will write to her," she said 
 coldly. "The shock might kill her." 
 
 "Miss Lipscombe has asked me to stay at the vicar-
 
 92 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 age," he said, feeling it unfair to keep Marjorie on 
 the rack of doubt. 
 
 The look of relief in her eyes gave him no pleasur- 
 able thrill. On the contrary, he then and there made 
 up his mind to leave the vicarage next day. The situa- 
 tion was an impossible one, he decided. 
 
 Marjorie rose and, a few seconds later, Smith closed 
 the door behind her. Crossing over to the window, 
 he stood looking out into the blue and gold of the 
 summer day. 
 
 "Anyway, thank heaven her nose doesn't crinkle 
 when she laughs," he murmured. 
 
 "Sir?" queried Willis, who had entered unheard. 
 
 "Nothing, Willis," said Smith, turning from the 
 window. "I was merely removing my fly from some- 
 body else's ointment." 
 
 And the butler registered a mental note that it was 
 "just like Mr. Alfred." 
 
 ill 
 
 "Phew!" 
 
 Smith drew a long breath of the tired air, heavily 
 scented with moth-ball. At his own suggestion he 
 had penetrated to Mrs. Higgs's holy of holies, her 
 private sitting-room, and already he was regretting it. 
 The solitary window was tightly shut and sealed along 
 the ledge, where the upper and lower sashes met, by 
 a faded red sand-bag, looking like an unhealthy 
 sausage. 
 
 "You sit down, sir, and I'll send Mrs. Higgs," Willis 
 had said, as he closed the door of the housekeeper's 
 little sitting-room. 
 
 Sit down ! To do so seemed a desecration. As well 
 think of sitting down upon the high altar of St. Peter's
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 93 
 
 at Rome. Never could he remember to have seen a 
 small room that contained so many objects. The 
 owner's main idea, apparently, had been to cover up 
 every inch of exposed surface of floor, mantelpiece or 
 wall. It was bewildering. Antimacassars, little wool- 
 work mats and china plaques; plush photograph- 
 frames, letter-weights and boxes encrusted with sea- 
 shells; mugs and large shells, cups-and-saucers from 
 every watering-place in Great Britain. 
 
 On a small table was a stuffed canary at which the 
 moth had got in spite of its glass case, a small spaniel, 
 also stuffed, looked up from the hearth-rug with hard 
 and glassy eyes. The whole was composed of a mul- 
 titude of mats and what their owner affectionately 
 called "knick-knacks." This was obviously Mrs. 
 Higgs's treasure-house. Remove or break one single 
 item, and she would know it instantly, and mourn 
 over it as over the hundredth sheep. 
 
 The room was something of an autobiography, 
 Smith decided, its treasures having been hoarded from 
 year to year. He examined the photographs that 
 adorned the walls, or stood on mantelpiece or table, 
 moving about gingerly lest he should upset something. 
 The object of his visit was the hope that he 4 might 
 find a portrait of the absentee Alfred; but he could 
 find nothing even remotely resembling himself. 
 
 He was in the act of mentally 'registering a vow 
 never to go to Cromer, inspired by the sight of a 
 large pink, white and gold mug, which proclaimed to 
 the world in garish lettering 'that it was a present 
 from that place, when the,door opened to the accom- 
 paniment of a persistent rustle and the sound of heavy 
 breathing. He turned, to find Mrs. Higgs, purple 
 with excitement, and respirating like a -small gas-
 
 94 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 engine, standing beaming at him. Willis was just be- 
 hind her, closing the door. 
 
 "This is kind of you, Mr. Alfred," she said, "and 
 to think that I should not be here when you came. 
 I've run every step of the way from the second floor," 
 she panted. "It was so good of Mr. Willis to fetch 
 me. Do sit down, sir, please." 
 
 Smith looked about him in despair. Eventually he 
 selected a chair which seemed less ornamental than 
 its fellows, although Mrs. Higgs's eyes had been fixed 
 on a papier-mache construction inlaid with mother-of- 
 pearl and adorned with a royal-blue cushion, a white 
 antimacassar being tied with orange ribbon to its back. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Willis! Please sit you down," she flus- 
 tered. 
 
 At the sight of the old woman's obvious happiness, 
 Smith was conscious of a slight contraction at the back 
 of his throat. 
 
 "Now don't you think we might have a cup of tea, 
 Mrs. Higgs?" suggested Smith. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Alfred!" she cried. "How good of you. 
 I'll go and see " 
 
 "No, not a bit of it," said Smith. "Ring the bell. 
 We'll be waited on like gentlefolk." 
 
 She beamed on him and rang the bell. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred would like to take tea with Mr. Willis 
 and me here, Salter," she said to the parlour-maid, 
 in a tone that was almost apologetic, "and and 
 Salter," she added. As the girl was about to leave 
 the room, she whispered something he did not catch. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Alfred! this is good of you," she cried. 
 "Isn't it, Mr. Willis?" She turned to Willis for cor- 
 roboration.
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 95 
 
 "It is indeed, Mrs. Higgs," said Willis, his face 
 reflecting the happiness stamped on that of the house- 
 keeper; but in a lower key. 
 
 "We're all so happy to-day," said Mrs. Higgs. 
 "Why, all the morning I've hardly known whether 
 I stood on my head or my heels." 
 
 The thought of the portly Mrs. Higgs standing on 
 anything but her feet amused Smith. 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Death has been crying all the morning." 
 
 "Mrs. Death is the cook," explained Willis, seeing 
 the look of surprise on Smith's face. "She has visions." 
 
 "But why should she cry?". asked 1 Smith. 
 
 "You see, sir," said Mrs. Higgs, "it reminded her 
 of when she lost Mr. Death." 
 
 Smith was puzzled why the return of an alleged 
 prodigal should remind a woman of the loss of, in 
 all probability, a good husband; but he refrained from 
 comment. Probably the visions explained it. 
 
 For fully a minute there was an awkward and con- 
 strained silence; Mrs. Higgs radiated happiness, Willis 
 looked uncomfortable. Smith longed for the courage 
 to break a pane of glass. He was sure the window 
 would not open. 
 
 "I suppose you're convinced that I am Mr. Alfred, 
 Mrs. Higgs," he said at length. 
 
 "Oh, sir !" she cried, and began to chuckle in a 
 way that set her triple chins throbbing with sympa- 
 thetic enjoyment, whilst her cameo locket danced up 
 and down upon her generous person. 
 
 "And," continued Smith, "Willis is prepared to 
 swear it upon a whole mountain of Bibles, aren't you, 
 Willis?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Willis gravely.
 
 96 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Now," continued Smith. "Don't interrupt me until 
 I've finished. I am no more Mr. Alfred than I am 
 the Shah of Persia or Jack Johnson. My name is 
 Smith, James Smith, and you have got me into rather 
 a hole by persisting in saying that I am Mr. Alfred 
 Warren." 
 
 Mrs. Higgs exchanged glances with Willis. In that 
 look Smith recognised the utter futility of endeavouring 
 to convince either of them that he was not Alfred 
 Warren. 
 
 "You've been ill, you poor lamb," said Mrs. Higgs. 
 
 "It's your memory, sir," echoed Willis. "You " 
 He stopped suddenly as Salter entered with the tea- 
 tray. 
 
 At the sight of it Smith groaned aloud. There in 
 the centre, dominating the tea-things, stood the inevita- 
 ble syphon of soda-water and decanter of whisky. 
 The girl looked about her enquiringly. Mrs. Higgs 
 bustled over to the round-table in the middle of the 
 room, the corner of which she managed to clear of 
 its albums and photo-frames. There the girl placed 
 the tray. 
 
 Smith fixed his eyes upon the decanter. 
 
 "Surely, Mrs. Higgs, you don't prefer whisky-and- 
 soda to tea." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir!" she. stammered. 
 
 "Then it must be you, Willis." 
 
 "Me, sir!" cried Willis, starting up. "Oh, no, sir! 
 I like a cup of tea above " 
 
 "Then it must be your mistake, Salter," said Smith 
 with a smile. 
 
 The girl looked at Mrs. Higgs and then, at a nod 
 from her, picked up the syphon and decanter and left
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 97 
 
 the room. Mrs. Higgs disguised her embarrassment 
 by becoming engrossed in the pouring-out of the tea, 
 whilst Willis fixed his eyes upon the moth-eaten stuffed 
 canary that looked so pitifully devoid of life. 
 
 As Smith looked at Mrs. Higgs he was certain that 
 her chins vibrated with something that was akin to 
 song. She looked for all the world as if she were 
 purring. 
 
 Willis still sat as if uncertain of the stability of 
 the chair; but he reflected on his own genial features 
 the happiness that was Mrs. Higgs's. 
 
 "It's obviously no use endeavouring to convince you 
 two good people that I am not Mr. Alfred," said 
 Smith as he took the cup that Mrs. Higgs handed him 
 and, with a motion of his head, declined the bread 
 and butter and scones that Willis proffered. 
 
 'They both smiled at him as if in entire agreement 
 with his words. 
 
 "So," continued Smith, "you might tell me some- 
 thing about my alleged self." 
 
 "Your alleged self, sir?" repeated Mrs. Higgs. 
 
 "Yes, tell me something about Mr. Alfred." 
 
 Mrs. Higgs looked across at Willis, anxiety and 
 apprehension in her eyes. Willis looked uncomfort- 
 able. 
 
 "Yes, sir, certainly," said Mrs. Higgs, and to gain 
 time proceeded to cool her tea 'by blowing upon it, 
 holding the cup and saucer with a prim awkwardness 
 that was evidently intended for refinement. 
 
 Smith waited, smilingly patient. 
 
 Having reduced the tea to a satisfactory tempera-* 
 ture, Mrs. Higgs sipped it three or four times, then 
 replaced the cup-and-saucer upon the tray.
 
 98 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "You you were a beautiful baby, Mr. Alfred," 
 she began hesitatingly. 
 
 Willis nodded his head approvingly. 
 
 "I remember saying many a time as I used to " 
 
 "Tell me more about Mr. Alfred when he wasn't 
 a baby," Smith suggested, "just before he went away, 
 for instance." Again he noted the look of apprehen- 
 sion that passed between the two old servants. 
 
 "There isn't much to tell, sir," she said, "only 
 only " She paused. 
 
 "Only what?" asked Smith. 
 
 "Only that one day you disappeared and and " 
 Again she hesitated. He noticed that tears were gath- 
 ering in her eyes. Presently one tipped over the brim 
 and slid down the side of her nose. She proceeded 
 to ferret about among her lower draperies in search 
 of a handkerchief. When at last it was retrieved, 
 there were two wet lines running down .her face, one 
 on either side of her nose. 
 
 "But why did he leave home?" 
 
 "Ah! sir," she sniffed with dolorous significance. 
 "You may well ask?" 
 
 "Well?" queried Smith. 
 
 "It was terrible, sir, terrible ! Wasn't it, Mr. Wil- 
 lis? And her poor Ladyship." 
 
 Willis inclined his head with melancholy decision. 
 "Terrible!" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes; but you are not helping me in the least," 
 protested Smith. "There must have been some 
 reason." 
 
 "There were a lot of wicked people, Mr. Alfred," 
 said Mrs. Higgs huskily. 
 
 "There usually are," he smiled.
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 99 
 
 "And they were jealous of you," she continued. 
 
 "Yes; but I wasn't supposed to be kidnapped, 
 was I?" 
 
 "No, sir, you went away. You were always very 
 sensitive and and " It was obvious that Mrs. 
 Higgs was on the point of breaking down. He 
 thought it kinder to give a turn to the conversation. 
 
 "Do you know what I was looking for when you 
 came in?" he asked. 
 
 "Looking for?" she repeated. "No, sir." 
 
 "I was looking for a photograph of Mr. Alfred, 
 and I couldn't find one " 
 
 "Lawk a mercy me !" she cried, pulling herself into 
 an upright position by means of the table. Trotting 
 over to the corner of the room, she opened a drawer 
 in a table, and took out an album. From the keys 
 at her side she selected one, unlocked the clasp and 
 handed it to Smith. 
 
 "We put them away because of* her Ladyship," she 
 explained. 
 
 With something nearly approaching excitement, he 
 opened the album and found himself gazing at a baby 
 seated upon a high stool with a deplorable insufficiency 
 of clothing. From the right-hand side of the photo- 
 graph a hand was to be seen, stretched forth to save 
 the child from its own obstreperousness. It was a 
 faded print of a bygone day, and Smith had to confess 
 to himself that he could see no very marked likeness 
 between this "indelicately exposed infant and himself. 
 
 He turned to the other end of the album, where 
 suddenly he found himself gazing at what* seemed to 
 be his own photograph, taken some six or seven years 
 previously. When he had recovered from the first
 
 100 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 sensation of shock, he could see slight differences. The 
 chin was rounded and sensual. The eyelids drooped, 
 and the face, although by no means a bad one, was 
 obviously that of a man lacking in will power. 
 
 Conscious that the eyes of the others were fixed 
 upon him, he passed on from photograph to photo- 
 graph. Alfred appeared to have been photographed 
 at every conceivable age and, in his earlier days, in 
 every conceivable absence of clothing. It was posi- 
 tively indelicate, he told himself, thus to parade pa- 
 rental indiscretions to a full-grown man. 
 
 As the photographs showed the passage from child- 
 hood into boyhood, and from boyhood to young man- 
 hood, he found the likeness to himself more pro- 
 nounced, until the last photographs of all might easily 
 have been taken for portraits of himself. No wonder 
 these people all insisted upon identifying him as the 
 missing Alfred. In face and figure they were obviously 
 very similar, almost uncannily alike in fact; but and 
 this is what struck him most it seemed almost in- 
 credible that, however similar facially they might be, 
 they should possess personalities that might be mis- 
 taken one for the other. 
 
 Alfred was obviously of a weak character, easily 
 influenced; but there must have been something pecul- 
 iarly attractive in his personality to earn for him such 
 affection as was shown by the servants. Was it due 
 to loyalty, or to real liking for the missing Alfred? 
 From what he had heard of Alfred's habits and asso- 
 ciates, there was little to suggest a lovable character; 
 yet on the other hand there was the obvious devotion 
 of Willis and Mrs. Higgs, to say nothing of the some- 
 what dubious testimony of the tearful Mrs. Death.
 
 THE STRANGENESS OF MARJORIE 101 
 
 As he continued to gaze at the photographs, he 
 wondered if his actions, his personality and his bearing 
 were similar to those of the missing heir. Yet had 
 not Mrs. Higgs on several occasions drawn a parallel 
 between them by turning to Willis and exclaiming, 
 "Isn't that just like Mr. Alfred?" 
 
 Suddenly he looked up from the book. 
 
 "I want you each to tell me in what I am most like 
 Mr. Alfred," he said. 
 
 For fully a minute there was silence. 
 
 "It's your smile, sir," said Mrs. Higgs. "I should 
 have known you anywhere by that." 
 
 "And you, Willis?" queried Smith. 
 
 "I think, sir, the way you half-close your eyes when 
 you seem to be resting, when you are smoking, that is." 
 
 Then he had got that droop of the eyelids he had 
 noticed in Alfred's photographs. It was all very ex- 
 traordinary. If he went far enough he would, in all 
 probability, find some one to identify his every move- 
 ment. Suddenly he had an inspiration. 
 
 "Did Mr. Alfred like games, cricket, football, and 
 that sort of thing?" he asked Willis; but it was Mrs. 
 Higgs who replied. 
 
 "No, sir, you were always very gentle. You played 
 cricket against Upper Saxton, sir, and you sometimes 
 played tennis." 
 
 "Was I any good?" enquired Smith, "at cricket, 
 I mean?" he added. 
 
 "You were generally unlucky, sir," said the loyal 
 Willis, "and, and " but even his resources were not 
 equal to the occasion. 
 
 "I suppose there was some marked physical pecu- 
 liarity about Mr. Alfred," said Smith, hopeful of find-
 
 102 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 ing a stray straw at which to clutch, "a blemish, an 
 Achilles' heel" he had almost said "a cloven hoof." 
 
 "Sir?" queried Mrs. Higgs, not quite following the 
 classical trend of his thoughts. 
 
 "Had he a scar, for instance, or a mole?" 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Alfred," she cried, her puzzled frown 
 dissipating into smiles, "you were such a beautiful 
 baby." 
 
 Upon the subject of infants, he decided, Mrs. Higgs 
 was almost offensively ecstatic. 
 
 "Her Ladyship used to say you were without blem- 
 ish, and you were, sir. Everybody said so." 
 
 "And didn't I ever break a leg or an arm?" he per- 
 sisted. "Or even a rib?" 
 
 "Never, sir," said Mrs. Higgs, with an air of finality 
 that seemed to prick his bubble of hope. It was ob- 
 vious, he decided, that Alfred Warren had concen- 
 trated upon the Commandments. 
 
 "Well, thank you very much for giving me tea," 
 said Smith, and he looked down smilingly at Mrs. 
 Higgs. With a sudden gulp he added, "I envy you 
 this delightful little room." Then, with the brand 
 of Ananias on his lips, he passed out of the house- 
 keeper's room. 
 
 "It'll have to be cricket, then," he muttered, as he 
 walked along the corridor. "A century might do it."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 
 
 "T M so nervous, Jane," fluttered Miss Mary Jell. 
 "Don't be absurd, Mary," retorted Miss Jell. 
 "You ought to show more self-control." 
 
 "But suppose he were to call," whispered Miss 
 Mary, her eyes round as those of a frightened child. 
 "I should faint, I know I should," she added with 
 conviction. "I was so frightened this morning." 
 
 Miss Jell drew in her lips; but made no remark. 
 The two sisters were seated in their drawing-room 
 awaiting the callers that the Third Thursday in the 
 month always brought them. Miss Jell had assumed 
 her usual position opposite the door, whilst her sister 
 had taken a chair near the window. Her natural 
 inclination to watch the callers as they approached, 
 having been rigorously curbed by her more decorous 
 sister, Miss Mary had compromised by sitting as near 
 to the window as she dare, and in such a position 
 as enabled her, when her sister was not looking, to 
 obtain an occasional glimpse of the roadway that rib- 
 boned down towards the village. 
 
 The Misses Jell were both small, both prey, and 
 both of unknown age; but whereas Miss Tell was re- 
 served and austere, as befits an elder sister, Miss Mary 
 was sometimes spontaneous and always gentle. They 
 were gentlewomen and they looked it. They had lived 
 in Little Bilstead all their lives, and were invited to 
 The Grange, a distinction they shared with the vicar, 
 
 103
 
 104 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 his sister, Colonel Enderby, the doctor, and Mrs. 
 Truspitt-Greene. 
 
 Somewhere in the dim recesses of the past, a maga- 
 zine, long since defunct, had accepted a story by Miss 
 Jell. From then onwards she was, by common con- 
 sent, looked upon as "literary," and upon all such 
 matters she was regarded as an authority, and defer- 
 ence paid to her opinion. Never having reached such 
 heights, Miss Mary had perforce to accept a more 
 lowly position, not only in the household, but in the 
 social world of Little Bilstead. 
 
 The Cedars, where the Misses Jell had lived all their 
 lives, was a small house with a garden back and front, 
 an estate agent would have described it as "standing 
 in its own grounds." As a matter of fact, there was 
 at least a yard and a half of ground either side between 
 the hedge and the house; but nowhere was there to 
 be seen anything dimly resembling a cedar. Not even 
 the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tree rear- 
 ing its browns and blacks anywhere near the house. 
 How the place had come to be called "The Cedars," 
 no one knew, and no one seemed to care. 
 
 The social event of the month in Little Bilstead 
 was the Miss Jells' Third Thursdays. About half- 
 past three in the afternoon, Little Bilstead, that is 
 to say such portion of Little Bilstead as had been 
 socially "born," would be seen making its way towards 
 The Cedars, which stood on the rise of the hill at the 
 eastern-most end of the village. 
 
 Colonel Enderby would bring out his tall white felt 
 hat with the black band, winter or summer it made 
 no difference, stab into his tie a horse-shoe pin com- 
 posed of brilliants, which had been presented to him
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 103 
 
 by an Indian rajah, button on his white spats and, 
 with gloves and cane clasped jauntily in his left hand, 
 would set forth to pay his respects, as he expressed 
 it, to the Misses Jell. 
 
 Mrs. Spelman would don a new headgear of her 
 own construction, and her passing the window of Rose 
 Cottage would be a signal for Miss Marshall, who for 
 the last half-hour had stood watching behind the cur- 
 tain, to make the plunge. With her would be her 
 father, a retired civil servant, who possessed the soul 
 of an albino and the appetite of a cormorant. During 
 the afternoon, generally when the last callers were 
 preparing to leave, the vicar would sometimes look in. 
 
 Social Little Bilstead lived for the Miss Jells' Third 
 Thursdays, there to discuss and re-discuss all that 
 had happened, and a great deal that had not hap- 
 pened, in the village during the previous month. 
 Others extended hospitality; but it was sporadic. The 
 Marshalls sometimes indulged in a whist-drive, Mrs. 
 Spelman was generally at home by special invitation 
 twice in three months, thus exercising an economy of 
 thirty-three-and-a-third per cent, per annum, without 
 it being particularly noticeable. 
 
 Colonel Enderby gave little bachelor teas, whilst 
 the others did their social best for Little Bilstead; still 
 the Misses Jell could claim pride of place. 
 
 "Here's Mrs. Spelman," cried Miss Mary, forget- 
 ting in her excitement that she had obtained the in- 
 formation by illicit means. 
 
 "How many times have I told you, Mary, not to " 
 
 "She's had the red tip dyed magenta," broke in 
 Miss Mary, unable to restrain herself within the limits 
 of discretion.
 
 106 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "If you insist on looking out of the window, Mary, 
 I shall have the blinds drawn," announced Miss Jell, 
 who, with hands folded austerely before her, sat await- 
 ing the first peal at the bell. 
 
 Miss Mary subsided with a little sigh of regret. To 
 her the Third Thursdays would have been so much 
 more enjoyable had she been allowed to sit at the 
 window and watch the arrival of the first callers. The 
 little sigh with which she received her sister's remark 
 indicated that this little pleasure had been consigned 
 to the limbo of things that are not to be. 
 
 Two minutes later the little bell tinkled to announce 
 the arrival of Mrs. Spelman. This was followed al- 
 most immediately by the irruption into the placid at- 
 mosphere of the drawing-room of a little woman in a 
 fawn dust-coat. On her head was what had come to 
 be known in Little Bilstead as "Mrs. Spelman's toque." 
 
 Mrs. Spelman possessed certain millinery materials, 
 a wire "shape," covered with dingy gauze, which in 
 form was not unlike a Martello Tower, two "tips," 
 little tufts of feathers raped from some inconspicuous 
 portion of an ostrich, several pieces of gold-coloured 
 bullion-lace, and an infinity of odds and ends of black 
 satin and coloured velvets. One of the "tips" was 
 black and the other coloured. Each was from time 
 to time "re-dipped," the coloured tip, like the foliage 
 of a cedar, gradually darkening in shade with the 
 passage of years. 
 
 Each month Mrs. Spelman produced something new 
 in the way of millinery. Never had she been known 
 to repeat herself. The final result was always too 
 large, giving to it an apnearance of top-heaviness which 
 seemed to threaten with entire extinction her small 
 features*
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 107 
 
 "Oh, Miss Jell! What do you think of it?" she 
 cried. "He was in the village only this morning. I 
 meant to go down to the post-office to get a money- 
 order for my old nurse. Just as I was leaving the 
 house, Prinnikins knocked over a jug of cream. Milly 
 was so annoyed. I had to stay and comfort her and 
 remove the cream from Prinny's tail. Wasn't it vex- 
 ing? But for that I should " 
 
 "To whom are you referring, Mrs. Spelman?" en- 
 quired Miss Jell, with that touch of coldness in her 
 voice she invariably kept for Mrs. Spelman. As the 
 widow of a tradesman, she had to be kept in her place. 
 
 "Oh! haven't you heard?" she continued. "Alfred 
 Warren has returned. The village is in a state of 
 ferment. I'm sure something terrible will happen. 
 To think that but for dear little Prinny's playfulness 
 I should have seen him this morning. You remember 
 all about the Thirkettle " 
 
 "I don't think we need discuss that," said Miss 
 Jell, with a glance at her sister as if she had been in 
 her teens. 
 
 "But don't you realise," continued Mrs. Spelman, 
 "that we shall be flung into a veritable oh! here's 
 Colonel Enderbv," she cried, as the door was opened 
 by Ellen, the Miss Jells' elderly maid, to admit a tall, 
 spare man, with a white, bristling moustache, the eyes 
 of a crawfish and the jowl of a bloodhound. 
 
 "Oh! Colonel Enderby, have vou heard ?" 
 
 Mrs. Spelman stopped suddenly. Colonel Enderby 
 had fixed into his right eye the monocle that always 
 dangled from his neck by a piece of broad black ribbon, 
 and froze her as if she had been an untidily-clothed 
 recruit. He then turned to Miss Tell and Miss Mary, 
 and proceeded to greet them with a ceremony sug-
 
 108 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 gestive of the days of Thackeray; finally he turned to 
 Mrs. Spelman and "greeted" her. 
 
 "You know, Colonel, I nearly saw him this morn- 
 ing!" cried Mrs. Spelman. "If it hadn't been for 
 Prinnikins upsetting a jug of cream and then sitt I 
 mean putting his tail in it, I should have met him in the 
 village." 
 
 "Met whom in the village?" demanded Colonel 
 Enderby. He disliked widows, especially those of 
 what he called "damned daily-breaders." 
 
 "Mr. Warren! You know he's back, don't you?" 
 
 "I heard it this morning," he cried, his moustache 
 bristling even more fiercely. "If I meet him it will 
 be my pleasant duty to tell him that he's a scoundrel. 
 I've half a mind to " Colonel Enderby paused, and 
 gazed about him with bellicose intensity. 
 
 Miss Mary looked up at him admiringly, whilst Mrs. 
 Spelman smirked. 
 
 "You soldiers are always so terrible," she said, 
 whereat Colonel Enderby straightened himself. He 
 had been known in the army as Ramrod Enderby. 
 
 "I " he began, when he was interrupted by the 
 re-appearance of the flat-footed Ellen. 
 
 "Mr. and Miss Marshall," she announced, in a 
 voice that seemed several times too small for her. 
 
 It was Ellen's rule never to announce the first two 
 arrivals. Her publicity began with the advent of the 
 third. Miss Jell had striven long and arduously to 
 break her of this habit; but to all her protests Ellen 
 would reply, "Yes, miss," and on the very next occa- 
 sion proceed to do exactly as she had done for the last 
 thirty years. 
 
 Whilst the Marshalls were being made welcome,
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 109 
 
 Colonel Enderby proceeded to blow out his cheeks and 
 glare about him, as if accumulating energy for an out- 
 burst against the prodigal. His ideas of conversation 
 were those of a monologue, with himself cast for the 
 speaking part. 
 
 Whilst his daughter was engaged with the Misses 
 Jell, Mr. Marshall was taking stock of the sideboard, 
 upon which the refreshments were laid out. He was a 
 gaunt man, with the expression of a rabbit, and the 
 voracity of an ostrich. A grateful country had be- 
 stowed upon him a pension, totally inadequate to his 
 needs, even had his appetite been normal. As it was, 
 his daughter, Amelia, a near-sighted, sandy-haired 
 young woman, whose bust and lower waist measure- 
 ments seemed somehow to have become confused, found 
 it difficult, even with the aid of tinned foods, to keep 
 expenditure upon bowing terms with income. 
 
 But for the social instincts of Little Bilstead, she 
 would long since have been forced to give up the 
 struggle; but Mr. Marshall was a good forager, and 
 could generally be depended upon to scratch a fairly 
 decent meal at any function to which he was invited. 
 Upon such days Miss Marshall was able to eke out 
 existence with a bread-and-cheese luncheon and a small 
 tin of salmon for dinner. 
 
 "I regard it as a scandal!" announced Colonel En- 
 derby, as if he were addressing a squad of defaulters. 
 "Eh! Marshall?" 
 
 "Er er certainly," stammered Mr. Marshall, re- 
 called from an earnest contemplation of a plate of 
 deep-tinted fruit-cake. He had already decided that 
 it should form the foundation of his afternoon meal. 
 
 "Such a dreadful example for the villagers," re-
 
 110 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 marked Mrs. Spelman, casting up her eyes to the ceil- 
 ing, as if her thoughts were with "the rude fore- 
 fathers." 
 
 "It is certainly very unfortunate," remarked Miss 
 Jell primly. 
 
 "Unfortunate, marm!" cried Colonel Enderby. 
 "It's an outrage. When I was a young man, such a 
 thing would have been impossible." 
 
 Colonel Enderby was never tired of cataloguing the 
 things that would have been impossible when he was 
 young. 
 
 "That terrible Thirkettle affair" Mrs. Spelman 
 paused, at the sight of the frown upon Miss Jell's 
 brows. Miss Mary Jell turned aside and coughed 
 modestly, whilst Miss Marshall blushed. 
 
 They were interrupted by further callers and, for 
 the next quarter of an hour, Miss Jell and her sister 
 were kept busy receiving guests and ministering to their 
 needs. 
 
 As caller after caller arrived, they, in effect, re- 
 peated Mrs. Spelman's "Oh, Miss Jell ! What do you 
 think of it?" and then each proceeded to tell what 
 he, or she, had heard. Although the prodigal had 
 been back less than twenty-four hours, every one 
 seemed to be possessed of a vast amount of informa- 
 tion concerning him. 
 
 Mr. Williams, a small man with a small voice and a 
 still smaller income, had heard that he had spent the 
 whole of the previous day at The Pigeons, and had 
 been seen to leave in a state of marked hilarity and 
 with unsteady gait. 
 
 Mrs. Gaynford, who had private means and public 
 meannesses, had been told by her maid that there had
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 111 
 
 been a terrible scene at The Grange, in which the 
 butler had been severely handled by his master, be- 
 cause he refused to give up the key of the wine-cellar. 
 The atmosphere was hot with rumour, and the tem- 
 perature was further heightened by the increasing ex- 
 citement. 
 
 The attendance that afternoon created a record for 
 the Miss Jells' Third Thursdays. Even Dr. Crane 
 found time to "slip" in and out again, saying a few 
 words, nodding his head and diplomatically avoiding 
 any definite expression of opinion. Dr. Crane's con- 
 ception of the attitude of the general practitioner was 
 that silence added weight to the few words he spoke. 
 In this he was abetted by the almost bovine placidity 
 of his wife. 
 
 The excitement seriously interfered with Mr. Mar- 
 shall's customary meal, and that night Miss Marshall 
 had to reinforce the small tin of salmon with a "can" 
 of baked beans. She spent a restless night wondering 
 in what direction she could exercise economy to cover 
 the additional expenditure. 
 
 The entrance of young Eric Stannard, Marjorie Stan- 
 nard's red-headed and freckled brother, caused a sud- 
 den hush to fall upon the company, a tribute alike 
 to the immaturity of his fourteen years and their own 
 curiosity as to whether his sister were coming. 
 
 Having told Miss Jell that he had arrived by the 
 three-twenty, he proceeded to slay his own social im- 
 portance by announcing that "Marjie's sorry she won't 
 be able to come." He then drifted over to the side- 
 board, taking up a strong strategical position in the 
 neighbourhood of the plate of fruit-cake. 
 
 Mr. Marshall watched him anxiously; he had fully
 
 112 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 intended to get back to it again later. At the moment 
 he was engaged upon anchovy sandwiches, constructed 
 out of margarine and bloater-paste of a strength capa- 
 ble of disguising anything. 
 
 The excitement broke out again at the advent of 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene, who, as the second cousin of a 
 baronet, bulked large in the social life of Little Bil- 
 stead. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Truspitt-Greene !" cried Mrs. Spelman. 
 "Isn't it dreadful?" 
 
 In Little Bilstead, no one but Lady Warren ever 
 dared to omit the "Truspitt" from Mrs. Greene's 
 name. 
 
 "I heard you half-way down the road," was Mrs. 
 Truspitt-Greene's uncompromising retort. Rudeness 
 was her pose, rudeness and an ostentatious deference 
 to the rulings of the Almighty. To her there was little 
 virtue in being the second cousin of a baronet, unless 
 you could snub the relict of a tradesman. 
 
 "If you mean about Mr. Warren's return," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Truspitt-Greene presently, "I have heard." 
 
 "And what do you think of it?" asked Mrs. Spel- 
 man, in her eagerness forgetful of the snub she had just 
 received. 
 
 There was a hush. All were anxious to know how 
 the news would strike the second cousin of a baronet. 
 
 "Heaven has been very good," she replied. 
 
 When any social uncertainty assailed her, Mrs. 
 Truspitt-Greene invariably saddled Providence with 
 the responsibility. 
 
 "That's what I say," broke in young Stannard, his 
 mouth full of jam-turnover, in the making of which 
 Miss Mary Jell was an adept. "Tophole!" he added,
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 113 
 
 as if to leave no doubt as to the soundness of his 
 theology. 
 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene took the cup of tea from the 
 tray that Ellen held before her. She was a puffy- 
 faced woman, the blueness of whose complexion some 
 ascribed to bismuth and others to brandy. 
 
 "You mean?" queried Miss Jell of Mrs. Truspitt- 
 Greene, as Ellen extended to her a plate containing the 
 last ham-sandwich. 
 
 "That the faith of our dear friend, Lady Warren, 
 has made her whole," murmured Mrs. Truspitt-Greene, 
 taking a nibble at the sandwich. She was what she 
 herself described as "a good churchwoman." 
 
 "But think of the scandal !" cried Mrs. Spelman. 
 
 "The what?" Mrs. Truspitt-Greene lowered the 
 sandwich from her thin lips, and fixed her fish-like eyes 
 upon Mrs. Spelman's toque. 
 
 "The the " She paused, uncomfortable under 
 the other's scrutiny of her millinery. "Don't you think 
 it will be very awkward?" she finished lamely. 
 
 "If God has so ordained it, so let it be," was the 
 response. It was not that Mrs. Truspitt-Greene dis- 
 liked scandal, she merely objected to its high-priestess 
 in Little Bilstead. 
 
 "I hear that he denies he is Alfred Warren," said 
 Mrs. Crane thickly. "He says his name is James 
 Smith, and that he has lost his memory," she added 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 A sudden silence fell upon the room at this amazing 
 announcement. In her surprise at the effect of her 
 bombshell, Mrs. Crane allowed a piece of viscid pine- 
 apple-flan to slip from her saucer, and Miss Mary 
 promptly trod on it.
 
 114 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 For the first time in her self-possessed life, Miss 
 Jell was at a loss, whilst Miss Mary was almost in 
 tears, owing to her ineffectual struggle to remove the 
 slice of pineapple-flan from the instep of her right shoe. 
 
 The tension was relieved by Mr. Marshall giving 
 tongue. At the sight of Eric making for the last 
 jam-tart, he had swallowed a half-masticated mouthful 
 of cokernut-cake, some of which had, like the girl in 
 the play, taken the wrong turning. 
 
 So far he had stifled his agony; but it would not 
 be controlled, and he now burst out into a violent 
 fit of coughing, which brought tears to his eyes and 
 his daughter solicitously to his side. 
 
 Nature had given to Mr. Marshall the instincts of 
 the cormorant, without making the necessary physical 
 adjustments, with the result that he frequently choked. 
 
 The real diversion, however, was caused by Colonel 
 Enderby, whose face had turned an apoplectic purple. 
 He seemed engaged in an endeavour to emulate the 
 frog in ^sop. 
 
 "It's an outrage against decency!" he cried, his 
 moustache bristling like the quills of a porcupine, as 
 he glared about him savagely. 
 
 His explosion seemed to clear the air and loosen 
 tongues, coupled with the fact that Miss Mary had 
 freed her shoe of the clinging pineapple and that Mr. 
 Marshall had almost recovered, due to the promptness 
 ivith which his daughter administered all the milk avail- 
 able, upwards of a pint. She was a girl of quick 
 decision, and she knew that milk was rich in proteids. 
 
 "He thinks to avoid punishment by denying his iden- 
 tity," barked the Colonel, "the young scoundrel. In 
 my opinion he's insane."
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 115 
 
 u He thinks to pull wool over our eyes," cried Mrs. 
 Spelman, whose expressions were sometimes intensely 
 colloquial. 
 
 Colonel Enderby glared at her. She was stealing 
 his thunder. 
 
 "If I were to commit a crime," he said, still glaring 
 at Mrs. Spelman, "and go away, returning years later, 
 and saying that I was not Colonel Enderby, but had 
 lost my memory, would you believe me?" 
 
 A murmur passed round the room. Suddenly all 
 saw the depths of wickedness to which Alfred Warren 
 had sunk. 
 
 "But perhaps he really is Mr. Smith," ventured Miss 
 Mary, timidly. She had always a thought and a word 
 for the under-dog. 
 
 "Be quiet, Mary," said Miss Jell severely. "You 
 forget that Willis and Mrs. Higgs recognised him as 
 well as ourselves. I knew him at once," she added, 
 as if to leave no loophole for doubt. 
 
 This was bombshell number two. Their hostess 
 they always regarded Miss Jell as their hostess, had 
 actually seen and recognised the reprobate. Every- 
 body said something, and each seemed to hurl an ex- 
 cited question at Miss Jell. 
 
 "I don't believe it ! There are no Dromios in real 
 life," announced Mrs. Truspitt-Greene with decision. 
 She was proud of her knowledge of Shakespeare. 
 
 There was a sudden hush. No one knew what a 
 dromio actually was, or if it were respectable. 
 
 "Would the law exonerate me from responsibility?" 
 demanded Colonel Enderby, determined to recapture 
 the ball of conversation. "Would it, marm?" he de- 
 manded of Miss Jell. "No !" he barked, without wait-
 
 116 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 ing for a reply, and that bark caused Mr. Marshall 
 hurriedly to withdraw the hand he had extended to- 
 wards the last piece of currant cake. 
 
 Again there was a murmur of approval. Colonel 
 Enderby had once more become the centre of interest, 
 and for the next five minutes he held forth on the 
 iniquity of Alfred Warren in endeavouring to evade 
 responsibility for his past crimes and misdemeanours, 
 by announcing that he was not Alfred Warren, and 
 had lost his memory. 
 
 "I shall inform the police," he announced at length. 
 "I may even write to the Chief Commissioner at Scot- 
 land Yard." 
 
 Having beaten Mr. Marshall in a dash for the last 
 cheese-cake, which he demolished in two bites, Eric 
 Stannard threw himself into the fray. 
 
 "Jolly rotten, I call it," he said to no one in par- 
 ticular, "slicing up a fellow in his ab." 
 
 "You're too young to understand, Eric," said Mrs. 
 Pelham, a comfortable looking body in puce and myrtle 
 green. 
 
 "He's turned over a new leaf," was the uncompro- 
 mising retort. "Prods always do, that's why they're 
 prods." 
 
 "You mustn't talk about things you don't under- 
 stand, Eric," said Miss Jell firmly. 
 
 There came over young Stannard's generously 
 freckled face a look of obstinacy. 
 
 "Anyhow, it isn't fair to slice him up when he isn't 
 here, is it, Mrs. Crane?" he asked, turning to the doc- 
 tor's wife. 
 
 "Is it what, Eric?" she queried. Mrs. Crane was, 
 as Mrs. Truspitt-Greene put it, fat and stupid.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD SITS IN JUDGMENT 117 
 
 "Is it fair to cut out a fellow's giz when he isn't 
 here?" 
 
 "Really, Eric," protested Miss Jell, "you ought not 
 to use such expressions." 
 
 "Sorry, Miss Jell," he grinned, "but it slipped out. 
 Anyhow," he continued, turning to Mrs. Spelman, "I'm 
 going to back him up, and so will father. He's a dab 
 at backing also-rans." 
 
 As an historian and a Fellow of Kings, Miles Stan- 
 nard was noted for his uncompromising champion- 
 ship of the Monmouths and the Perkin Warbecks of 
 history. 
 
 "Well, I must buzz-off," said Eric, extending a du- 
 bious hand to Miss Jell. There was nothing now to 
 wait for, and he would still be in time for another tea 
 at The Grange. 
 
 Two minutes later he was making good progress in 
 the direction of home. The run upon the Miss Jells' 
 refreshments, that afternoon, had been in excess of the 
 supply, owing to the unprecedented number of callers 
 and, in consequence, Eric and Mr. Marshall had suf- 
 fered. 
 
 For the next two hours social Little Bilstead dis- 
 cussed the return of Alfred Warren and what it might 
 mean to them and the neighbourhood. All were agreed 
 that it would be impossible to receive him; yet there 
 was not one there who did not yearn to meet him.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 
 
 "T SAY, are you the prod?" 
 
 Smith started, nearly overbalancing himself 
 from the top of the gate, where for the last 
 hour or more he had been smoking and meditating 
 upon the photographs he had just seen in Mrs. Higgs's 
 album. Gazing up at him stood a red-headed boy of 
 about fourteen, his freckled features screwed up, either 
 in interrogation or because the sun was in his eyes, 
 Smith could not determine which. 
 
 "I say, are you the prod?" he repeated. 
 
 "The what?" queried Smith, recovering from his 
 surprise. 
 
 "The prodigal, you know." 
 
 "I was afraid some vagrant husk would betray me," 
 Jie smiled, as he proceeded to dig in the bowl of his pipe. 
 
 The boy stared, then he grinned. 
 
 "It must be rare sport being a prod," he remarked, 
 as he proceeded to subject Smith to a thorough and un- 
 embarrassed scrutiny, "although I suppose it's fairly 
 rotten hanging about waiting for the what-you-call-it 
 moment." 
 
 "It was, as you say, unspeakably rotten," Smith 
 assured him gravely. 
 
 Again the boy regarded him with a puzzled expres- 
 sion. 
 
 118
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 
 
 "I say, I hope I don't seem impert," he said at 
 length. 
 
 "Not at all. If you don't see what you require in 
 the window, step inside." 
 
 "You pulling my tib, what!" 
 
 "Nothing was further from my thoughts," Smith 
 assured him, "even if I knew just where your tib 
 lurks." 
 
 "They've been holding an inquest on you at the 
 Jelleries," the boy volunteered after a pause, during 
 which he seemed to be engaged in a fruitless endeavour 
 to get at Smith's meaning. "That old ass End, Colonel 
 Enderby, you know, talked 'pie' like a pussyfoot. Gave 
 me a pain in my giz. I stuck up for you though, and 
 then the temp got a bit low, so I slithered." 
 
 "And why," enquired Smith, as he gazed down at 
 his self-constituted defender, "why did you champion 
 the monosyllabic prod?" 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "Well, the prod without the qualification," sug- 
 gested Smith. 
 
 "I say, you're a bit whonky, aren't you?" He re- 
 garded Smith with a puzzled expression that relieved 
 his remark of any suggestion of impertinence. "That 
 was what all the row was about this afternoon with 
 old End. He said you went away funny in your habits 
 and came back ditto in your brain. You get me?" 
 
 "Generally by playing back," said Smith with a smile. 
 "There's an awkward spin about your conversation." 
 
 "I didn't know you played cricket," he cried, his eyes 
 brightening, and the puzzled frown vanishing from his 
 forehead. "My name's Stannard," he added inconse- 
 quently. "You know my sister, Marjorie."
 
 120 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Smith folded up his tobacco-pouch and returned it to 
 his pocket. The information that this rather startling 
 youth, with the flaming hair and archipelago of 
 freckles, was Marjorie's brother, seemed to affect the 
 situation. 
 
 "I've come to stay with Marjie," he added. "You'd 
 just gone out when I arrived." 
 
 "The loss was obviously mine," said Smith gravely. 
 
 "I say, you're a bit rummy about the top, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "I'm beginning seriously to suspect it," was the reply 
 as he struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe. 
 The boy continued to regard him, his face once more 
 screwed up interrogatingly. 
 
 "Bit of a rabbit, aren't you?" he enquired, regard- 
 ing Smith quizzically. 
 
 "We can't all be Gunns." 
 
 "I say, that's jolly good, you know. I'll tell Marjie. 
 She likes things like that. You'll play for us against 
 the Upper Saxton blighters?" 
 
 "Willingly." 
 
 "We shall get licked again," he said with conviction. 
 "We always do get licked. We lack guts, you see, and 
 it's rotten." 
 
 "It must be inconvenient," agreed Smith, "almost 
 Promethean." 
 
 "I wonder how you'll get on with Marsh," he con- 
 tinued, regarding Smith with his head slightly on one 
 side, as if the answer were written somewhere upon his 
 person. "He got me first ball last year," and he went 
 on to explain that Marsh was the demon bowler of the 
 enemy combination. 
 
 There was a short silence, during which Smith
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 121 
 
 smoked meditatively, whilst young Stannard continued 
 to eye him with the unembarrassed stare of youth. 
 
 "I say," he said at last. "If I tell you my other 
 name, you won't rot me?" 
 
 "I should scorn to take so unfair an advantage," 
 Smith assured him. 
 
 "Honest Inj?" 
 
 "Honest Inj," smiled Smith. He was getting to like 
 this frank and inconsequent youngster. 
 
 "Well, it's Eric," said the boy, and he stood as if 
 expecting some manifestation of surprise or disap- 
 proval. 
 
 "Eric!" repeated Smith. "It seems quite a nice 
 name, economical in syllables. You don't require a 
 Pelman course to remember it." 
 
 "I see you don't know," he said with a sigh, "or else 
 you've forgotten. Years ago some old blighter wrote 
 a book called Eric, or Little by Little, and every one 
 calls me 'Little by Little.' " 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "It's rotten." 
 
 "And a sheer waste of three syllables," agreed Smith. 
 "By the way, you haven't told me why you championed 
 me at the " He paused. 
 
 "The Jelleries," said Eric. "The Miss Jells, you 
 know. Tame cats, stiff as muslin, and all that silly 
 rot; but quite dece." 
 
 "I see," was the dry retort; "but why the champion- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I don't know," he cried, shaking his head. "That's 
 just like me. I suppose I get it from the pater. We're 
 always on the other side." 
 
 "The shady side?" suggested Smith.
 
 122 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I hate to hear a chap sliced-up when, when oh! 
 you know," he said, missing the allusion. 
 
 Smith nodded. 
 
 "Of course," he continued, "I know you've got into 
 somebody's oesoph " 
 
 "Into somebody's what?" 
 
 "Sorry, oesophagus," he grinned. "Rotten habit I've 
 got into. Marjie hates it; but I stuck up for you, and 
 now I know you, I don't care. If we beat those Upper 
 Saxton blighters, I shan't care a damn." 
 
 "I observe the distinction," said Smith, knocking his 
 pipe against the heel of his boot. 
 
 "If you knock up a few runs, you know," continued 
 Eric, "especially off Marsh, you'll have every fellow 
 in the place on your side. The vicar's a rare old sport. 
 He played for Oxford donkeys years ago." 
 
 "But how about the Miss Jells?" 
 
 "The Jells. Oh ! they're all right, frightfully respec 
 and all that sort of tosh; but you just keep it up." 
 
 "I most undoubtedly will," said Smith. "By the 
 way, what is it I'm supposed to be keeping up?" 
 
 "The wang, of course." 
 
 "Excellent, my dear Watson," murmured Smith. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "I'm sorry. For the moment I thought I was a great 
 investigator endeavouring to arrive at your meaning 
 via 'the wang.' ' 
 
 "I get you," laughed Eric, displaying a strong but 
 uneven set of teeth set in pale gums. "The wangle, 
 you know, just keep it up." 
 
 "That, I take it, is your considered advice." 
 
 Eric agreed with a grin. 
 
 "You'll find Marjie a regular old water-jump," he
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 123 
 
 added confidentially. "I plumped right in the mid in 
 the paper chase," he added inconsequently. 
 
 "I thought there was something unusual about her." 
 
 "She's a ripper; but she's a bit, a bit " He hesi- 
 tated. "Anyhow, I'll do what I can to break her prej," 
 he added. 
 
 "I shall take it as a favour if you will," said Smith 
 gravely. 
 
 During the next quarter-of-an-hour, Eric Stannard 
 told Smith much about Little Bilstead and its inhabi- 
 tants, and not a little about his sister, who, in his 
 phraseology, was "absolutely tophole." 
 
 "Now I'm afraid I must slith," said Smith, when 
 the stream of Eric's information showed signs of dry- 
 ing up. 
 
 "What's that?" he queried with puzzled eyes. 
 
 "I gathered that was the local contraction for tak- 
 ing one's departure." 
 
 "I say, I'm glad you came," cried Eric heartily, as 
 he extended a big, grubby hand, "and that you're going 
 to play. Where do you go in?" 
 
 "Mostly in the soup these days," replied Smith, 
 whereat Stannard developed a veritable Roosevelt 
 smile. 
 
 A moment later, Smith was swinging along the road 
 in the direction of the vicarage, whilst Eric watched 
 him from the middle of the road until he was out of 
 sight, and then reluctantly turned and made his way 
 towards The Grange. 
 
 II 
 
 "I've seen the prod, Marjie." 
 
 "I didn't hear you knock, Eric," said Marjorie, as
 
 124 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 she turned from her dressing-table, at the corners of 
 her mouth the faint smile with which she always greeted 
 her brother. 
 
 "Rats!" 
 
 u Rats agreed; still" 
 
 "More rats. I've seen the prod, and he's going to 
 help us whack those Upper Saxton blighters." 
 
 "About that knock I didn't hear, Eric," she persisted. 
 
 "Don't be an ass, Marjie," he cried, as he threw him- 
 self full length upon the bed. "I'm tired." 
 
 Marjorie advanced upon him with a hatpin. 
 
 Rolling across the bed, he slipped off the other side. 
 Marjorie replaced the hatpin upon the dressing-table, 
 determining in future to lock her door against the in- 
 cursions of this young Visigoth. 
 
 "I like the prod," he volunteered. 
 
 "What makes you think that Mr. Warren will help 
 us to win?" she enquired, dropping into a chair, and 
 keeping a wary eye on her brother, in case of further 
 manifestations of robustiousness. 
 
 "He said he would play, I mean. I believe he can, 
 too," he added with conviction. 
 
 "Did he tell you that he was a good player?" 
 
 "Oh! don't talk rot, Marjie. Fellows don't say 
 things like that to each other." 
 
 "Then how?" 
 
 "It was what he said about what I said to him that 
 made me " He paused, as if conscious of the crude- 
 ness of his construction. 
 
 "I see," she said drily. 
 
 A moment later, a red head seemed to hurl itself 
 violently towards her, the wicker-chair in which she 
 sat was thrown over backwards, and a wild melee en-
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 125 
 
 sued, in which there were occasional glimpses of a pair 
 of shapely silk-stockinged legs, a red head, and a 
 freckled face. 
 
 Presently the silk-stockinged legs were firmly planted 
 upon the chest belonging to the freckled face. 
 
 "Now, Eric," cried Marjorie, flushed and panting. 
 "I want to talk to you." 
 
 "Well, get off my stomach then," he cried indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "I'm kneeling on your chest." 
 
 "My chest's not down there, it's up here." 
 
 "Our views on anatomy differ, Eric. I am not go- 
 ing to get up until you promise to remember that I am 
 grown-up, and you must not " She paused, at a loss 
 exactly how to describe the assault. 
 
 "All right, Marjie. Get off my " 
 
 "Chest," she interrupted. 
 
 "Well, chest then." 
 
 "You promise." 
 
 "Honest Inj." 
 
 Marjorie rose to her feet and, going over to the 
 looking-glass, proceeded to tuck her disordered hair 
 into some semblance of tidiness. 
 
 "Now sit down," she said at length, as she turned 
 from the mirror. "I want to talk to you." 
 
 Eric edged towards the door. There was that about 
 his sister's tone that warned him to be ready for flight. 
 His life seemed to be one. long endeavour to avoid 
 people who wanted to talk to him. Such misguided 
 efforts always crystallised into the same things, warn- 
 ing, advice, or condemnation, mostly all three together. 
 
 "Eric," she continued. "I don't want you to see 
 much of Mr. Warren while you're staying here."
 
 126 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Why?" he challenged. 
 
 She hesitated a moment before replying. 
 
 "Because well, because I don't." 
 
 "But why?" he persisted. "He's frightfully dece." 
 
 "Eric, dear, please be good and do as I ask," she 
 pleaded. "I can't explain; but Mr. Warren has has 
 done things that " 
 
 "You don't like, I suppose," he concluded scornfully. 
 "That's like a girl. They're always prej. Look at 
 them this afternoon at the Jelleries. They sliced him 
 up into frags. Old End was like our Head when we 
 lost the footer-cup." 
 
 Marjorie looked startled. She was uncertain how 
 much Eric understood of what he may have heard at 
 The Cedars. She regarded him speculatively. The 
 situation was fraught with difficulties. 
 
 "Very well, Eric," she said at length, with an air 
 of reluctant decision. "I shall have to speak to father." 
 
 "You daren't," he grinned. 
 
 "Why daren't I ?" she challenged weakly. 
 
 "Because I should never speak to you again, and 
 besides," he added, "you couldn't sneak." 
 
 For a moment she stood regarding him, a faint smile 
 curving her lips. She and Eric had always been great 
 friends. 
 
 "Even if you did," he continued, "it wouldn't make 
 any diff. Father's as keen on prods as I am on getting 
 into the second eleven next term. He's always on the 
 side of the under dog." 
 
 Marjorie knew it, and a soft look came into her eyes. 
 Ever since she was quite a tiny girl she had "mothered" 
 the gentle-natured father, who, since the death of his
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 127 
 
 wife, had lived the life of a recluse, happy only when 
 surrounded by his books. 
 
 "That's why they booted him off the bench," con- 
 tinued Eric. 
 
 Marjorie smiled at the recollection of what had 
 ensued as a result of Miles Stannard being made a 
 justice of the peace. His conviction that crime was a 
 subject for therapeutical treatment had at first be- 
 wildered his colleagues, subsequently it angered them, 
 particularly in cases of poaching. At length they had 
 made it clear that they could not continue to sit on the 
 same bench with a man who held such fantastical ideas 
 upon crime and punishment. 
 
 "Won't you do it to please me?" she pleaded. 
 
 "Do what?" he demanded. 
 
 "See as little as possible of Mr. Warren." 
 
 "He's Lady Warren's son," parried Eric, an ob- 
 stinate look in his eyes. "He's quite respec." 
 
 With a sigh Marjorie picked up a book and dropped 
 into a chair by the window, and Eric, taking it as a sign 
 of dismissal, walked towards the door. 
 
 "Wait until he's helped us to whack Upper Saxton," 
 he threw over his shoulder as he went out, "then you'll 
 want to lick his boots," and with that he was gone. 
 
 Marjorie dropped the book upon her lap. If Alfred 
 Warren really did bring about the defeat of the rival 
 village, upon which she was as keen as the vicar him- 
 self, it would certainly complicate matters. She had 
 always heard that the heir to The Grange hated all 
 forms of sport that did not involve the carrying of a 
 gun, and that he had only played in the cricket-match 
 because pressure was brought to bear upon him.
 
 128 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 As she sat gazing out of the window, her thoughts 
 drifted back to the days when, as a schoolgirl, her entry 
 into a Little Bilstead drawing-room had so often been 
 followed by a sudden hush. In time she had come to 
 realise the significance of such episodes they meant 
 that Alfred Warren was the subject of conversation. 
 
 The servants, however, had been less discreet, and 
 she had heard many stories of his excesses. Some she 
 failed to understand, others had made her feel afraid. 
 In time the name of Alfred Warren had become associ- 
 ated in her mind with wrong, and she had instinctively 
 avoided him. 
 
 When by chance he had come into a room where she 
 was with Lady Warren, he would sometimes give her a 
 little nod and smile of recognition. At other times he 
 would ignore her altogether, as if she were a stranger. 
 To him she was obviously nothing more than a child. 
 
 She recalled how puzzled she had been that Lady 
 Warren, Willis, Mrs. Higgs and the other servants 
 could make such a fuss of any one who had been so 
 wicked. 
 
 Once she had seen him staggering through the vil- 
 lage singing to himself. It was her first experience of 
 intoxication. She remembered how she had run all the 
 way back to The Grange, where she had locked herself 
 in her room and refused to go down to dinner. 
 
 Now Alfred Warren had returned; but try as she 
 might, the old sensations refused to be aroused. Why 
 was it? Why had the old fear of him vanished? Had 
 she become more tolerant? No, it could not be that; 
 for she had on more than one occasion deliberately set 
 to work to recall the things she had heard about him, 
 and they awakened in her now an even greater dislike
 
 ERIC STANNARD PROMISES SUPPORT 129 
 
 than when she had first heard them she understood 
 better. 
 
 Then Eric liked him, and Eric was a creature of in- 
 stinct. Could he like a really bad man? Would Nero 
 like him too? She had never known Nero like any 
 one whom she disliked. Hitherto she had thought that 
 badness always left its mark; yet she had sat at 
 luncheon with him and no, she certainly had not 
 minded. The meal had seemed very short. 
 
 Could she have sat alone at the same table with him 
 before he she shuddered. 
 
 What had changed things? 
 
 Why was it then that his presence no longer seemed 
 to inspire her with dislike? Why did she have to keep 
 reminding herself of what he had done? Why was 
 she? 
 
 With a swift movement she picked up the book that 
 lay neglected upon her lap and, opening it at random, 
 proceeded to read. 
 
 She would not think of Alfred Warren.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 
 
 A he dressed for dinner that evening, Smith 
 realised the absurdity of the doctrine of free 
 will. Here was he, as free a subject as ever 
 raised his glass to the toast of "The King, God bless 
 him!" continuing in a false position, deliberately aiding 
 and abetting well, perhaps not a fraud, but at least 
 a misunderstanding. 
 
 What would his uncle say? What would his Aunt 
 Charlotte not say, and it was always the things that 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey refrained from saying that con- 
 stituted her a power in the family councils. Above all, 
 what would Peters "look" (and Peters' "look" had 
 been known to pierce the epidermis of a profiteer) if 
 they could see the heir to the Hildreth baronetcy and 
 estates deliberately taking advantage of his likeness 
 to another man. 
 
 Why was he doing it? 
 
 "Confound the stud!" 
 
 For the next minute his whole attention was occupied 
 in retrieving the collar-stud that had disappeared some- 
 where inside his shirt. Having dug it out, he picked 
 up the thread of his previous preoccupation. 
 
 Why was he staying on? He could hire a car to 
 take him to Norwich, and so reach Cromer, the destina- 
 tion he had planned. No! he preferred to remain on 
 and reap the whirlwind of another man's sowing. 
 
 Why? 
 
 130
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 131 
 
 Across his mind's eye there flashed the memory of 
 a suddenly illuminated window, at which stood a girl 
 in a green frock, looking out into the rain-drenched 
 night, apparently at him. 
 
 With an impatient tug he adjusted his black tie to 
 the correct angle, and proceeded to thrust an arm into 
 his waistcoat, his thoughts switching on to the scene 
 at The Grange an hour before when he had announced 
 his impending departure. 
 
 The wails of Mrs. Higgs, the scarcely restrained 
 tears of Willis, the grin of young Nudd in the back- 
 ground; all had conspired to make his departure almost 
 as dramatic as his arrival. The two old servants had 
 pleaded and protested, Mrs. Higgs in particular, 
 against his going to the vicarage. What would her 
 Ladyship do? What would the county think? What 
 would the villagers say? had been the burden of their 
 exhortation. 
 
 At one period it had seemed that nothing short of 
 physical force would detach the tearful and loudly pro- 
 testing Mrs. Higgs from his coat-sleeve; but a miracle 
 had happened in the sudden appearance of Marjorie. 
 
 In a few words, accompanied by a little smile, which 
 both Willis and Mrs Higgs had taken as a purely per- 
 sonal affair, she had soothed the one, and detached the 
 other from his coat-sleeve, and he had been permitted 
 to leave, accompanied by young Nudd carrying his bag. 
 
 The sound of the dinner-gong brought Smith back 
 with a jerk to the present. Hastily slipping into his 
 dinner-jacket, he made his way downstairs, to find 
 Miss Lipscombe waiting for him in the hall. 
 
 "I thought you might lose yourself in this ram- 
 shackle old place," she explained, as she led the way
 
 132 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 to the dining-room. "We are six hundred years old," 
 she added. 
 
 During the meal that followed, Smith discovered 
 that, conversationally, the vicar scarcely existed. A 
 direct remark would bring him from the world of his 
 own thoughts with a sudden start; but he slipped back 
 again as soon as the attention of the others was di- 
 verted. 
 
 Several times during the evening, Smith found him- 
 self speculating as to what it was that monopolised the 
 vicar's thoughts, and it was not until Miss Lipscombe 
 explained that he was "a minister of the gospel pre- 
 occupied with paganism" that he realised the true sig- 
 nificance of the momentary look of bewilderment that 
 came into the old man's eyes when he was directly ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 Smith longed to enquire of Miss Lipscombe what it 
 actually was that had caused Alfred Warren's sudden 
 disappearance from Little Bilstead; but the question 
 was one that seemed incapable of framing itself. After 
 all, it was Warren's secret, and there was something 
 almost indecent in probing into the unsavoury past of 
 another man. 
 
 As she talked, Smith was conscious that Miss Lip- 
 scombe was studying him, weighing him up, it seemed. 
 Her grave grey eyes appeared to be searching him 
 through and through. Her conversation dealt for the 
 most part with generalities and the news of the day. 
 When she had occasion to refer to the parish, or to 
 any one living in the neighbourhood, it was in an en- 
 tirely impersonal manner, just as if she were addressing 
 one who was an entire stranger to the neighbourhood. 
 
 After the meal, the vicar retired to his study, there
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 133 
 
 to lave himself in the classics he so loved, whilst Smith 
 accompanied Miss Lipscombe to the drawing-room. 
 
 At first he thought she would select this as the 
 occasion of a more intimate talk; but no she main- 
 tained the same impersonal plane of small talk as at 
 dinner. 
 
 He learned much about Little Bilstead. There was 
 a dryness about Miss Lipscombe's descriptions that 
 suggested both humour and humanity lurking behind 
 her words. Among other things, he learned that the 
 forthcoming cricket-match was the al fresco event of 
 the year. As far as he could gather, it was to Little 
 Bilstead something between a Football Cup Final and 
 Oxford and Cambridge at Lord's it appealed alike 
 to the proletariat and the patrician. 
 
 He discovered that he was expected to play, as it 
 seemed to have become a time-honoured custom that 
 Alfred Warren should form part of the Little Bilstead 
 "tail," which according to Miss Lipscombe existed 
 primarily for the improvement of the bowling-aver- 
 ages of the enemy. 
 
 He gathered that Alfred Warren had disliked field 
 sports, although he was a tolerable shot, and hunted 
 in spasmodic fashion. His playing in the cricket-match 
 was his sop to the Cerberus of public opinion. 
 
 He learned a great deal about the social life of Little 
 Bilstead, more from Miss Lipscombe's expression and 
 the inflection of her voice than from her actual words. 
 Miss Jell was a prig, he decided, whereas Miss Mary 
 was sweet and lovable, and very popular in the village. 
 Dr. Crane was a "married bachelor," it was her way 
 of conveying his intense selfishness, and Mrs. Crane 
 was a door-mat.
 
 134 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Of Marjorie, Miss Lipscombe said little; but that 
 little suggested to his eager ears that she was the most 
 popular being in the parish. Her brother was "a young 
 scapegrace," Smith was assured, but there was a flicker 
 about the corners of Miss Lipscombe's mouth when 
 she gave the assurance, which convinced him that in 
 the abundance of her charity there was a special place 
 for scapegraces, and possibly even a little affection. 
 
 The vicar was of the world unworldly. The only 
 thing that ever brought him from "the back blocks 
 of Atticism" was cricket. The annual encounter be- 
 tween Little Bilstead and Upper Saxton always excited 
 him to such a degree that Miss Lipscombe had to insist 
 that the sermons for the Sunday to follow should be 
 written before the event, no matter on what day the 
 match were played. If they were left until after, they 
 would either be forgotten altogether, or would so 
 smack of cricket as to become a direct invitation for a 
 rebuke from the bishop. 
 
 "He would rather meet a sinner with a century to 
 his name than a saint who had failed to score," was 
 Miss Lipscombe's definition of her brother's charac- 
 ter; but it was given in such a tone that conveyed to 
 Smith the conviction that she was not so very far from 
 sharing his view. 
 
 There were many stories in Little Bilstead of the 
 vicar's absent-mindedness. 
 
 On one occasion at a christening, he had turned from 
 the font, the baby still in his arms, and walked slowly 
 towards the vestry, forgetful that the infant had to be 
 returned to its parent. 
 
 On the night of the Armistice, he had gone down 
 to the village, where he had drunk a cup of cider out-
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 135 
 
 side The Pigeons. Then, inspired by the excitement of 
 the moment, he had offered up a prayer, not, as he had 
 intended, for the guidance of those at the national 
 helm; but for rain! 
 
 In the middle of the night he had realised his lapse, 
 and had sought counsel with his sister. She had 
 promptly ordered him back to bed, at the same time 
 easing his conscience by telling him that, in any case, 
 rain was badly needed. 
 
 In speaking of her brother, Smith noticed that Miss 
 Lipscombe's whole manner underwent a change. The 
 tendency of her features towards severity of expression 
 vanished, the humorous lines at the corners of her 
 mouth sprang into prominence, and her voice softened 
 to the tone of a mother speaking of a much-loved child. 
 
 Marjorie, he gathered, spent much of her time at 
 The Grange. She had always been a great favourite 
 with Lady Warren; and during the last few years had 
 been almost a daughter to her. It was only the claims 
 of her own father and brother that had prevented her 
 from accompanying Lady Warren upon her voyage to 
 South Africa. 
 
 She was a fine horsewoman, and invariably rode 
 cross-country. Her horse, Nero, had been a present 
 from Lady Warren, and he was permanently stabled at 
 The Grange. 
 
 "He is utterly spoiled," was Miss Lipscombe's 
 verdict upon Nero, "and I wonder he doesn't get 
 diabetes from the amount of sugar he eats," she added; 
 but again there was nothing but good-natured tolerance 
 in her voice. Smith shrewdly suspected that Miss Lip- 
 scombe was among those who pandered to Nero's 
 weakness.
 
 136 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Presently they touched upon the cause of his being 
 there. 
 
 "Have you gone over to the enemy?" he queried, a 
 smile disguising his anxiety. 
 
 She shook her head with the air of one who is un- 
 certain. 
 
 "You are very much like him; but still there is some- 
 thing different," she said, still regarding Smith at- 
 tentively. 
 
 "From what I have heard, I should hope there is a 
 great deal that is different," he said drily, "although 
 it may smack of the pharisee," he added. 
 
 "But is it possible for two men to be so much alike 
 as " She paused. 
 
 "You remember Adolf Beck," said Smith. "He was 
 twice convicted of another man's crime, and that man 
 a criminal whose every physical peculiarity was chroni- 
 cled at Scotland Yard under the Bertillon System. 
 There have been other cases just as remarkable," he 
 added. 
 
 She nodded absently, as if pondering something that 
 puzzled her. 
 
 "Well," she said at length. "I suppose those who 
 live longest will see most, as my old grandmother used 
 to say. In the meantime, it's ten o'clock, and we are 
 early-to-bed folk." Again there was that fluttering at 
 the corners of her mouth that did duty for a smile. 
 
 With a feeling of disappointment he was unable to 
 account for, Smith rose and followed her into the hall. 
 
 "Even if we agree that you are not Alfred Warren," 
 she said as she struck a match and proceeded to light 
 the candles on the hall-table, "there remains another 
 problem to be solved."
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 137 
 
 "Another!" he cried, startled in spite of himself. 
 "Surely this is enough to be going on with?" he added, 
 with a whimsical smile. 
 
 "If you are not Alfred Warren," she continued 
 gravely, looking up and fixing him with her keen grey 
 eyes, "what sort of a man is James Smith?" 
 
 He had felt all along that she did not regard him as 
 Alfred Warren; but her disconcerting question merely 
 shifted the centre of responsibility. It was no longer 
 a question of proving to her that he was not Alfred 
 Warren; but of justifying James Smith, and of the two 
 the newer problem seemed the more difficult. 
 
 "In any case you can't do any harm to Alfred War- 
 ren's memory," she remarked drily, as she handed him 
 his candlestick. "In all probability you will sweeten 
 it," and with that she turned and preceded him up- 
 stairs. 
 
 "Good night!" she said, at the top of the stairs, as 
 she extended her hand. "You'll find me a blunt old 
 woman, who speaks her thoughts," she added. This 
 time there was no doubt about the fluttering at the cor- 
 ners of her mouth. 
 
 That night as he sat smoking at his bedroom-win- 
 dow, Smith found his thoughts revolving round Miss 
 Lipscombe's remark about sweetening the memory of 
 the absent Alfred Warren. 
 
 What if he had done his bit? Hundreds of failures 
 had made good "out there." Strange stories had been 
 told in the trenches. He recalled that of a man in his 
 own company, who had been shot whilst bringing in a 
 wounded comrade from "no man's land." As he lay 
 dying, he had confessed to the padre to having mur- 
 dered a girl. He had done it in a fit of mad jealousy;
 
 138 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 yet no one had shrunk from him, least of all the padre. 
 On the contrary he had comforted the poor fellow 
 with the assurance that he had expiated his crime by 
 giving up his own life for another. 
 
 In any case there could be no harm done to Alfred 
 Warren if he stayed on, at least for a time. It might 
 "sweeten his memory," as Miss Lipscombe had sug- 
 gested. Was the remark intended as a hint? 
 
 What would be Marjorie's view? he wondered. 
 Would she be sympathetic, or just coldly indifferent? 
 Somehow or other her scarcely veiled antagonism had 
 set him thinking. What had he done outside his war 
 service? There had been precious little that would 
 come under the heading of usefulness. 
 
 The world was not exactly the better for a century 
 made at Lord's, or a winning try scored just on time 
 at Queen's Club; nor did the fact of being a good shot 
 with a gun, the wrong sort of gun, make for the better- 
 ment of mankind. 
 
 St. George had not slain the dragon with a double- 
 barrelled ejector sporting-rifle, with luncheon and the 
 ladies at one-thirty and dinner at eight; Washington 
 had not freed America in football boots; Garibaldi 
 would most likely have proved the veriest rabbit in the 
 cricket-field; whilst Cromwell, in all probability, could 
 no more cast a fly than stroke an eight. 
 
 Why had he never thought of all this before? Why 
 had he just accepted things, just as his uncle had ac- 
 cepted Peters' shaven upper lip, and flown into a passion 
 when it vanished beneath a cascade of auburn hair? 
 
 It was all very puzzling. War was certainly the very 
 devil for shifting values and destroying age-old ideals.
 
 MISS LIPSCOMBE DECIDES ON NEUTRALITY 139 
 
 The world seemed to him to have become one almighty 
 Why? 
 
 It was so easy for the King Alfreds, the Joan of 
 Arcs and the Luthers of the world. Their destinies 
 seemed obvious and pre-ordained; but for the rest, 
 well, it was a bit difficult. 
 
 Stevenson had said that life might be interpreted 
 as having a good time and enriching the world with a 
 few good things. It was not a bad philosophy; better 
 than hunting for motes in another fellow's eye. There 
 was the vicar, for instance. He would sweeten the 
 memory of the devil himself and, what was more, he 
 appeared to do it without effort. 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock when he finally decided 
 to lay the problems and his head upon the white pillow 
 that looked so inviting; still, it really was the very 
 devil.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 
 
 IN Little Bilstead, life passed decorously from sun- 
 rise to sundown and from sundown to sunrise. 
 Few events disturbed the studied calm of its atmos- 
 phere. A new hat or an indiscretion on the part of 
 a domestic were equally topics of absorbing interest. 
 Nothing ever happened, that is nothing had happened 
 for the last seven years. 
 
 Sometimes, Miss Small, who eked out an insignifi- 
 cant pension by doing dressmaking, would sigh for the 
 days when the village had seethed with scandal. It 
 lent an added spice to existence. The morning knew 
 not what the evening would bring forth. 
 
 During the next forty-eight hours Smith learned 
 something of the dramatic excitements with which life 
 in Little Bilstead had been fraught some six years pre- 
 viously. The village then had seethed with scandal, 
 and the people went about on the tiptoe of excitement. 
 
 John Postle, the village constable, would rub the 
 right-hand side of his chin with his thumb and say, 
 "Well, bor, what d'you think on it?" and there would 
 be a shaking of heads and probably an "I'll be danged" 
 or two from his hearers. 
 
 In the sanded bar of The Pigeons, there had been 
 great discussions, and the wildness of the rumours that 
 were retailed would have appalled any but the most 
 
 140
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 141 
 
 omnivorous scandal-monger. At the conclusion of 
 some particularly piquant narration, there would be a 
 shuffling of feet, a general murmuring of voices and a 
 draining of earthenware mugs. 
 
 It appeared that Alfred Warren had been, not only 
 of a convivial turn of mind, but intensely gregarious. 
 He had attracted to himself some strange companions, 
 including most of the undesirables, male and female, 
 for miles around. No one had ever quite known when 
 some influx of disreputables would turn Little Bilstead 
 topsy-turvy, cause the villagers to lock their doors at 
 night, and sometimes even pile furniture against them. 
 
 At first The Pigeons had been used as a sort of 
 headquarters by the revellers ; but a little straight talk- 
 ing from the chairman at the licensing sessions had 
 caused Host Nudd some anxiety as to the renewal of 
 his license, and his caution had grievously constricted 
 the flow of liquor. After that Tom Simmons had be- 
 come the source from which supplies were obtained, 
 and many a case had been delivered at his cottage by 
 the local carrier, accompanied by a knowing wink. 
 This accounted for his reference to the whisky. 
 
 In those days Simmons was rarely, if ever, quite 
 sober; but he was too cunning to neglect his work upon 
 the roads that would have meant disaster; besides, 
 he had a head like a hunting-squire. 
 
 The telling of the escapades of Alfred Warren 
 seemed to have lost nothing with the passage of years. 
 Many of the stories about him were clearly apocryphal; 
 but even allowing a wide margin for imagination, there 
 was enough left over to establish the fact that, what- 
 ever life in Little Bilstead had been during the resi- 
 dence of Alfred Warren, it had not lacked incident.
 
 142 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 There were stories of strange midnight orgies, sug- 
 gestive of chapters from the lives of film stars in Los 
 Angeles, and there were pranks and "rags," such as 
 the screwing-up of the village constable's doors and 
 windows, followed by an avalanche of lighted crackers 
 down his chimney; or the serenading of the Miss Jells 
 with instruments composed of household utensils and 
 motor hooters, which had lasted the greater part of 
 one summer night, to the accompaniment of much 
 raucous song. 
 
 Colonel Enderby's open antagonism Smith traced to 
 an episode of a few months before Alfred Warren had 
 disappeared from Little Bilstead. The gallant colonel 
 lived alone, a woman from the village "doing" for him 
 during the day. One morning he had discovered a 
 clothes-line stretched across his front garden, in full 
 view of the main road, from which dainty and intimate 
 feminine garments sported in the breeze. 
 
 As Colonel Enderby was a late riser, the whole of 
 Little Bilstead made the discovery before he had even 
 awakened. Furthermore, he had been forced to re- 
 move the offending garments himself, which he did by 
 cutting down the line, Mrs. Warnes not being at her 
 post at the customary hour. 
 
 As a matter of fact, she had been, seen, and retired, 
 horrified at the spectacle presented by the colonel's 
 front garden. Mrs. Warnes was a woman who hung 
 her marriage lines in a black Oxford frame over the 
 parlour mantelpiece. 
 
 On another occasion, Alfred Warren, and half a 
 dozen of his companions, had doped Tom Bassing- 
 thwaighte, the postman, as he was starting out upon 
 his morning round. Then they had proceeded to steam
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 143 
 
 open the letters and insert picture post-cards of a char- 
 acter never permitted to circulate in this country. 
 
 It had taken Little Bilstead months to recover from 
 this outrage, and only lack of definite proof had saved 
 the perpetrators from prosecution. 
 
 Beneath all these stories, there was an undercurrent 
 of suggestive rumour, which never found expression in 
 actual words. It was this which convinced Smith that 
 Alfred Warren was what the village of Little Bilstead 
 said he was, "a rare wrong un." 
 
 But all that was long ago, and for the past seven 
 years Little Bilstead had made its own drama, just as, 
 for the most part, it made its own clothes. Realisa- 
 tion of its loss had come slowly to Little Bilstead. The 
 sight of Bob Thirkettle glooming along the highways, 
 a gun under his arm and a scowl on his lowering brow, 
 had contained a suggestion that at any time Drama 
 might return, arm-in-arm with Tragedy. 
 
 That was a time when Little Bilstead scarcely dared 
 to breathe. 
 
 Then there had come the time when Bob Thirkettle 
 had left his gun at home, and the village had sighed 
 its resignation and possibly its regrets; for even an 
 English village has its proper pride, and appreciates 
 to the full the distinction of being referred to in the 
 London papers as the centre of a great crime. 
 
 Now the black sheep was back again, and the old 
 times would return. There would be no lack of excite- 
 ment, Little Bilstead decided, as soon as things got 
 going. It wanted only Bob Thirkettle and then 
 
 In the meantime the black sheep was idling away 
 the summer hours. It was all very comfortable, and 
 he was quite content; but for the fact of Marjorie's
 
 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 frank avoidance of him. However, there was no oint- 
 ment without its accompanying fly perhaps that was 
 where flies went in the how absurd! 
 
 He realised that the vicar was striving to carry out 
 his sister's orders, and discharge fittingly his duties as 
 host. He would propose some undertaking, such as a 
 visit to the church, or the exploration of the vegetable- 
 garden and, as a preparation, go in search of his pipe. 
 That was the last Smith would see of him until he was 
 routed out from his study for the next meal. 
 
 Still, life at the vicarage was very pleasant, and 
 Janet generally had some piquant item of gossip to re- 
 tail when he grew drowsy with the drone of the bees, 
 or the cooing of the doves. 
 
 In all probability it was only a lull before the storm, 
 he told himself. 
 
 II 
 
 Whilst Little Bilstead was busy speculating as to the 
 nature of the entertainment that the cricket-match was 
 likely to produce, Smith was busy considering the im- 
 portant question of suitable clothing in which to appear 
 as one of the protagonists. 
 
 An appeal to Willis, followed by a thorough and 
 systematic examination of Alfred Warren's wardrobe, 
 failed to produce anything in the way of cricketing 
 gear. Smith did not quite fancy playing in a tweed 
 suit. His kit-bag had been in the guard's van, and he 
 had forgotten it. Apparently the guard had done the 
 same. Somewhere on the Great Eastern Railway sys- 
 tem were his flannels and buckskin boots; but just 
 where he was not in a position to say. In any case, 
 there was no time to make enquiries.
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 145 
 
 "You never liked cricket, Mr. Alfred," Willis ex- 
 plained, to account for the absence of appropriate 
 clothing. Willis seemed capable of defending every 
 shortcoming of the son and heir as it presented itself. 
 "It didn't agree with you, sir," he added. 
 
 Probably Lady Warren had not thought it necessary 
 to renew that particular portion of her son's wardrobe. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, I'm going to play," said Smith, "so 
 what's to be done?" 
 
 "Miss Marjorie's taking the car into Norwich this 
 afternoon," began Willis tentatively. "Perhaps you 
 could" 
 
 "Willis," said Smith gravely, "there are moments 
 when you reach Napoleonic heights of inspiration. If 
 Miss Marjorie will run me into Norwich, I can get fixed 
 up with reach-me-downs that will probably be over 
 long and too narrow, or too broad and not long 
 enough." 
 
 That afternoon Marjorie drove Smith into Norwich, 
 with Eric in the tonneau, armed with a good supply of 
 chocolate, a pea-shooter, a catapult, and ammunition 
 sufficient for an extended offensive. 
 
 The pea-shooter was for use upon the inhabitants of 
 the villages they passed through, whereas the catapult 
 he kept for the fauna. During the early part of the 
 outward journey he became confused in the matter of 
 weapons, and that was in the case of a ditcher, bent 
 and busy, who presented a target upon which a pea- 
 shooter would have been wasted. 
 
 The man's yell as he straightened himself caused 
 both Marjorie and Smith to look round; but all they 
 saw was an innocent freckled face behind a bar of 
 chocolate, whilst in the distance a man was shaking his
 
 146 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 clenched hand at the disappearing car, the other hand 
 being engaged elsewhere. 
 
 Smith had offered to drive; but Marjorie declined, 
 and he settled down contentedly to watch the dexterous 
 way in which she handled the car. She was careful; 
 but she lost no opportunity of picking up speed on safe 
 bits of road. 
 
 Smith ventured a few general remarks; but he was 
 conscious once more of the barrier the girl seemed de- 
 termined should exist between them. She had a reason- 
 able excuse for not being conversational and, after a 
 few unsuccessful efforts, Smith gave up the struggle. 
 
 He soon, however, found a new source of interest 
 in the activities of Eric. By moving his position 
 slightly, he was able to obtain a view of the tonneau. 
 Eric's success with the ditcher had caused him perma- 
 nently to lay aside the pea-shooter as a weapon of 
 offence, and devote himself to the catapult. 
 
 Kneeling on the back seat, he proceeded to let fly at 
 anything that moved. Smith could not judge with what 
 effect; but in one or two instances the marksmanship 
 must have been good, noticeably when a terrified pig 
 gave tongue, its squeal rising clear-cut above the hum 
 of the car. 
 
 Smith was not surprised when later he heard Eric 
 endeavouring to persuade Marjorie to return by an- 
 other route, and he earned Eric's lifelong devotion by 
 supporting the suggestion. Smith's object was a purely 
 selfish one. He had no desire to be stopped every hun- 
 dred yards or so by those who had suffered from Eric's 
 dexterity with the catapult. 
 
 At the Maid's Head Hotel they parted, Marjorie to 
 do her shopping, Eric to replenish his supply of ammu-
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 147 
 
 nition, and Smith to search for boots and flannel 
 trousers. 
 
 Marjorie had left no doubt as to her intentions when 
 she informed him that they would be starting back at 
 five o'clock, so as to be home well in time for dinner. 
 With a final word of warning to Eric, who had point- 
 blank refused to accompany her, she walked out of the 
 hotel, leaving Smith and Eric to follow. 
 
 For reasons best known to himself, Eric apparently 
 desired to be alone; but he could not quite discover 
 the right way to "shake off" Smith, as he would have 
 expressed it. He solved the problem by suddenly dart- 
 ing down a side-street, with an exclamation to the effect 
 that "there's a fellow I know," and Smith was per- 
 mitted to pursue his way alone. 
 
 Having secured flannels that seemed close enough a 
 fit to stay on him, and at the same time not too close a 
 fit to part where they should not part, Smith next pro- 
 ceeded to search for a pair of boots. These secured 
 and ordered to be sent to the Maid's Head, he decided 
 to take a stroll through the city until it was time to 
 keep the rendezvous at the hotel. 
 
 "If it isn't little Alfie Warren!" 
 
 He turned swiftly on his heel from an examination 
 of a fine old mezzotint of Sir Robert Peel, to find him- 
 self gazing into a pair of bold dark eyes above which 
 was perched a large straw hat laden with artificial 
 flowers and fruit, more suggestive of a harvest-festival 
 than a head-covering. 
 
 "I thought it was you," said the owner of the eyes. 
 "Fancy meeting you after all these years." 
 
 That one swift look had thoroughly unnerved Smith. 
 The green jumper over a short tweed skirt of a loud
 
 148 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 pattern, the coarse features heavily smothered with 
 powder, the red lips and, above all, the dead gold hair, 
 dark at the roots, caused him involuntarily to shudder. 
 
 "I'm afraid you have made a mistake," he said 
 coldly, as he formally lifted his hat. "My name is not 
 Warren." 
 
 "Oh ! ring off !" she cried with a laugh. "I should 
 have known you anywhere. You look as if you've been 
 on the water-wagon, though. I heard you were back." 
 
 "I assure you," said Smith quietly, "that you have 
 made a mistake. My name is not Alfred Warren; but 
 James Smith." 
 
 "Alias Bill Jones, or Henry Robinson." She laughed 
 shrilly, and several passers-by looked curiously at the 
 pair. 
 
 He made a movement to pass on; but the woman 
 suddenly thrust her arm through his. 
 
 "Come and let us have a barley-water, Alfie. I'm as 
 dry as a Yankee." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, gazing about him as if 
 meditating flight. 
 
 "I " he began, then he stopped suddenly. There, 
 standing a few yards away, was Marjorie. Appar- 
 ently she had just come out of a shop. For the space 
 of a second her eyes met his, then she turned and walked 
 off in the opposite direction, with a studied indifference 
 that maddened him. 
 
 "I assure you that you are mistaken," he said, in a 
 voice loud enough, he hoped, for Marjorie to hear. 
 Turning on his heel, he walked quickly in the opposite 
 direction from that she had taken. 
 
 "Hoity-toity!" cried the woman. "Getting too
 
 SMITH ACQUIRES REACH-ME-DOWNS 149 
 
 proud to know our old pals, are we. You've got a fat 
 lot to be proud of, Alfie Warren." 
 
 Smith's instinct was to take to his heels and run. He 
 was conscious of the heads turned in his direction, 
 whilst in his heart was a great terror lest the woman 
 should pursue him. 
 
 Never had Alfred Warren been so thoroughly and 
 comprehensively cursed in the whole of his existence 
 as he was during the next few minutes. 
 
 For half-an-hour Smith wandered about the city, and 
 at a pace that drew to him many curious glances. He 
 was brought back to realities again by Eric hailing him 
 from the other side of the road. 
 
 "Got your bags?" he enquired when half-way across. 
 
 "Bags," repeated Smith vaguely, "er yes, of 
 course," he added a moment later, realising the purport 
 of the question. "Quite all right, thanks." 
 
 For a moment all thought of cricket had vanished 
 from his mind. He could remember only the look 
 Marjorie had directed towards him. 
 
 "Damn!" he muttered. 
 
 "Eh?" Eric looked at him enquiringly. 
 
 "I remarked 'damn,' " said Smith quietly. 
 
 "Why?" queried the boy. 
 
 "I was wondering what I am going to say when we 
 pass that ditcher on the way home, and also the owner 
 of the pig," whereat Eric's face flamed, and a moment 
 later he disappeared, without even the intimation that 
 he had seen a fellow he knew. 
 
 With an hour still to spare, Smith was struck with 
 the idea of calling upon Lady Warren's solicitor. 
 Recognition by Alfred Warren's erstwhile friends
 
 150 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 seemed likely to prove not the least embarrassing fea- 
 ture of the adventure, and this had inspired him to en- 
 quire of Willis the name and address of the family 
 lawyer. The process of psychologising the real Alfred 
 was proving both swift and startling, and it might be 
 advisable to make the acquaintance of Lady Warren's 
 solicitor as a measure of precaution. At least he could 
 be depended upon to approach the problem without 
 emotion.
 
 W 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 
 
 HEN Smith pushed open the dingy, ground- 
 glass door of No. 1 20 Tombland, on which in 
 black letters appeared the legend 
 
 ENQUIRIES. 
 TASSELL, ELAINE & PORT. 
 
 SOLICITORS. 
 
 he was quite prepared to be hailed once more as a re- 
 turned prodigal. 
 
 It was with relief that he saw behind a small counter 
 a dark-haired youth, whose dislike of water was mani- 
 fested by a dark rim that began above his collar and 
 rose gradually on either side, until it finally disappeared 
 behind his large red ears. 
 
 "Is Mr. Tassell in?" Smith enquired. 
 
 "What name, sir?" asked the lad, declining to com- 
 mit himself. 
 
 "Say a gentleman wishes to see him on important 
 
 business." 
 
 "Yes, sir. What name?" repeated the youth, with- 
 out show of emotion. 
 
 "Give him that message, please," said Smith, realis- 
 ing for the first time in his life the importance of labels 
 as applied to human beings. 
 
 For a moment the lad stood gazing at him out of a 
 
 151
 
 152 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 pair of pink-rimmed eyes, then, reluctantly lifting the 
 flap of the counter, he motioned Smith to pass through. 
 A moment later he threw open a door on which ap- 
 peared in white letters the words "Waiting-Room." 
 
 Without requesting the caller to take a seat, the lad 
 closed the door, leaving Smith to listen to the tick-tack 
 of the clock, or, as an alternative, to gaze at a much 
 foxed mezzotint of Lord Ellenborough. 
 
 He was speculating as to what would be the psycho- 
 logical effect upon his clients of a bowl of roses upon a 
 lawyer's waiting-room table, when the door opened, 
 and the lad reappeared. 
 
 "Mr. Tassell can't see you, sir, unless you send in 
 your name," he said, with the air of one who entirely 
 concurs with the terms of an ultimatum. 
 
 "Then tell Mr. Tassell, with my compliments," said 
 Smith, "that I'll wait here until he can see me. By the 
 way, if you've got any lighter reading than a treatise 
 on evidence, you might let me have it." 
 
 The lad gazed up at Smith, a new respect in his eyes. 
 It was not usual for the decrees of the senior partner 
 to be flouted in this way and, with the true instinct of 
 the Briton, he determined that Smith must be some- 
 body of importance. 
 
 "You might add that I come from one of Mr. 
 Tassell's oldest clients," added Smith, who had no 
 desire to spend longer than was absolutely necessary in 
 the uninspiring atmosphere of the lawyer's waiting- 
 room. 
 
 Two minutes later the lad returned with a request 
 that Smith would follow him. Proceeding along a cor- 
 ridor, the boy opened another ground-glass door, on 
 which it was announced that Mr. Tassell was "Pri- 
 vate."
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 153 
 
 "The gentleman, sir," said the lad. 
 
 Thus labelled, Smith stepped into the room, and the 
 door closed behind him. He was conscious of an ex- 
 panse of bald head surrounded on three sides by a 
 fringe of grey hair. A moment later a movement of 
 the expanse of baldness brought into his range of vision 
 a pair of keen, grey eyes looking at him through gold- 
 rimmed spectacles. For a second there was sternness 
 in those eyes, then a look of bewilderment and surprise, 
 followed by a quick movement backward of the revolv- 
 ing chair, as Mr. Tassell struggled to his feet. 
 
 "Mr. Warren!" he cried. 
 
 Then he plumped down into the chair again, and sat 
 looking at Smith as if he had been an apparition, his 
 hands gripping the arms of his chair until the knuckles 
 stood out hard and white from the surrounding yellow- 
 ness. 
 
 With an effort he appeared to regain control of him- 
 self and motioned Smith to a chair. 
 
 Mr. Tassell seemed to have been conceived in neu- 
 tral tints, the prevailing shade being a soft yellow. 
 There was nowhere about him any suggestion of blood. 
 The lips of his large mouth were grey, his voice woolly, 
 and his general appearance that of a man who had 
 stepped out of a picture some forty or fifty years 
 old. 
 
 "I was afraid you would," said Smith wearily, as he 
 dropped into the chair indicated. "Everybody seems 
 to crumple the moment I appear, at least in this 
 county," he added. "It's positively monotonous." 
 
 Mr. Tassell swallowed noisily, his Adam's apple 
 leaping upwards and then reappearing again with 
 startling suddenness. 
 
 In as few words as possible Smith proceeded to re-
 
 154 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 late the events that led up to his appearance in Mr. 
 Tassell's office. 
 
 By the time he had finished, Mr. Tassell had entirely 
 recovered his self-possession, mainly by the process of 
 polishing and re-polishing his spectacles, reinforced by 
 several mighty swallows. Three times he took them 
 off, and three times he replaced them, first subjecting 
 the lenses to a vigorous rubbing with a maroon silk 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 As he did so he gazed across at Smith, a strange and 
 inscrutable look in his eyes. Then, as if suddenly 
 realising that the interview was of a professional na- 
 ture, he replaced his spectacles, pursed his lips, leaned 
 back in his chair and, placing the points of his fingers 
 together, proceeded to regard the tips as if they held 
 the solution of the riddle that Smith had propounded. 
 
 "So you see I am not Alfred Warren," Smith con- 
 cluded; "but just plain James Smith, one of the tens of 
 thousands of Smiths who avoid confusion with other 
 Smiths by sheer personality." 
 
 "I understand," said Mr. Tassell in his best county- 
 court manner, "that you climbed the gates of The 
 Grange." 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "May I ask why?" 
 
 "Because I was wet." 
 
 Mr. Tassell removed his glasses and became ab- 
 sorbed in polishing them. 
 
 "I always climb gates when I'm wet." 
 
 Mr. Tassell looked up, still continuing to polish his 
 glasses; but Smith's face was as grave as that of a 
 judge. 
 
 "You knew the gates were there?" queried Mr. 
 Tassell.
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 155 
 
 "Well, I suspected it," Smith admitted, still with 
 the utmost gravity. "When a thing has almost torn 
 off your trousers, you do," he added drily. "Even 
 Einstein could not avoid it." 
 
 "The night was very dark?" 
 
 "Intensely." 
 
 "Still you saw the gates of The Grange?" persisted 
 Mr. Tassell, as he reassumed his glasses. 
 
 "I ran into them." 
 
 "And climbed them?" 
 
 "With infinite difficulty." 
 
 "And yet you say you are not Mr. Alfred Warren; 
 but Mr. James Smith?" Mr. Tassell raised his eyes 
 from his finger-tips, and looked at his visitor over the 
 top of his spectacles. There was something of stern- 
 ness in his gaze. 
 
 "I did and I am," said Smith evenly. 
 
 Mr. Tassell nodded gravely, as if the answer in no 
 way surprised him. He returned to a minute examina- 
 tion of his finger-tips, then, raising his eyes again, he 
 proceeded once more to regard Smith over the top of 
 his spectacles. 
 
 "The likeness is certainly remarkable," he said, a 
 little drily, Smith thought. After another pause, he 
 continued. "I take it that you are not prepared to 
 acquaint me with your actual identity? In the strictest 
 confidence, of course," he added. 
 
 "I have already done so," was the smiling rejoinder. 
 "I am James Smith." 
 
 "Of?" interrogated the lawyer. 
 
 "Of nowhere in particular." 
 
 "Hmmmmmmmmmm," murmured Mr. Tassell, as 
 he sucked in his lips. "I would advise," he continued, 
 with great deliberation, "that you produce evidence
 
 156 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 of er er an uncontrovertible nature that will er 
 establish definitely your identity." 
 
 "In that I entirely agree," said Smith quietly, "only 
 it happens to be the one thing that I am not prepared 
 to do." 
 
 "Why?" The interrogation came like a pistol-shot. 
 
 "Family reasons," was the quiet rejoinder. 
 
 "You say that the servants have identified you as 
 well?" he queried. 
 
 "They have," said Smith, "I might even add with 
 enthusiasm." 
 
 Mr. Tassell proceeded to make further mysterious 
 noises somewhere behind the region of his Adam's 
 apple, which bobbed about like an egg-shell on the 
 water-jet of a shooting-gallery. 
 
 "You have insisted that they are mistaken?" he 
 queried. 
 
 "My dear sir," said Smith patiently, "I might swear 
 it on the Apocrypha or the Koran; they wouldn't be- 
 lieve me." 
 
 "You might disappear," said Mr. Tassell tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 "I might," he agreed. 
 
 "But you have decided not to?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 With pursed-up lips and a roving Adam's apple, 
 Mr. Tassell proceeded to grapple with this new aspect 
 of the situation. 
 
 "You realise, of course, there may be difficulties, 
 even embarrassments?" he said. 
 
 "Great Gulliver!" cried Smith, "there are scores of 
 them in Little Bilstead, and no doubt others will pre- 
 sent themselves with the passage of time. One got me
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 157 
 
 by the arm in this very city only half-an-hour ago, 
 smelling vilely of patchouli," and he proceeded to tell 
 of the girl in the jumper and the harvest-festival hat. 
 
 Mr. Tassell looked grave. 
 
 "There may even be legal complications," he said, 
 without, however, raising his eyes from their absorbed 
 contemplation of his finger-tips. "There will be legal 
 complications," he added. 
 
 "That is why I came to you," Smith stifled a yawn. 
 
 "When you when Mr. Warren," Mr. Tassell cor- 
 rected himself, "disappeared seven years ago, there 
 were some extremely difficult matters requiring adjust- 
 ment." 
 
 "I gathered as much." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 This time there was no mistaking the dry tone in 
 which the words were uttered, and Smith found himself 
 gazing into a pair of keen, shrewd eyes which, he de- 
 cided, were not over-friendly. 
 
 "You are a very bold man, Mr. er Smith." 
 
 "You mean?" queried Smith. 
 
 "Had my advice been sought, I should unhesitatingly 
 have opposed your " 
 
 "Being identified as Alfred Warren," suggested 
 Smith quietly. 
 
 Mr. Tassell's keen eyes once more sought Smith's. 
 
 "I cannot help being like this blighter Warren, can 
 I ? I know he was a bit of an outsider " 
 
 "How?" again the interrogation came like the click 
 of a trigger. 
 
 "When the family butler follows the prodigal about 
 with a decanter of whisky and a syphon, it is not ex- 
 actly indicative of previous pussyfoot tendencies, is it?"
 
 158 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "But that may imply only weakness," said the 
 lawyer. "You used the term " 
 
 "Blighter," agreed Smith. "A man doesn't leave 
 home because he takes whisky-and-soda very little 
 soda, by the way at breakfast." 
 
 "True," said Mr. Tassell, once more operating upon 
 his spectacles with the maroon silk handkerchief. "I 
 feel it my duty, Mr. Warren " 
 
 "Smith, please." 
 
 "Mr. Smith I feel it my duty to warn you that 
 er certain matters were kept from Lady Warren six 
 years ago when you er when Mr. Warren disap- 
 peared." 
 
 Mr. Tassell cleared his throat with the portentous 
 solemnity he usually reserved for inquests, and fixed 
 Smith with a keen, steely gaze, as if he would read his 
 innermost thoughts. 
 
 "It certainly looks as if I'm in for something excit- 
 ing," said Smith easily. "After all, when you assume 
 a prodigal's responsibilities, you cannot expect alto- 
 gether to avoid the husks, and encounter only com- 
 placent butlers in a land flowing with whisky and soda." 
 
 To Mr. Tassell such obvious cheerfulness appeared 
 in the light of flippancy. He had never liked Alfred 
 Warren; now he positively disliked him. He regarded 
 it as an insult to his professional amour-propre to 
 expect a lawyer to be taken in by so obvious a subter- 
 fuge as this pretence of being another man, so that he 
 might inherit the earth without reaping the whirlwind. 
 
 "I understand that others in Little Bilstead are con- 
 vinced that you are Mr. Alfred Warren?" said Mr. 
 Tassell. "May I enquire if they are friendly?" 
 
 "About as friendly as fowls are to a fox," said Smith.
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 159 
 
 There was something about Mr. Tassell's whole man- 
 ner that irritated him. He seemed bloodless, devoid 
 of all humanity. "If I am Alfred Warren, why should 
 I want to deny it?" he demanded. 
 
 "There might be reasons." There was an ominous 
 note in Mr. Tassell's woolly tones. 
 
 "What reasons?" 
 
 "I said there might be reasons," said Mr. Tassell 
 quietly. Lady Warren was one of his oldest clients. 
 
 "You speak in parables," said Smith, "and this prod- 
 igal-business has wearied me of the very thought of 
 a parable." 
 
 "Then I will speak plainly," was the rejoinder. "By 
 staying on at Little Bilstead you place yourself in very 
 grave danger. I fear I can in no way associate myself 
 with your action without Lady Warren's explicit in- 
 structions. I shall cable " 
 
 "If you do, it will most probably be murder," said 
 Smith, and he proceeded to explain what Dr. Crane 
 had told him. 
 
 "Then I will write," continued the lawyer, as Smith 
 rose. 
 
 "You're not very helpful," he said with a smile. 
 "Good morning," and he passed out of the room. 
 
 In the main office, he found the pale-faced lad with 
 the perpetual high-water mark; but before he had time 
 to detach his attention from an evil-smelling pear drop 
 and The Bandits of the Air, over which he was poring, 
 Smith had passed out of the door. 
 
 "Rum un," said the lad, as he returned to The Ban- 
 dits of the Air. 
 
 When he had walked some hundred yards or so, 
 Smith suddenly stopped dead, much to the embarrass-
 
 160 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 ment of a little man who was close behind him, and who 
 had some difficulty in avoiding a collision. The full 
 significance of Mr. Tassell's words had suddenly 
 dawned upon him. The lawyer regarded him as the 
 real prodigal, who, by denying his identity, hoped to 
 escape from the consequences of some deed, or deeds, 
 he had committed. 
 
 "Pleasant for the understudy," he muttered, as he 
 drew his cigarette-case from his pocket and resumed 
 his walk. 
 
 II 
 
 The return journey was a miserable affair. 
 
 On arriving at the Maid's Head, Smith had found 
 Marjorie and Eric in the midst of a heated argument, 
 which arose from Marjorie's statement that Eric was 
 to occupy the front seat beside her, so that she could 
 see he did not get into mischief. Eric point-blank 
 refused; but a compromise was effected by Smith volun- 
 teering to sit with Eric in the tonneau, ostensibly to 
 look after him; but he had no illusions as to the real 
 reason. 
 
 For the first half of the journey this arrangement 
 quite spoiled Eric's enjoyment. Later he discovered 
 that Smith was so absorbed in his own thoughts as to 
 be oblivious to what was going on around him, after 
 which big-game shooting by catapult continued apace. 
 
 The memory of the success he had achieved with the 
 ditcher inspired in Eric the hope that some other 
 specimen of roadside biped might be found bent to a 
 suitable angle. 
 
 As the car hummed along, devouring the white road 
 that ribboned out before it, Eric began to despair. So
 
 MR. TASSELL IS SURPRISED 161 
 
 far the "bag" for the homeward journey consisted of 
 two farm labourers, caught, alas! in an upright posi- 
 tion, one pig, three fowls and a dog; but the recollec- 
 tion of the anguished yell of the ditcher still rang musi- 
 cally in his ears. 
 
 He had almost given up hope of further sport that 
 day, when a turn in the road disclosed the unbeliev- 
 able. There, just ahead, was a man, in a suit of 
 checks as vivid as the ditcher's language had been, and 
 he was bending over a motor-cycle. 
 
 As the car purred past him, the owner of the checks, 
 a man of generous build, glanced up momentarily, re- 
 vealing a luxuriant auburn moustache; but he was 
 obviously absorbed in some baffling problem his engine 
 had presented to him, for he resumed his bent position 
 immediately. 
 
 Eric almost whooped with joy, the target offered by 
 the ditcher was as nothing to that presented by the man 
 in the brown-and-white checks. It was so good that 
 Eric double-charged his catapult. Taking careful aim 
 over the back of the car, he let fly. He bobbed down 
 instantly; but a shout, half yell, half roar, caused him 
 to raise an incautious head that he might view the 
 extent of the casualty. 
 
 He saw his victim dancing in the middle of the road, 
 either with rage or pain, Eric could not be sure which; 
 but from the fact that the man's hands were behind 
 him, he drew his own conclusions. 
 
 As Eric's red head rose above the hood of the car, a 
 brown-and-white check arm appeared, terminating in a 
 fist, in the motion of which there was menace. A 
 moment later, that same fist was holding a note-book, 
 then another bend in the road hid both motor-cycle
 
 162 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 and owner from view and Eric, with a sigh of content- 
 ment and a side-glance at Smith, who sat moodily 
 wrapped in his own thoughts, sank down on the seat 
 beside him. They were getting too near home for 
 further sport. 
 
 The significance of the note-book, Eric did not prop- 
 erly realise until Little Bilstead was reached, when he 
 found that the mud he had carefully plastered over two 
 of the figures of the number-plate had been jolted off 
 during the journey. 
 
 "You been awake all the time?" he queried of Smith, 
 as he stood for a moment at the hall-door of The 
 Grange. 
 
 "Awake," repeated Smith vaguely, "certainly." 
 
 "If you hadn't been, I might have had some fun," 
 was the rejoinder, and he dashed away to forage for a 
 meal, leaving Smith wondering. 
 
 That night Eric Stannard slept soundly, conscious 
 that by his master strategy he would be able to confute 
 the evidence of the man who owned the brown-and- 
 white tweeds and the auburn moustache should he 
 present himself. The catapult itself he had taken the 
 precaution of burying. In all great undertakings, fore- 
 sight ensures both the success of the operation and 
 immunity from the consequences.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 
 
 NEVER within the memory of the oldest inhabi- 
 tant had Little Bilstead shown itself so devout 
 as on the Sunday morning following the return 
 of Mist' Alfred. It had awakened with a delightful 
 feeling of expectancy. Instinctively its thoughts gravi- 
 tated towards church, for was not Mist' Alfred stay- 
 ing at the vicarage? 
 
 The return of "Mist' Alfred" had been regarded by 
 every man and woman in Little Bilstead as a godsend. 
 The women gossiped about it for hour after neglectful 
 hour, and the men yearned for the leaden minutes to 
 pass until they could foregather at The Pigeons and en- 
 quire of one another, "Well, bor, wot d'you think 
 on it?" 
 
 The prodigal's denial that he was the prodigal, they 
 seemed to take as a matter of course. They knew 
 Alfred Warren to be a craven, and what more natural 
 than that he should deny sowing the wind, lest the 
 whirlwind engulf him. Their conversation turned 
 largely upon what would happen when Bob Thirkettle 
 should return, as all knew he inevitably would. As a 
 matter of fact, several had taken the precaution of 
 writing to tell him that Alfred Warren was back. If 
 they had keener eyes than Nemesis, it was but friendly 
 to lend her a helping hand. 
 
 Never in its history had rumour run through Little 
 
 163
 
 164 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Bilstead as it did during the days that followed the 
 return of its own pet black sheep. 
 
 The wildest stories were circulated and credited. 
 The prodigal had returned armed to the teeth, he had 
 aroused the inmates of The Grange by shooting 
 through the upper windows. He wore a shirt of chain- 
 mail under his clothes, in view of a possible encounter 
 with Bob Thirkettle. He had obtained the keys of the 
 wine-cellar from Willis at the point of the pistol, and 
 the old man. had fainted. He had extracted a large 
 sum of money from Miss Marjorie by threatening to 
 burn down the house, whereat she had fainted and 
 Dr. Crane had been sent for. The doctor in turn had 
 forbidden him to leave the neighbourhood under pen- 
 alty of prosecution for threats of violence. 
 
 It was alleged that Alfred Warren had spent his first 
 night at the vicarage in carousing, drinking neat whisky, 
 and shouting ribald songs. Everything was credited, 
 repeated with embellishments and additions, and duly 
 re-credited. 
 
 The one thing that no one thought of believing was 
 that the alleged Alfred Warren was not Alfred Warren 
 at all. That would have strangled the new-born Drama 
 at its birth, which to Little Bilstead would have been 
 emotional *suicide. 
 
 Every man, woman, and child in the village vied 
 with one another to catch as many glimpses as possible 
 of the man who had brought into their lives a new and 
 piquant interest. 
 
 Host Nudd of The Pigeons sucked a hollow tooth 
 as he laboriously wrote out special orders to the brewer 
 and spirit-merchant. Not even in the palmiest days 
 of Alfred Warren's scandalous doings had he done
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 165 
 
 such business. Men from outlying villages tramped 
 into Little Bilstead after the day's work to hear the 
 latest news, and the thirst of Little Bilstead itself had 
 increased three-fold. 
 
 On the night it became known that Mist' Alfred was 
 to play in the cricket-match, the takings of The Pigeons 
 had reached record proportions. 
 
 "Well, what do you think on it, together?" Nudd 
 had enquired at an early stage of the discussion, and 
 it was obvious from the comments that ensued during 
 the next two hours that no one knew exactly what to 
 think of it. 
 
 Right up to closing-time they had dilated upon this 
 new and mysterious aspect of an old scandal. 
 
 "Dick Marsh'll give him cosh, that's a sure moral," 
 growled Jack Bean, who knew that the advent of 
 Alfred Warren would lose him his place in the team, 
 and he seemed to have echoed the general opinion. 
 No one doubted that, in agreeing to play, Mist' Alfred 
 was making a bid for popularity and rehabilitation. 
 
 The possibilities of the cricket-match were discussed 
 and re-discussed. Two things were accepted as certain, 
 that the demon-bowling of Marsh, the captajn of the 
 opposing team, would produce the tragedy, whereas 
 Mist' Alfred's notorious inexperience in field sports 
 would supply the comedy. 
 
 "It'll be a fair barney," cried one enthusiast, as he 
 rose to go. "I'm going to get there early," he added, 
 as he made towards the door and, with a "fare you 
 well," departed. 
 
 On the Saturday night Little Bilstead had gone to 
 bed praying for a fine day on the morrow. In spite 
 of the memory that in the past the fine old Early
 
 166 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 English church at Little Bilstead had seldom seen the 
 son and heir of The Grange, it was argued that, as the 
 vicar's guest, he could not very well fail to put in an 
 appearance at least once during the day. 
 
 The lads of the village arrived early and in force, 
 taking up their position on the top of the grey, lichen- 
 covered wall surrounding the church. They amused 
 themselves by calling one another's attention to the 
 outstanding features, both sartorial and physical, of 
 all who passed, particularly the girls. 
 
 Never had Little Bilstead manifested such devotion 
 as upon that summer Sunday morning. Even old Jacob 
 Gooch, who had not moved outside his house for 
 eighteen months, was seen hobbling along, supported 
 on one side by a stick, and on the other by his son, 
 Thomas. 
 
 The church itself was suggestive of a wedding, as 
 for the most part the worshippers manifested a marked 
 reluctance to enter until the last moment, hopeful of 
 catching a glimpse of Mist' Alfred on his way from 
 the vicarage. They lined the path that led from the 
 porch to the gate, and they collected in a knot at the 
 gate itself. There was but one topic of conversation 
 the return of the wanderer. 
 
 Those who were old enough to remember narrated 
 to those who were not some of the more hectic episodes 
 in the life of the prodigal, and the stories lost nothing 
 in the telling. 
 
 Girls giggled and pretended to be shocked; but they 
 made no effort to remove themselves out of earshot of 
 those who were excavating in Alfred Warren's past. 
 
 Whilst Little Bilstead was awaiting the arrival of 
 the man who had brought so much colour into its life,
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 167 
 
 Miss Lipscombe was occupied with her usual Sunday 
 morning efforts to counter the vicar's absent-minded- 
 ness. 
 
 She handed him the manuscript of his sermon, gave 
 him a handkerchief, supplied him with a list of hymns, 
 lessons, and psalms; in short provided him with all 
 he was likely to require. The fact that he now made 
 very few mistakes in the conduct of divine service 
 was entirely due to his fear of Miss Lipscombe. She 
 had read through the sermon very carefully, to see 
 that there was nothing in it suggestive of the return 
 of prodigals. 
 
 The vicar's original idea had been to preach a ser- 
 mon upon the parable itself; but this Miss Lipscombe 
 had resolutely vetoed. There had been sufficient scan- 
 dal about Alfred Warren without adding to it from 
 the pulpit, had been her view, and her brother reluc- 
 tantly relinquished the idea. 
 
 The vicar went on first, as was his wont, followed 
 a few minutes later by Miss Lipscombe and Smith. 
 As they were seen approaching the gate, a hush fell 
 upon the crowd of expectant villagers. 
 
 As the two passed between the double line of eager 
 eyes, there was much cap-touching and nodding to Miss 
 Lipscombe, with an occasional "Mornin', Mist' Alfred" 
 for the prodigal. 
 
 As they entered the church, the crowd followed, and 
 that morning many a little Bilsteadian listened to the 
 sonorous English of King Edward the Sixth's Prayer 
 Book for the first time for years. 
 
 When the vicar ascended the pulpit steps, there was 
 a hush of expectancy. Every one thought that his 
 sermon would refer to the return of the wanderer
 
 168 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 and, when he announced his text as the parable of 
 the widow's cruse, it was obvious that all were dis- 
 appointed prodigals had nothing to do with widows' 
 cruses, at least they ought not to, thought Little 
 Bilstead. 
 
 In spite of the careful coaching he had undergone 
 at the hands of his sister, the vicar managed to link-up 
 the widow's cruse of plenty with the sinner that re- 
 penteth, and went on to make a passing reference to 
 "the dear friend who is back in our midst after years 
 of wandering, to be welcomed as a brother and loved 
 as a dutiful son." 
 
 Smith felt every eye turned upon him, and he could 
 see from the lines of Miss Lipscombe's mouth that she 
 was annoyed. 
 
 During the offertory, there was a general gathering 
 together of possessions. As one being, the congre- 
 gation had made up its mind to "slip out quietly" 
 directly the service was over, in the hope of getting 
 another glimpse of Alfred Warren as he left the church. 
 
 The amen which followed the vicar's benediction, 
 pronounced from the altar, might have been an alarm 
 of fire from the effect it had upon the congregation. 
 
 The "slipping out quietly" degenerated into some- 
 thing bordering on a stampede. Each discovered that 
 his or her own particular little scheme for getting into 
 the churchyard quickly was not so original as had been 
 thought, and a feeling of irritation seemed to spread 
 over the whole congregation. Toes were trodden on, 
 elbows were thrust into sensitive parts of anatomies, 
 and there was much pushing and crushing. 
 
 "They seem to be in a hurry to get out," murmured 
 Smith to Miss Lipscombe.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 169 
 
 "It's you !" she said, and there was a grimness in 
 the words which caused him to glance at her curiously. 
 "Wait until they've gone," and she resumed her seat. 
 
 That morning the casualties were widespread. Miss 
 Jell had the stick of her parasol broken, Colonel 
 Enderby had said "Damn!" in the centre aisle, be- 
 cause somebody had momentarily taken rest upon his 
 most sensitive corn. Mrs. Crane had her black-and- 
 white poplin skirt "torn out of the gathers," whilst 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene had swallowed a small acid-drop. 
 With her, acid-drops were indissolubly associated with 
 religion: she always joined in the singing. 
 
 Miss Marshall lost her glasses, and Mr. Marshall 
 lost his temper because, in stooping to recover them, 
 he had detached from a certain garment two buttons, 
 upon which much responsibility rested. 
 
 A worse fate befell Mrs. Spelman. A careless toe 
 had caught her on the calf of her left leg, and laddered 
 her stocking in a way that seemed almost indelicate. 
 During most of the way home, her head was over her 
 left shoulder, as she endeavoured to obtain a glimpse 
 of what a wag who knew her had once described as 
 "the fatted calf." 
 
 In the churchyard, the conversation was fairly equally 
 divided between Alfred Warren and the ill-manners 
 of those who "pushed and crushed to escape from 
 God's edifice," as Mrs. Truspitt-Greene expressed it. 
 She was wondering if acid-drops inadvertently swal- 
 lowed caused appendicitis. 
 
 As neither Miss Lipscombe nor Smith put in an ap- 
 pearance, the various units reluctantly drifted away. 
 They had in fact left by the vestry-door with the 
 vicar, and had taken another road to the vicarage.
 
 170 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 It was not, however, until an hour later that the 
 churchyard was entirely clear. 
 
 That day many of the inhabitants of Little Bilstead 
 had a half-cold Sunday dinner; but that was to them 
 as nothing they had seen a real prodigal, and it was 
 worth it. 
 
 During the afternoon the memory of Alfred Warren 
 was yet in the minds of many. Locked in her bed- 
 room, Miss Jell, with the aid of a tube of seccotine, 
 was endeavouring to mend the handle of her parasol. 
 Mr. Marshall was standing in an awkward position 
 whilst his daughter brought up to their full comple- 
 ment the number of his buttons. 
 
 Colonel Enderby was bathing his left foot in warm 
 water and Hindustani oaths; whilst Mrs. Crane was 
 re-gathering her skirt. And all were looking forward 
 to the morrow, which they instinctively felt would be 
 productive of dramatic developments. 
 
 The next two days Smith spent in keen enjoyment 
 of the almost cloistral quiet of life at the vicarage. 
 
 The vicar he found conversationally insolvent, ex- 
 cept upon the subject nearest to his heart the life of 
 the Ancients. Having no desire to expose the holes 
 and patches in his own classical toga, Smith avoided 
 any effort to open up an obvious avenue to the schol- 
 arly cleric's heart. 
 
 Whilst Smith was absorbing the atmosphere of peace 
 that pervaded the vicarage garden, the village was 
 seething with excitement. The cricket-match was only 
 hours away, and Little Bilstead's own particular black 
 sheep was to play. 
 
 The farmers swore that there was "narthen being 
 done." As a matter of fact there was a great deal 
 being done in the way of scandal and reminiscence.
 
 Never had the gregarious instinct been more manifest 
 in Little Bilstead. It was not to be expected that, 
 in the face of such dramatic happenings, men or women 
 could be expected to work apart, when they were al- 
 most bursting to convey to one another some wave 
 of recollection that had just undulated into their slug- 
 gish brains. 
 
 Phyllis, whose place was in the dairy, "dang her," 
 would be found by her master in the stables, where 
 Thomas was attending to the horses; or "that there 
 Job Dale," who by rights should have been "carting 
 tarnips," would be discovered in the kitchen telling 
 Mary what "they do say in the village," and what 
 they did say the night before at The Pigeons. 
 
 Tom Bassingthwaighte, the postman, carried from 
 house to house the latest rumours, picking up addi- 
 tional tit-bits as he went. By the time he reached 
 the end of his round, his voice had become a mere 
 croak. He was also, as he confessed to himself, in- 
 clined to "squiffiness"; for the news was good and was 
 well paid for, and more than one homestead in the 
 neighbourhood was noted for the strength and potency 
 of its home-brew. 
 
 In the meantime, his sister, Martha Bassing- 
 thwaighte, who officially was the post-mistress, sold 
 stamps as she had never sold stamps before. She 
 was deaf and placid, her deafness being exaggerated 
 that it might serve officially for defensive purposes. 
 No armour, however, could resist the penetrating 
 power of the events of the past few days, and Martha 
 Bassingthwaighte surprised many of her customers by 
 the amount she knew, and the quickness with which 
 she picked up each new detail of importance. 
 
 In Little Bilstead the post-office was the centre of
 
 172 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 information. What Tom Bassingthwaighte did not 
 know about local affairs need worry no one. 
 
 His lateness in returning from his morning round on 
 the Monday following the return of Alfred Warren 
 constituted a serious grievance to the village. Colonel 
 Enderby, who had made three separate visits to the 
 post-office at a cost of three separate twopenny stamps, 
 announced his intention of reporting the circumstance 
 to the Postmaster-General. Miss Jell had called twice, 
 once for a packet of post-cards, which she really re- 
 quired and once to refer to the Post Office Guide for 
 information about the South American mails, which 
 she did not require. 
 
 Mr. Marshall had loitered about the village since an 
 unusually early breakfast; but even he had been an- 
 ticipated by Mrs. Spelman, whom nothing could keep 
 away, not even another accident to Prinny's tail. 
 
 All were hoping for a further glimpse of the prodigal 
 himself; but Smith found the vicarage garden infinitely 
 more to his taste than supplying material for the village 
 gossips. 
 
 Several times he strolled the short distance to The 
 Grange gates, in the hope of catching a glimpse of 
 Marjorie; but without success. On one occasion he 
 encountered the choleric Colonel Enderby, whom he 
 recognised from Eric's description. 
 
 The Colonel approached like a motor-car burning 
 bad petrol, puffing and snorting and producing strange 
 noises from within. As he passed, he glared at Smith 
 as if he expected him to wither away under the intensity 
 of his hate. Ten minutes later Old End, as Eric called 
 him, was back in the village, with the latest news but 
 little breath, and promptly became the centre of an 
 excited group of scandal-seekers.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 173 
 
 That afternoon, social Little Bilstead found it im- 
 possible to take its tea alone, and repeated the episode 
 of Taffy's house, with however this difference, that 
 there was no discoverable larceny. 
 
 The Miss Jells called upon Mrs. Truspitt-Greene, 
 who had just gone to call upon Mrs. Spelman, who was 
 under way to see Mrs. Crane. The doctor's wife, how- 
 ever, was half-way to The Cedars before she encoun- 
 tered the Marshalls, who were bound for Colonel En- 
 derby's, who was actually ringing the Marshalls' bell 
 at the moment of the encounter. 
 
 Everybody had selected a "cross country" route, so 
 as not to be seen by "prying eyes." The result was 
 that those who took tea at all that afternoon took it 
 late and in their own homes. In consequence there 
 was a general wave of acute disappointment, and the 
 prodigal's stock fell several more points. 
 
 At The Pigeons, John Nudd rubbed his hands. Each 
 night the discussion seemed to wax hotter, and in con- 
 sequence thirsts became greater. The cricket-match 
 was dwarfed by the greater event of Mist' Alfred's 
 return. 
 
 As the night progressed, however, the fierceness of 
 the discussion subsided somewhat, and when the time 
 came for the final shuffling of feet, preluding the closing 
 of John Nudd's hospitable doors for the night, some 
 rustic philosopher would announce that when Bob Thir- 
 kettle returned the prodigal would "cop it a rum un" 
 and, with a chorus of acquiescing grunts or growls, each 
 would go his way, trusting that, when the epic en- 
 counter took place, Fate would so arrange it that he 
 should be somewhere in the vicinity. 
 
 Eric had constituted himself a sort of Mercury. He 
 ran back and forth to the vicarage like a puppy on the
 
 174 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 first day of spring. He was invariably in a hurry, 
 and always brought the latest account of what was 
 taking place in the village. 
 
 He did not, however, make any mention of an en- 
 counter he had with Postle, the ensuing cross-examina- 
 tion, or of the fact that he had striven to convince 
 the village constable that the fatal shot, which had 
 caught the check-suited stranger whilst in a stooping 
 position, had been fired by Smith. 
 
 On the Tuesday, Smith decided to take a stroll to- 
 wards the village to see how things were shaping. He 
 had not proceeded more than a few hundred yards 
 down the road when he came suddenly upon Miss Mary 
 Jell. At the sight of him, she turned and literally 
 ran for the shelter of Mrs. Spelman's garden gate. 
 
 Undaunted by this rather startling manifestation of 
 his unpopularity, Smith had continued on his way. 
 The hour, however, was just before social Little Bil- 
 stead lunched, and all had returned to the seclusion of 
 their own roofs. 
 
 The antagonism of the villagers themselves, how- 
 ever, was marked by a bold expressionless stare from 
 the few women he encountered, a scowl from the still 
 fewer men, and by three stones and two cries about 
 Bob Thirkettle's "mawther" from the children. 
 
 Returning to the vicarage, Smith told Miss Lip- 
 scombe of his experience. Grim-lipped and steely of 
 eye, she had advised him to keep away from the vil- 
 lage, at least for a day or two. 
 
 He knew the advice had less connection with the 
 recent demonstration than the dramatic possibilities 
 likely to result from the return of Bob Thirkettle. 
 
 "I'm afraid," she said at dinner that evening, "I
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD GOES TO CHURCH 175 
 
 shall have to hold you prisoner for a few days," and 
 there was a smile in her eyes and that queer little flut- 
 tering at the corners of her firm mouth as she spoke. 
 "I'm an old woman," she continued, "and I like young 
 society." 
 
 And Smith had assured her that he asked nothing 
 better than the hospitality of the vicarage. "For 
 James Smith," he had concluded, "and not Alfred 
 Warren." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. James Smith," was Miss Lip- 
 scombe's dry retort.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 
 
 THAT the news of the return of the prodigal had 
 filtered beyond the confines of Little Bilstead, 
 soon became apparent to Smith, by the number 
 of letters that arrived at The Grange addressed to 
 Alfred Warren. The quality of the stationery used 
 by the correspondents, together with certain crudities 
 of calligraphy they manifested, seemed to emphasise 
 the truth of Willis' statement that Alfred Warren had 
 been democratic in his tastes. 
 
 These letters Willis religiously sent over to the 
 vicarage, and Smith as religiously returned them, when 
 possible by the same messenger, who was mostly Nudd 
 fits. It was none of his business, Smith decided, what 
 Alfred's friends had to say after a lapse of seven 
 years; the breaking of the seals was obviously the 
 affair of the real prodigal, should he ever decide to 
 return. 
 
 An article in The Norfolk Post headed "Return of 
 the Wanderer" was no doubt responsible for these 
 epistolary attentions. 
 
 The ancients adjured one another to speak no evil 
 of the dead, The Norfolk Post went a step further, 
 by including the recently returned. The article, a 
 column in length, dealt mostly with the late Sir Joseph 
 Warren's well-known charities, the subject of the prod- 
 igal's disappearance and return being dismissed in a 
 
 few lines. "We understand," it concluded, "that for 
 
 176
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 177 
 
 the last few years Mr. Warren has been travelling 
 abroad for the benefit of his health." 
 
 Whether this was irony or good-nature, Smith could 
 not decide; but that there was no question about the 
 accuracy of the statement was proved, a few days later, 
 by an incident that occurred one afternoon as he was 
 setting out for a walk. 
 
 He was half-way down the drive of the vicarage, 
 when he became aware that, coming towards him, 
 was a puffy little man wearing a loud check suit and 
 a vile tie; himself he was extremely sensitive about 
 neckwear. 
 
 'At the sight of Smith, the little man increased his 
 pace to a strange movement, half bounce, half trot. 
 His hands were outstretched, his face beaming. It 
 was obvious that he was extremely pleased about some- 
 thing. 
 
 "My dear fellow!" he cried when within a few 
 yards of Smith. "After many years!" and he made 
 an effort to clutch Smith's hands. 
 
 Smith gazed at him curiously. His moist, fat face 
 radiated good-will, just as his teeth blazed with alien 
 gold. 
 
 "Welcome home!" cried the little man, with the 
 air of one trying his second barrel upon a bird he 
 has missed with his first. "Welcome home!" he re- 
 peated. 
 
 "That's very kind of you," said Smith, smiling in 
 spite of himself at this little creature, who seemed to 
 exude good-will; "but whose welcome and to what 
 home?" 
 
 This question seemed to stagger the little man. For 
 nearly a minute he stood gazing at Smith, then, re-
 
 178 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 moving his Panama, which was garnished by a narrow 
 ribbon of red and black stripes, two red and one black, 
 he mopped his thinly thatched head with a white silk 
 handkerchief that gave off a strong odour of eau-de- 
 cologne. 
 
 "You've not forgotten Jonathan Bluggs?" he cried 
 at length. "The One and Only, no limit, pays on the 
 tin-tack. You haven't forgotten Bluggy, surely?" 
 
 There was a note in his voice suggestive of anxiety, 
 and Mr. Bluggs's right hand moved towards his left 
 breast-pocket, a sinister hardness beginning to manifest 
 itself at the corners of his mouth. 
 
 "No, I haven't forgotten you," said Smith, on whom 
 light was beginning to dawn. 
 
 "I knew it, old warrior!" cried Mr. Bluggs with 
 garish heartiness, his hand dropping from his breast- 
 pocket. "I knew that Alfred the Greatest would re- 
 member the old horse that carried him over many a 
 nasty water-jump." 
 
 "I've not forgotten you," continued Smith quietly, 
 "because I'm afraid I never knew you," and he smiled 
 with engaging simplicity. 
 
 Mr. Bluggs stared at him in sheer bewilderment. 
 Gradually the smile vanished from his face, the hard- 
 ness at the corners of his mouth became emphasised, 
 and his hand wandered once more in the direction of 
 his breast-pocket. 
 
 "Here, come orf of it!" 
 
 Smith's eyes widened slightly. 
 
 "I heard that was the lay," he continued aggres- 
 sively, the sunshine of his smile vanishing, leaving only 
 a pasty complexion, a pair of little slit-like eyes, des- 
 titute of lashes, and a nose several sizes too large for
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 179 
 
 the mouth it tried to peer into. "I've heard all about 
 that stunt; but it's not good enough for Johnnie 
 Bluggs." 
 
 "Otherwise Bluggy," murmured Smith. 
 
 "Bluggy be damned!" 
 
 "Let us take things in their correct chronological 
 order," smiled Smith. He was both interested and 
 amused. 
 
 Mr. Bluggs seemed nonplussed, then, as if suddenly 
 remembering something, he dived into his breast- 
 pocket. Drawing out a letter-case, he selected a paper, 
 and thrust it towards Smith. 
 
 "What do you make of that?" he demanded. 
 
 Smith took the paper and examined it curiously. 
 
 "It looks like a promissory note for 431 6s. 2d." 
 
 "It's a copy. The original's at my banker's,'* 
 snapped Mr. Bluggs. "I ain't a mug." 
 
 Smith raised his eyes from the note. 
 
 "No?" he queried. 
 
 "No, Mr. Bloomin' Alfred Warren. 'Aven't you 
 got anythink else to say?" he demanded, snatching back 
 the note and replacing it in his letter-case. 
 
 "Nothing beyond the fact that I am not Mr. Alfred 
 Warren; but Mr. James Smith. Incidentally the note 
 is, I believe, what is known in legal circles as statute- 
 barred." 
 
 Mr. Bluggs displayed more gold-filled teeth but 
 they were not the teeth of effusive welcome. 
 
 "It is dated February seven years ago," continued 
 Smith, "and this is July. I " 
 
 He was interrupted by a torrent of abuse from 
 Mr. Bluggs. His face seemed even more puffy in 
 its flushed than in its normal state of yellow. For a
 
 180 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 small man, his lung power was really remarkable, 
 Smith decided, and the way in which his eyelids opened 
 and shut fascinated him. 
 
 In Mr. Bluggs's oration, there was much about what 
 he had done for Alfred Warren, putting him on sure 
 things "on tick" ; and then to be served like this. He 
 hinted darkly that it was in his power to contrive 
 Alfred Warren's criminal prosecution for crimes that 
 would rock the county with scandal for years to come. 
 
 Not once did Mr. Bluggs repeat himself in his 
 volume of denunciation, nor did he grow hoarse. 
 Little points of foam gathered at the corners of his 
 mouth, as if desirous of softening the hardness of the 
 lines. 
 
 Smith decided that Mr. Bluggs must be a practised 
 speaker probably to race-course crowds. 
 
 "Now I am afraid I must be going," said Smith 
 at length, just as Mr. Bluggs was telling how, only 
 last month, he had got a man seven years. 
 
 "Not till you pay up, my beauty," announced Mr. 
 Bluggs, placing himself directly in Smith's path. 
 
 "Mr. Bluggs," said Smith quietly, "do you see that 
 holly-bush ?" He gazed towards a large clump of prick- 
 liness. Mr. Bluggs's eyes followed Smith's gaze; but 
 he said nothing. "If you don't go at once I shall drop 
 you right on the top of it, and holly hurts." 
 
 "You wouldn't " Mr. Bluggs was arrested in the 
 midst of his defiance by something he saw in Smith's 
 eyes. For several seconds he looked, then, turning 
 on his heel, he walked down the drive, muttering curses 
 and threats of what would happen when he saw his 
 solicitor. 
 
 "I'm beginning to feel a respect for Alfred Warren,"
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 181 
 
 murmured Smith, as he followed the departing book- 
 maker. "He probably realised to the full the pitfalls 
 of the prodigal who indiscreetly returns !" 
 
 Having seen Mr. Bluggs safely enter a two-seater, 
 in which sat one whom Smith instinctively felt was 
 not Mrs. Bluggs, and drive away, he turned in the 
 opposite direction. 
 
 After three cars had dashed past, leaving him to 
 inhale the dust they raised and the exhausts they left, 
 he decided that cross-country would be pleasanter 
 walking. 
 
 He had crossed two fields when suddenly he saw 
 something that dismissed from his mind all thought 
 of Mr. Jonathan Bluggs and Alfred Warren. 
 
 Seated on a gate just ahead of him was Marjorie, 
 her horse, Nero, standing beside her, his head resting 
 against her arm. 
 
 She was gazing over her shoulder in the opposite 
 direction from that of Smith's approach. 
 
 "Good morning," he said, lifting his cap and throw- 
 ing away his cigarette. 
 
 Marjorie started and nearly over-balanced. Recov- 
 ering herself, she returned his greeting. 
 
 At the sound of approaching footsteps, Nero had 
 turned and stood regarding Smith with grave, specu- 
 lative eyes. 
 
 "Well, old fellow," said Smith. "You look pretty 
 fit." 
 
 As if gratified by the remark, Nero took a step 
 towards him, arching his neck in a way that clearly 
 invited the caress he most appreciated. 
 
 "He looks as if he could take anything there is," 
 remarked Smith, running a critical eye over Nero's
 
 182 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 delicate lines. "Do you always ride cross-country?" 
 he queried of Marjorie. 
 
 "Nero doesn't like the roads," she replied, an almost 
 imperceptible frown quivering about her eyebrows. 
 "He hates motors," she added. 
 
 Smith reached down to his nearest foreleg, Nero 
 lifting it slightly as if in acknowledgment of a com- 
 pliment, at the same time whinnying softly as if to 
 himself. 
 
 "Nero!" she cried, as he endeavoured to insert his 
 muzzle into the right-hand pocket of Smith's coat. He 
 had already made Nero's acquaintance in his sumptu- 
 ous loose-box, where he had ministered to his passion 
 for sugar. 
 
 "I've just been having a little discussion with a gen- 
 tleman known to his intimates as Bluggy, who insists 
 that I owe him four hundred and thirty-one pounds six 
 shillings and twopence," said Smith, as he stroked 
 Nero's glossy neck. "When I said that, like the village 
 blacksmith, I owed not any man, he became melodra- 
 matic, and I had to threaten to toss him into a clump 
 of holly before he realised the physical advantages of 
 reticence." 
 
 A look of interest sprang into Marjorie's eyes. 
 Smith was encouraged. 
 
 "Nero, come here," she called, as he proceeded to 
 make further search for the bonanza he knew to be 
 somewhere secreted about this Sugar Man. 
 
 "Life in Little Bilstead seems rich in incident," he 
 said, smiling up at her. He was determined to ignore 
 her coldness and indifference.
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 183 
 
 "It has not generally that reputation/' she said 
 gravely. 
 
 "Possibly places are like people, we get from them 
 what we most look for," he suggested. 
 
 "And you look for incident?" The question seemed 
 to spring to her lips in spite of herself. 
 
 "Don't you think I have reason?" he queried. 
 
 She did not reply. She was angry with herself for 
 asking the question. It was a direct encouragement 
 to conversation. Why had she done it? She had de- 
 cided time after time not to and now she had de- 
 liberately promoted discussion. 
 
 "Personally I should say that life here is intensely 
 episodic," he continued. "I think that is why I decided 
 to stay on." 
 
 "Yes?" she interrogated politely. 
 
 Certainly she was the most puzzling girl to talk to. 
 She slew each topic of conversation as it was born. 
 
 "That and the vicarage hospitality," he continued. 
 "I am rather like Bulldog Drummond, I require ex- 
 citement." 
 
 Another gap of silence followed, which Smith filled 
 in by producing two more lumps of sugar. Nero 
 fastened upon them in a flash. 
 
 "Eric seems to be looking forward to the cricket- 
 match," he said presently, as he struggled to lift Nero's 
 inquisitive nose from his left-hand pocket. Eric, he 
 decided, was his last trench. 
 
 "Poor Eric!" she said softly, a slight smile flutter- 
 ing the corners of her mouth. "This is his third match, 
 and he hasn't made a run yet." 
 
 "But he will," said Smith, determined to seize what
 
 184 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 really looked like a promising conversational opening. 
 
 She shook her head with conviction. 
 
 "But haven't you anybody?" he asked, determined 
 to keep to this promising subject. "What about Dr. 
 Crane?" 
 
 "He holds a bat as if it were a hockey-stick," she 
 said, and once more a seemingly fruitful topic lay slain. 
 
 Feverishly he cast about him for some one or some- 
 thing to throw into the breach. Mentally he reviewed 
 Willis, Mrs. Higgs, the vicar, young Nudd and old 
 Simmons; all seemed destitute of those qualities upon 
 which ideas are exchanged. Furthermore, they were 
 so intimately associated with what he was anxious to 
 avoid, the departure or the return of Alfred Warren. 
 
 The breach was due to Marjorie having suddenly 
 realised that she was engaged in doing the very thing 
 she had vowed never to do, not even to please Lady 
 Warren she was talking as a friend might talk to the 
 man whose life outraged all her ideals of what a man 
 should be. 
 
 Twice in the space of a few minutes she had broken 
 faith with herself; yet she had asked Eric to see as 
 little as possible of the very person she was 
 
 "I think Nero has had as much sugar as is good 
 for him," she said, with an iciness that would have 
 chilled the garrulousness of Pepys himself. 
 
 Smith realised that it was the closure, the guillotine. 
 Even Nero lifted an enquiring head from the investi- 
 gation of Smith's pockets, as if struck by something 
 strange in his beloved mistress' voice. 
 
 A small brown hand stretched out and caressed the 
 burnished arch of his neck, and he knew that he was 
 not the cause. It must be the Sugar Man, he decided.
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 185 
 
 Smith realised that he had no alternative but to lift 
 his cap and pass on. 
 
 Nero, however, did not share his mistress' views 
 upon this newcomer's undesirability. He knew nothing 
 of prodigals, although he possessed a vast knowledge 
 of men. Those, for instance, who carried in either 
 pocket of their coats a handful of what to Nero were 
 white cubes of unalloyed bliss, he knew to be in every 
 way desirable; whilst those who did not well, they 
 didn't count. 
 
 As Smith strode off, Nero took a hesitating step 
 after him. 
 
 "Nero !" she cried sharply. "Come here," and Nero 
 turned on a reluctant hoof. "I'm ashamed of you !" 
 
 Nero turned his large expressive eyes upon his mis- 
 tress. There was in her tone something that caused 
 him concern. After all, it was he who had done it, 
 apparently, and not the Sugar Man; yet He 
 stretched out his head towards her, but she drew 
 back. His worst forebodings were confirmed. He 
 took a half-step in her direction; for, with good oats 
 and kind words, she constituted his world with sugar, 
 of course. 
 
 "No, Nero, I'm not going to forgive you," she said, 
 leaning her body away from him and emphasising the 
 supple lines of her young figure. 
 
 "You know he isn't nice!" she continued presently. 
 "Yet" She broke off. 
 
 Nero gazed at her with large, liquid eyes full of 
 anxious concern. The arch of his glossy neck became 
 less marked, and his head drooped. He recognised 
 that the trouble was serious, and he was a master of 
 subtlety and tact.
 
 186 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "You know as well as I do," continued Marjorie, 
 "that he isn't nice. Now don't you?" There was 
 challenge in her look, and Nero's large, sad eyes be- 
 came larger and sadder, and his head drooped still 
 further. 
 
 "Yet," she continued, "you behave as if he were a 
 great friend, as if I liked him." She gazed away 
 towards where a pinewood seemed to rear its delicate 
 crests into the white-flecked summer sky. 
 
 "Now don't you?" Her eyes were still on the pine- 
 wood, and a dreamy look had crept into them. 
 
 For some minutes she continued gazing, apparently 
 at the wood, Nero watching her with speculative and 
 mournful brown eyes. 
 
 Presently he raised a tentative hoof. Then he 
 waited. Without a sound the hoof came to earth 
 again, a good eight inches nearer Marjorie. Another 
 hoof followed, and another. 
 
 He was determined not to hasten matters. He had 
 known such crises before, and they required handling 
 with the utmost delicacy and tact. He understood the 
 art of sympathetic self-effacement. 
 
 Marjorie continued to gaze into the wonderland of 
 her own thoughts. Presently something soft as velvet 
 touched her cheek, and a moment later a humble muzzle 
 was resting lightly on her shoulder. 
 
 The small brown hand was raised and, as Nero felt 
 its gentle touch, he knew that, however heinous his 
 crime, he was forgiven, and the proud arch returned 
 to his silky neck. 
 
 "Can people really change like that, Nero?" she 
 murmured musingly, continuing to fondle the head rest- 
 ing upon her shoulder.
 
 NERO IN DISGRACE 187 
 
 He turned his eyes towards her so that the whites 
 became visible, and nuzzled against her cheek. 
 
 "Of course they can't!" she cried a moment later. 
 "You know very well they can't, Nero, only being a 
 man you won't say so," and she laughed lightly. 
 
 The dreamy look had gone from her eyes, and the 
 determined little chin had once more resumed its 
 customary tilt of decision. 
 
 "Now for a real old gallop !" she cried gaily "hell 
 for leather!" 
 
 Nero whinnied his relief. 
 
 "Hush, Nero !" she murmured a moment later. 
 "You mustn't say such things," and Nero bravely as- 
 sumed the responsibility with another whinny of joy, 
 as she slipped into the saddle. 
 
 A few minutes later Smith saw them careering over 
 the countryside, taking everything that came, and tak- 
 ing it well.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 
 
 ""^7"OU'RE sure you've finished both your sermons 
 | for Sunday, John?" 
 
 "Quite sure, Hannah," replied the vicar 
 meekly. 
 
 "And there is nothing about cricket in them?" in- 
 quired Miss Lipscombe, the lines at the corners of her 
 mouth deepening. 
 
 "Nothing at all, Hannah," he replied with the air of 
 a child being put through its catechism. 
 
 "Then I think you may go," she said, and the vicar 
 passed down the drive, overtaking Smith at the gate. 
 
 The vicar's first thought that morning had been the 
 weather and its probable effect upon the wicket. He 
 had thought of little else than cricket for the past week, 
 and it was with a sigh of content that he had seen, from 
 his bedroom window, the sun climbing a cloudless sky. 
 
 As they walked towards the cricket-field, Smith was 
 acutely conscious of his newly-acquired "Gents' Super- 
 fine Unshrinkable Flans," as his trousers had been 
 officially labelled. He had carefully preserved the 
 ticket in his pocket-book; it was obviously a document 
 for the family muniment-chest. 
 
 He was engaged in speculating as to where reach-me- 
 down outfitters recruited their models of British man- 
 hood, when a turn in the road brought them in sight of 
 the field of play. Already it was deeply fringed with 
 spectators. The vicar quickened his steps, as if eager 
 
 188
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 189 
 
 that his body should be where his heart obviously was. 
 
 Greeted right and left, they passed through the gate. 
 Everybody was light-hearted and prepared for enjoy- 
 ment. Festivity was in the air, and laughter sprang 
 readily to lips already curved to its call. The shrill 
 cries of the girls and the hoarse shouts of the men 
 testified to the roughness of the jests; whilst the mellow 
 crack of bat hitting ball was heard from all parts of 
 the field, as the players strove feverishly to get them- 
 selves into form. 
 
 There flashed into the vicar's eyes a look that was 
 new to Smith. It was suggestive of a war-horse that 
 once more scents battle. 
 
 As they made their way across the field, Smith was 
 conscious of many curious glances and whisperings from 
 the groups they passed, the words "Mist' Alfred" be- 
 ing clearly identifiable. 
 
 Vehicles were still arriving, accommodation having 
 been provided for them in a neighbouring meadow, 
 where the horses were turned loose to graze. They, 
 too, would enjoy the day. Late arrivals hurried 
 through the gates, laden with baskets and hampers. 
 There was much good-humoured badinage. Little Bil- 
 stead and Upper Saxton were out to enjoy themselves. 
 
 Round the scorers' tent had been roped-off a sort of 
 enclosure. Here, in little groups, the society of the 
 neighbourhood exchanged ideas and talked scandal. 
 
 "I regard it as infamous!" were the first words that 
 greeted Smith's ears as he followed the vicar past the 
 guardian of the social holy of holies. "I have told 
 Postle what I think, and I shall " Suddenly the voice 
 stopped. Colonel Enderby had caught sight of Smith 
 and the vicar.
 
 190 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 An atmosphere of gala was indelibly stamped upon 
 the gallant colonel's clothing. Above a pair of flannel 
 trousers, yellow with age, was a shrunken Zingari 
 blazer made for a much shorter man, and above this 
 again was an ancient Panama hat. 
 
 As the vicar exchanged greetings with those about 
 him, he seemed to have been metamorphosed. His 
 habitual air of absent-mindedness had vanished, and 
 in his heart was the enthusiasm of a keen cricketer. 
 
 "They've only got two new fellows, both sloggers," 
 cried Eric, dashing up to them. "We've jolly well got 
 to lick them to a fraz, haven't we, sir?" he appealed to 
 the vicar, who shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "I fear I have been remiss in not in not " He 
 paused. It was habitual with the Rev. John Lipscombe 
 to saddle himself with responsibilities that were not 
 rightly his. 
 
 He and Eric soon became involved in a technical 
 discussion upon the relative merits of Little Bilstead 
 batting and Upper Saxton bowling. 
 
 As they did not seem to require his assistance, Smith 
 continued to look about him. He caught a glimpse of 
 Miss Jell rising out of a pyramid of lavender flounces; 
 whilst Miss Mary Jell looked like an anachronism in a 
 white muslin frock, sprinkled with yellow daisies and 
 small green leaves. 
 
 As they became aware of Smith's gaze, Miss Mary 
 dropped her eyes, whilst her sister bowed stiffly, and 
 opened her parasol, also flounced, as if Smith were a 
 bull. 
 
 Mr. Marshall and his daughter were talking to Mrs. 
 Crane. The Marshalls were always early arrivals. 
 For Mr. Marshall the cricket match was a field-day.
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 191 
 
 Everybody brought something in the way of food and 
 drink, even those whose homes were near the field of 
 play, whilst those who lived at a distance brought 
 luncheon-hampers, which to him were veritable corn- 
 ucopias. 
 
 Mr. Marshall had been known to pick up as many as 
 two luncheons and three teas at one cricket-match, to 
 say nothing of oddments in between, such as fruit, cake 
 and lemonade. On such occasions the evening meal of 
 the Marshalls was a comparatively trifling affair. 
 
 Smith noticed that Mr. Marshall wore a pair of 
 white drill trousers, with a large brown stain above 
 the right knee. Where these ancient garments had 
 first seen light, or how Mr. Marshall had acquired 
 them, was a matter of speculation in Little Bilstead; 
 but all agreed that they were not English and, in con- 
 sequence, to be regarded with suspicion. 
 
 The brown stain above the right knee, however, was 
 known to belong exclusively to Mr. Marshall, who had 
 chosen the night of one of the annual cricket matches 
 to upset the inkstand. 
 
 Mrs. Spelman had created a mild sensation by ap- 
 pearing with a "new" toque, from the folds of which 
 coyly peeped out a small white tip. For as far back 
 as the best memory could carry, Mrs. Spelman had 
 jgone through life with two tips; the addition of a 
 third was something in the nature of a sartorial event. 
 
 All knew that as the years rolled on, this tip would 
 be cleaned a few times, then it would pass through the 
 whole rainbow of colours, deepening in tint with each 
 plunge into the dye-tub, until at length it would, in all 
 probability, emerge black that is to say if Mrs. Spel- 
 man were blessed with sufficient length of years.
 
 192 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene had disinterred a white lace 
 frock of another historical period, which clung to her 
 as if shy of an age in which it knew it had no right to 
 exist. A black lace hat flopped over her eyes, render- 
 ing necessary a continual tossing of her head, as if she 
 were some high-spirited charger. 
 
 Smith was recalled from his contemplation of the 
 pomp and fashion of Little Bilstead by Eric offering 
 to bowl if he would care to have "a knock." 
 
 He shook his head. He was far too interested in 
 what was going on about him, apart from which he did 
 not wish to disillusion Eric who, by his patronising 
 manner, made it clear that, whatever he may have said 
 to Marjorie, he was convinced that the "prod" was a 
 "rabbit." 
 
 As Eric was in second wicket down, he decided that 
 without further practice (he had already had two 
 lengthy periods that morning) he was in danger of 
 growing stale and, with a nod, he "buzzed off," as he 
 phrased it. 
 
 Smith saw Willis and Mrs. Higgs talking to Mar- 
 jorie, and, fearful of Mrs. Higgs's demonstrativeness, 
 and of her nursery recollections, he took up a strategical 
 position behind the vicar. 
 
 Presently he became aware that Marjorie was ap- 
 proaching, accompanied by Miss Lipscombe. She 
 greeted the vicar cordially; but when she turned to 
 Smith, the studied calm and self-possession which he 
 found so irritating reasserted itself. 
 
 "Have you come to see Little Bilstead win?" he 
 enquired. 
 
 "Oh! Do you think we shall?" 
 
 In a flash her whole expression changed. Her eyes
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 193 
 
 shone with excitement and she clasped her hands to- 
 gether in her eagerness. For the space of a second 
 Smith saw the real Marjorie, then once more the mask 
 descended, and she became the girl in whom dislike was 
 veiled by good-breeding. 
 
 "We'll have a jolly good try, anyway," he said 
 grimly. 
 
 A new idea had just taken possession of him. If 
 he could materially assist Little Bilstead in vanquish- 
 ing their hated rivals, there might be a chance of earn- 
 ing at least her toleration for himself, quite apart from 
 the sweetening process to which he was committed. 
 Furthermore, it should go a long way to disprove the 
 claim that he was Alfred Warren. A man could not 
 learn cricket by means of a Pelman course. 
 
 "I hope you will win," she said. "Eric is very 
 keen on it," and with that she turned to the vicar. 
 
 Suddenly a hush fell upon the field, and Smith saw 
 the two captains tossing for innings. He observed a 
 look of relief on the home captain's features as the 
 two men straightened themselves from gazing at the 
 penny lying on the ground. 
 
 "That means that they take first knock," murmured 
 the vicar. 
 
 In local cricket circles there were two traditions that 
 dominated all others; the first was that whoever won 
 the toss should put his opponent in first, irrespective 
 of the state of the wicket. The other was that to be 
 deputed as long-stop was to suffer unthinkable humilia- 
 tion. To have suggested to Yardley, the Little Bil- 
 stead captain, that he should take first innings would 
 have surprised him no less than a proposal that he 
 should play in a fur-lined overcoat.
 
 194 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 The news that Dick Yardley had won the toss spread 
 round the ground like a flash. Little Bilstead was 
 delighted. Cries of "Well done, bor!" and "Good 
 old Dick!" rang across the turf, as if the winning of 
 the toss were due to skill rather than chance. 
 
 Slowly the members of the home team dribbled into 
 the field. First of all came the bowlers, who, taking a 
 stump from either wicket, placed them some two yards 
 off the pitch, and proceeded to send down practice 
 balls. Smith watched this ritual with interest. 
 
 In the matter of dress, the Little Bilstead team pre- 
 sented a motley appearance. Some wore dark trousers 
 and white flannel shirts, others white trousers and dark 
 shirts; some sported collars and waistcoats, others 
 waistcoats without collars. 
 
 In head-gear, they were as nondescript as in other 
 articles of attire, soft hats and cloth caps being mostly 
 in evidence, whilst a little man with a heavy moustache 
 sported a bowler. 
 
 One man seemed to have combined the seasons in 
 his person, for above his white flannelette trousers he 
 wore a blue and orange football shirt, and the heavy 
 winteriness of his boots was mitigated by the summer 
 lightness of his straw hat. Several of the players had 
 their trousers suspended by braces instead of belts, 
 and one had elected to do battle in white running 
 shorts. 
 
 With misgiving Smith watched the Little Bilstead 
 bowlers as they sent down ball after ball. It was poor 
 stuff of dubious length, although fairly accurate in 
 direction. 
 
 At the sight of the white-clothed umpires walking 
 slowly towards the centre of the field, the two stumps
 
 195 
 
 were replaced, and Yardley began distributing his men 
 to their appointed positions, a thing that required much 
 shouting and waving of his right hand. 
 
 The umpires placed the bails upon the wickets, took 
 up their positions, and waited. All eyes were now 
 turned expectantly towards the scoring-tent, round 
 which were grouped the Upper Saxton^players. Pres- 
 ently two detached themselves from the remainder 
 and walked slowly towards the centre of the field. 
 
 "Man in!" was the cry, repeated by half-a-dozen 
 voices. 
 
 The hour of drama was at hand. 
 
 Looking painfully nervous and self-conscious, the 
 two batsmen walked slowly towards the wickets; one 
 a tall cadaverous man with unshaven chin, who wore 
 a brown pad on his left leg, the other a short burly 
 fellow with two white skeleton pads over black trousers. 
 
 Amidst a hush of excitement, the man with the skele- 
 ton pads took "guard," and then, assuming an attitude 
 entirely devoid of ease or grace, gazed straight in 
 front of him. 
 
 The umpire gave the word, the bowler took a run, 
 the spectators ceased to breathe, and the first ball of 
 the match was bowled, a half-volley, six inches outside 
 the off stump. It was, however, the first ball of the 
 match, and as such had to be treated with respect. The 
 batsman played it stiffly, and returned to his original 
 position. 
 
 At the end of three overs, each man appeared satis- 
 fied that he had played himself in, thus paying tribute 
 to convention, and the strained and awkward set of 
 their bodies relaxed. 
 
 The man with the skeleton pads opened the scoring
 
 196 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 by pulling a woefully short ball to the boundary, this 
 to the intense joy of the Upper Saxtonians. When he 
 repeated the stroke off the next ball, the yells of de- 
 light were deafening; but when he treated yet another 
 ball in the same way, Upper Saxton became almost 
 hysterical with joy. For them the match was already 
 as good as won. 
 
 With the score at twenty, Brown Pad skied a ball 
 behind the wicket-keeper. Smith ran in from long leg, 
 and P.C. Postle ran back, hesitated, then, with a roar 
 of "I've got her," he lurched forward. 
 
 The next the crowd saw was P.C. Postle sitting on 
 the grass rubbing an injured shoulder, and abusing 
 Smith roundly for spoiling his catch. 
 
 The crowd roared, Upper Saxton with delight, Lit- 
 tle Bilstead with anger. Later they joined together in 
 derision of Mist' Alfred, whom they held responsible 
 for the collision. 
 
 From then on Smith became the butt of every would- 
 be humourist. Each time he fielded the ball, he was the 
 recipient of loud and ironical cheers. If it were skied, 
 no matter in what direction, the Little Bilstead players 
 were exhorted to "Let Mist' Alfred have it." 
 
 Little Bilstead remembered it against Alfred Warren 
 that in the past he had never sought to dissimulate his 
 contempt for field sports. They saw in his turning-out 
 with the home team a deliberate effort to curry public 
 favour, and they made no effort to disguise their con- 
 tempt. 
 
 The score mounted rapidly, the man with the brown 
 pad quickly getting going. His specialty was leg hits. 
 He waited patiently until the ball came on the leg side, 
 then he promptly whacked it round to the boundary.
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 197 
 
 The Little Bilstead bowling grew erratic, and the 
 wicket-keeper became demoralised and loudly re- 
 proached the bowlers. Bye after bye was scored until, 
 after a whispered conversation with Yardley, Smith 
 displaced long-stop, with the result that one source 
 of revenue was cut off from the Upper Saxton scoring- 
 sheet. 
 
 The crowd regarded Smith's new position as a re- 
 buke, and said so. 
 
 Fifty was hoisted without the loss of a wicket, and 
 pandemonium broke out. 
 
 At sixty-three Brown Pad skied a ball directly over 
 the wicket-keeper's head, and was caught. He re- 
 turned to the enclosure with the proud knowledge that 
 he had scored twenty-three towards victory. 
 
 The next man in was the Upper Saxton doctor, who 
 possessed several distinct strokes. He was a man of 
 care and caution, as befitted his calling; but Skeleton 
 Pads continued to pull merrily, playing every unaca- 
 demic stroke he possessed. Change after change was 
 tried in the bowling, which appeared to be tied in a 
 very ugly knot. 
 
 The century was signalled, and Upper Saxton drank 
 more beer and shouted more hoarsely. From all round 
 the ground cheers and advice were offered to the Little 
 Bilstead players. There was neither silence nor dignity 
 about Upper Saxton in the hour of victory. 
 
 If the wicket-keeper missed a ball, he was told to get 
 a bag, or offered the loan of a hat. 
 
 There was among the Upper Saxton supporters one 
 man possessed of a voice of great power and volume. 
 He was evidently regarded as the supreme wit of the 
 assembly. Time after time he boomed his sarcasms,
 
 198 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 or mock sympathy, and he was particularly severe upon 
 Mist' Alfred. 
 
 "I say, bor," he cried at last to Yardley. "Why 
 don't you put Mist' Alfred on?" 
 
 A yell of joyous laughter burst from the Upper Sax- 
 ton supporters. They remembered the missed-catch, 
 although the memory was dimmed somewhat by the 
 excellent ground fielding of Smith at long-stop. 
 
 Yells for Mist' Alfred came from all over the field. 
 The suggestion had gripped hold of the general im- 
 agination. 
 
 For a moment Yardley seemed to hesitate, his brow 
 corrugated with the worry of impending defeat. The 
 advice had come just as the last ball of the over was 
 being bowled. When the umpire called "Over," Smith 
 walked across to Yardley. They exchanged a few 
 words and then, to the surprise of every one, they were 
 seen making for the bowler's wicket. Here, with hand 
 and voice Yardley began to rearrange the field as 
 directed by Smith. 
 
 In their astonishment at what was taking place the 
 spectators forgot to shout and jeer. Man after man 
 was placed behind the batsman's wicket, short slip, long 
 slip, cover slip, third man, extra third man and, most 
 amazing of all, Yardley himself went long-stop, and 
 Yardley, as everybody knew, was the best field in Little 
 Bilstead. 
 
 When eventually it was seen that only two men be- 
 sides the bowler were in front of the batsman, the cries 
 of derision burst out again with redoubled force. 
 
 "They're all going the same way home," cried one. 
 
 "They've given up trying," said another. 
 
 "He's going to bowl for catches," ventured a third.
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 199 
 
 Never before had Mist' Alfred bowled in the annual 
 cricket-match, and all were prepared for comedy, if not 
 absolute farce. They watched eagerly for the conven- 
 tional ball to be bowled to the wicket-keeper at the side 
 of the pitch. With something akin to astonishment, 
 they realised that Mist' Alfred intended to dispense 
 with this preliminary, and the Upper Saxton supporters 
 were reassured, knowing that no bowler worthy of his 
 salt could afford to dispense with this time-honoured 
 precaution against an erratic first ball. Had not Arm- 
 strong himself hallowed the cuctom, and in a Test 
 Match too? 
 
 In the enclosure the excitement was no less great 
 than round the ground, although less energetically ex- 
 pressed. In the centre of the vicar's pale cheeks were 
 two carmine spots, giving him the appearance of having 
 been rouged. He was breathing in little sobs, and Miss 
 Lipscombe was watching him anxiously. 
 
 He read Smith's placing of the field as Belshazzar 
 of old had read the writing on the wall. 
 
 Marjorie's lower lip had disappeared, gripped by a 
 row of very small and very white teeth. 
 
 Miss Mary Jell wanted to cry, whereas Mrs. Spel- 
 man felt she must shriek. 
 
 Three times Miss Jell opened and closed her sun- 
 shade, the third time tipping Colonel Enderby's Pan- 
 ama over his eyes, and an exclamation from his lips. 
 
 Miss Marshall felt sick. It was a weakness which, 
 as a child, had caused her to receive few invitations to 
 parties, and never twice to the same house. 
 
 Never had Little Bilstead society found self-control 
 so difficult to preserve. 
 
 An uncanny silence descended upon the crowd.
 
 200 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Slowly Smith walked some eight paces beyond the 
 wicket, whilst the spectators held their breath. 
 
 Then something seemed to happen. Without a 
 pause he span round and appeared to shoot towards 
 the wicket. There was a sharp click. P.C. Postle fell 
 over backwards, and the man with the skeleton pads 
 stood regarding his middle stump where no middle 
 stump should be, some nine yards from its fellows, 
 whilst Smith was walking slowly back to the bowler's 
 wicket. 
 
 For a moment the crowd seemed to have lost the 
 power of speech. Into the vicar's throat there sprang 
 something that caused him to swallow hurriedly. The 
 Miss Jells looked at one another, interrogation in their 
 eyes. Colonel Enderby swore, whilst Mr. Marshall, 
 who had paused in the act of biting an egg-and-cress 
 sandwich, gazed at the broken wicket, a fringe of green 
 threads dangling from his lower lip. 
 
 Then pandemonium broke out. Yells, cries, and 
 cat-calls sounded from all over the field. Yardley 
 smiled for the first time during the last hour. 
 
 "You're out," cried the umpire to the man with the 
 skeleton pads, as if to remove from his mind any linger- 
 ing doubt that might lurk there. 
 
 Having apparently concluded his contemplation of 
 the errant middle stump, Skeleton Pads slowly turned 
 and walked towards the scoring-tent, whilst members 
 of the Little Bilstead team grouped themselves round 
 Smith. 
 
 "Well done, Mist' Alfred." 
 
 "Well done, bor." 
 
 "Has any one seen the middle stump?" 
 
 Cries echoed and re-echoed from all parts of the field. 
 Little Bilstead was coming into its own.
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 201 
 
 The man with the booming voice, who had advised 
 the putting on of Mist' Alfred to bowl, now became the 
 centre of virulent reproach from the supporters of 
 Upper Saxton. 
 
 From the direction of the scoring-tent, the new bats- 
 man moved reluctantly towards the wicket, which had 
 been restored. It was easy to see that he was a beaten 
 man, even before he reached the field of battle. 
 
 Cries of "Man in I" were raised and, amid booms of 
 derision and counter-hoots of delight, the Little Bil- 
 stead team resumed their positions. 
 
 The umpire gave "guard" to a quaking little bats- 
 man, who seemed to wish himself anywhere but where 
 he was. Smith again walked his eight slow, deliberate 
 steps beyond the wicket, span round, and hurtled 
 towards the terrified batsman. 
 
 At the sight of Smith tearing towards him, the little 
 man shut his eyes and withdrew his body as much as 
 possible from the bat. 
 
 Click ! This time the wicket-keeper did not fall over, 
 he dodged. Without so much as a glance at his demol- 
 ished stumps, the new batsman trotted placidly towards 
 the scoring-tent, thankful that his limbs were intact. 
 
 Once more Little Bilstead gave full voice to its en- 
 thusiasm. Men laughed and shouted, girls shrilled 
 and capered, whilst any one who was fortunate to 
 possess an instrument capable of producing a noise, 
 either blew, struck, or rattled it to the stretch of his 
 powers. 
 
 One man with a bugle went almost purple in the face 
 through striving to combine the more potent qualities 
 of the Reveille with the Last Post. 
 
 In the enclosure the excitement was almost as great, 
 although continuing to manifest itself with more re-
 
 202 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 straint and decorum; for social Little Bilstead was 
 social Little Bilstead through and through. Miss Jell 
 clapped her lace-gloved hands several times with Vic- 
 torian refinement, whilst Miss Mary, with flushed 
 cheeks and eyes unusually bright, struck her palms to- 
 gether until they ached. 
 
 Mrs. Spelman's new toque had taken a pronounced 
 list to starboard, as a result of her enthusiasm, and even 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene had softened in the hour of what 
 all regarded as an approaching triumph for Little Bil- 
 stead; for she had compromised with fashion by tilting 
 back her hat to the extent of enabling her to obtain an 
 uninterrupted view of the game without those constant 
 tossings which made her head ache. 
 
 Marjorie sat with hands clasped and shining eyes, 
 her lips slightly parted. The dramatic change in the 
 fortunes of Little Bilstead had thrilled her. At that 
 moment, with all the casuistry of a woman, she had 
 either forgotten or forgiven the delinquencies of the 
 man in the triumph of the cricketer. 
 
 "Splendid ! Splendid !" murmured the vicar, as he 
 sat with his delicate blue-veined hands clasped above 
 his walking stick. "I suspected it," he murmured, "I 
 suspected it." 
 
 Colonel Enderby scowled and muttered to himself. 
 He had endeavoured to engage Mr. Marshall in an 
 anti-hero-worship campaign; but Mr. Marshall was in 
 the process of realising that in supreme moments 
 human nature is incapable of realising more than one 
 sense at a time. Everywhere about him lay eatables 
 and drink that were good to the palate; but there were 
 none to ask him to partake. All eyes were rivetted 
 upon the cricket-pitch, all eyes, that is except those of
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 203 
 
 Mr. Marshall, which roved from basket to neglected 
 basket. 
 
 Eric Stannard could not resist a hand-wave to Mar- 
 jorie, followed by a little caper of ecstasy there are 
 emotional flaws even in the social armour of the public 
 schoolboy. 
 
 The incoming batsman managed to put off the evil 
 moment by keeping his bat rigidly in the hole he had 
 dug for it; but the next ball seemed to get round the 
 bat. In any case his off-stump was sent somersaulting 
 out of the ground. 
 
 When the over was completed, Smith's analysis read 
 three wickets for no runs. So demoralised had the 
 Upper Saxton batting become, that only two runs were 
 scored from the bowler at the other end, who had 
 hitherto been unmercifully punished. 
 
 In his next three overs, Smith concluded the Upper 
 Saxton innings, the total being 126. 
 
 As the last wicket fell, the excitement of the Little 
 Bilstead supporters could not be restrained. Like a 
 football crowd dissatisfied with the umpire's decision, 
 they streamed across the field, shouting and yelling, 
 whilst from all sides came the cry "Good on you, Mist' 
 Alfred ! Give 'em cosh !" 
 
 With difficulty Smith made his way through the 
 crowd, receiving congratulations in the form of hand- 
 shakes, blows upon the back, and shouts in his ear. 
 Little Bilstead was pleased with itself and its hero. 
 
 At length he forced a passage through the cheering 
 mass, and sought shelter in the neighbourhood of the 
 scorers' tent. Here he found Marjorie, the vicar, and 
 Eric. 
 
 "Here he is," cried Eric.
 
 204 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Smith was startled at the change in Marjorie. Her 
 cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes were dancing 
 with excitement. If she had been beautiful before, he 
 decided, she was ravishing now in her white frock and 
 the large straw hat that shaded her face. 
 
 For the first time she smiled up at him, and that 
 smile definitely sealed the fate of Upper Saxton. 
 
 "Splendid!" murmured the vicar, in a husky voice, 
 as he gripped Smith's hand. "Splendid ! I have never 
 seen finer bowling in my life. What do you think of it, 
 Yardley?" he enquired, as he beamed upon the captain 
 of Little Bilstead, who had approached the group. 
 
 "Wouldn't Mist' Alfred captain the team, sir?" he 
 enquired, looking anxiously towards Smith. 
 
 "No, no, Yardley," said Smith. "You've done very 
 well, and you're going to show us how to beat them." 
 
 Yardley shook his head despondently he knew the 
 strength of the Upper Saxton bowling. 
 
 "Will you go in first, sir?" he enquired. 
 
 "No, put me down third or fourth wicket down, 
 Yardley, that'll do," said Smith. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better to go in a little earlier?" sug- 
 gested the vicar, as Yardley made his way through the 
 throng. "We've got a very bad tail," he added. 
 
 "So I hear," smiled Smith. "Like an English Test 
 Team. No, leave me where I said." 
 
 Luncheon was taken at the conclusion of the Upper 
 Saxton innings. All round the ground people seated 
 themselves in little groups, and proceeded to unpack 
 parcels and hampers, which mostly took the form of 
 cardboard boxes, string bags, or small Japanese 
 baskets. 
 
 From Miss Lipscombe Smith had learned that the
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 205 
 
 luncheon was looked upon by the players as by no means 
 the least important item in the day's proceedings. 
 
 The match had originated as a half-day affair; but 
 the vicar had thought it would be more pleasant to 
 make a whole-day match of it, and when played at 
 Little Bilstead, he had undertaken to entertain the 
 rival teams at luncheon, which was served in a marquee 
 erected on the field. 
 
 The first whole-day match had been fraught with 
 disastrous results as far as sport was concerned. The 
 vicar had generously provided wine and beer at 
 luncheon, with the result that the subsequent cricket 
 deteriorated to such a degree that the match had ended 
 in a draw, from the sheer inability of the players to 
 continue. 
 
 For one thing the umpires, mellowed by some ex- 
 tremely good port, had refused to give any one out, 
 exhorting the fielding side to "give him another chance, 
 together," a circumstance which had seriously compro- 
 mised the interest of the game. 
 
 From that day on, only temperance drinks were pro- 
 vided, Miss Lipscombe had seen to that, and care was 
 taken that the viands should be light in character, lest 
 the umpires be tempted to sleep at their posts. 
 
 For the next hour the crowd, unconstrained by any 
 such responsibility as that resting on the players, 
 feasted joyously, pledging one another in beer and 
 cider and, above all, pledging the return of the prodi- 
 gal, Mist' Alfred. There was some wonder at this 
 sudden transformation of one who had always been 
 something of a joke in the matter of sport; but there 
 was no time for analysis. A few of the more thought- 
 ful, however, were inclined to accept Smith's statement
 
 206 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 that he was not Alfred Warren, and the few were those 
 who knew that cricketers are not made. 
 
 When at length a movement was observed at the 
 entrance of the tent, a murmur of "Here they come !" 
 ran from mouth to mouth. Baskets and bags were re- 
 packed, bottles thrown over hedges, crumbs dusted 
 from clothes, and all prepared themselves for what 
 they were convinced would be an afternoon of intense 
 excitement. 
 
 The same preliminaries were gone through as had 
 heralded the Upper Saxton innings. Smith stood by 
 the vicar, watching the Upper Saxtonians getting them- 
 selves into form with the ball. 
 
 "That," said the vicar, pointing out a man with 
 black leather boots, white flannelette trousers, a waist- 
 coat and a collar and tie, "is Marsh. He is a grievous 
 thorn in our flesh." 
 
 At that moment, Marsh delivered a ball which lifted 
 the single stump out of the ground, to the obvious de- 
 light of the Upper Saxton supporters. 
 
 "Good length," remarked Smith. 
 
 "Yes," murmured the vicar despondently, as if re- 
 calling past tragedies. "A determined man; but easily 
 flurried. Resistance seems to excite him, and he gets 
 woefully short." 
 
 Smith made a mental note of Marsh's limitations. 
 
 The opening of the Little Bilstead innings was 
 almost as sensational as the close of that of Upper 
 Saxton. With his first ball Marsh made a sorry mess 
 of the wicket of Herbert Painter, the steadiest bat in 
 the Little Bilstead team. Three balls later he caught 
 and bowled P.C. Postle. With the last ball of the over 
 Marsh spread-eagled Eric's wicket. Thus three
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 207 
 
 wickets were down and no runs. From the other end 
 Yardley, who had gone in first, viewed with consterna- 
 tion the downfall of his stalwarts. 
 
 The Upper Saxton portion of the crowd had en- 
 tirely regained its good humour and high spirits. Vic- 
 tory they now felt was assured. The man with the 
 booming voice once more gave tongue with comment 
 and criticism. The ecstasy of the Little Bilstead fac- 
 tion had died down to murmurs of apprehension : some 
 saw the certainty of a single innings defeat; others 
 wondered if it would be possible to play out time. 
 
 "Wny don't you send Mist' Alfred in?" boomed the 
 Upper Saxton critic and, as if in answer to the sug- 
 gestion, Smith was seen walking slowly towards the 
 wicket. As if by magic the spirits of the Little Bil- 
 stead supporters rose, and they cheered their champion 
 to the echo. 
 
 As he approached the wicket adjusting his gloves, 
 Yardley came to meet him. For a moment the two 
 walked side by side in conversation, then they parted 
 to take up their respective positions. 
 
 As Yardley took guard, a breathless hush seemed to 
 descend upon the field. Every movement of the players 
 was watched with feverish anxiety. The vicar found 
 it impossible to keep his hands still. Colonel Enderby 
 played with the bottom button of his Zingari blazer 
 until Miss Jell felt that she must grip his hand to keep 
 him quiet. Marjorie gazed at the nondescript group 
 of men with strained and shining eyes. 
 
 In the hearts of all there was a dread of disaster. 
 The bowler walked from the wicket, and took a short 
 run. There was a mellow sound of leather hitting 
 wood, and Little Bilstead drew its breath again.
 
 208 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Yardley had played the ball with a straight and de- 
 termined bat. The second and third he treated in the 
 same manner, the fourth he placed between cover-point 
 and mid-off, opening the score with a two. The Little 
 Bilstead supporters opened their throats with encour- 
 aging shouts, convinced that the "rot" had been 
 stopped. Yardley played the last two balls of the over 
 in steady and confident style. 
 
 The dramatic moment of the match had arrived. 
 How would Mist' Alfred shape before Dick Marsh? 
 was the question all were asking themselves. 
 
 Very deliberately Smith glanced round to see how 
 the field was placed. Walking some three yards up the 
 pitch, he removed a small piece of turf that had been 
 kicked up by Yardley's heavy heel. 
 
 "Don't you worry, Mist' Alfred," boomed the voice 
 of the Upper Saxton critic. "You won't be there 
 long, bor." 
 
 As Marsh took his run there was a quick indrawing 
 of breath among the spectators. The ball left the 
 bowler's hand and, a moment later, passed low on the 
 ground to the right of cover-point. 
 
 "Run!" yelled the crowd; but Smith's warning left 
 hand was raised, and Yardley returned to his crease. 
 Smith was not going to take the risk of putting Yardley 
 up against Marsh. The second and third balls he 
 placed in exactly the same position as the first. Marsh 
 altered the position of cover-point, with the result that 
 the next ball passed over the spot from which cover- 
 point had been removed. Marsh motioned cover-point 
 back to his original position. 
 
 The fifth ball Smith treated as he had treated the 
 first three. The crowd began to laugh. A frown set-
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 209 
 
 tied upon Marsh's features. The last ball of the over 
 also passed to the right of cover-point, and Smith's 
 hand beckoned the expectant Yardley. A shout of 
 laughter broke from the Little Bilstead spectators. 
 Mist' Alfred's strategy had become clear to all. 
 
 They were too excited to marvel at what was taking 
 place. 
 
 "Another over like that," murmured the vicar, un- 
 steadily to Marjorie, "and Marsh will go to pieces. 
 Beautiful placing," he murmured. 
 
 Marjorie gave him a swift little smile, and her eyes 
 returned to the players. 
 
 Smith took guard at the other end, and once more 
 looked deliberately round the field. The new bowler 
 appeared uncomfortable. Mentally he was arguing 
 that if the batsman could do what he liked with Marsh, 
 what was to happen to him? 
 
 Smith soon removed any doubt from his mind by 
 driving him hard to the off-boundary, just past cover- 
 point. Marsh brought mid-on over to extra cover- 
 point. The next ball was sent at express speed directly 
 over the spot that mid-on had vacated, and two runs 
 were scored. 
 
 The Little Bilstead crowd roared its delight. The 
 comedy taking place before them they appreciated to 
 its full extent. When Marsh motioned mid-on back to 
 his original position, they shouted their derision. 
 
 The bowler became nervous. As if to complete his 
 demoralisation, Smith lifted his next ball clean out of 
 the field, amidst a perfect tornado of applause. From 
 the last ball of the over he scored a single. 
 
 Again the spectators held their breath. Once more 
 the champions were opposed. Four times Smith drove
 
 210 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the ball just out of cover-point's reach; but refused to 
 run. The fifth ball of the over was short. He drove it 
 hard to the boundary. From the sixth he took a single. 
 The score had now reached twenty for three wickets. 
 
 "I think that settles Marsh," said the vicar with a 
 sigh of content. 
 
 To Yardley's face there had returned the good- 
 humoured smile it habitually wore. He felt that Little 
 Bilstead still possessed a sporting chance. From the 
 next over Smith gathered sixteen runs, and from 
 Marsh's third over nine. The hopes of the home sup- 
 porters ran high. 
 
 Slowly the score mounted, 50, 60, 70. Yardley was 
 doing his share now, and the two men were running 
 every short run they could possibly gather, demoralis- 
 ing the fielding side into wild returns and consequent 
 overthrows. Change after change was tried in the 
 bowling. Marsh crossed to the other end; but still the 
 score mounted. 
 
 At 85 Yardley failed properly to get hold of a ball 
 and was caught by mid-off, having played a patient 
 and valuable innings of fourteen. As he returned to 
 the scoring-tent, many of the spectators streamed out 
 to meet him, and with much patting on the back and 
 congratulation he was escorted back to where the 
 other members of the team were grouped. 
 
 "Forty-two to win," muttered the vicar, "and a tail 
 like nothing in Wisden." 
 
 "We shall do it," cried Marjorie. "I know we shall 
 we must"; but the vicar shook a doubtful head. 
 
 Throwing down his bat, Yardley proceeded to give 
 careful and elaborate instructions to the in-going bats- 
 man, with the result that he reduced him to a pathetic
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 211 
 
 state of nervousness. He was a man on whose shoul- 
 ders the fate of empires was never intended to rest. 
 After one ball from Marsh he returned with a silly 
 grin upon his face, and in his ears the shouts of jubila- 
 tion of Upper Saxton. 
 
 With successive balls Marsh dismissed two more of 
 his opponents, thus performing the hat trick and dis- 
 proving the vicar's prophecy. Dr. Crane was one of 
 his victims. Smith decided that he handled a bat less 
 like a hockey-stick than a scythe. 
 
 Eighty-five for seven. 
 
 Shouts echoed from all parts of the field. He of the 
 booming voice seemed to awaken as from a long slum- 
 ber. Upper Saxton had taken heart, victory seemed 
 once more within its grasp. 
 
 "If you get bowled first ball, I'll punch your head," 
 cried Yardley tensely to Tom Bassingthwaighte, the 
 postman. 
 
 Thus fortified, Tom Bassingthwaighte made his way 
 to the field of glory. He was not of a bellicose disposi- 
 tion; but there had been in his skipper's voice that which 
 carried conviction. 
 
 He proceeded to the wicket at an ambling trot, as if 
 anxious to get through the ordeal as quickly as possible. 
 Having taken guard, he gazed before him as one hyp- 
 notised. He saw Dick Marsh turn away and walk 
 from him. A moment later the ball seemed to be 
 hurtling through the air towards him, as if bent on his 
 destruction. 
 
 With Yardley's threats still ringing in his ears Tom 
 Bassingthwaighte kept his bat rigidly pressed to the 
 ground. The ball hit the outer edge and went off at a 
 tangent well out of reach of short slip. The batsman
 
 212 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 stood looking stupidly in the direction taken by the 
 ball. He was awakened to realities by a yell from 
 Smith, bidding him run. He ran. It was not until he 
 was back at his own crease that he realised he had 
 scored two. 
 
 "Over!" 
 
 Little Bilstead breathed again, now that Smith had 
 the bowling. 
 
 The first ball, a half volley, he lifted clean out of the 
 ground, the second he placed round to leg for four, the 
 third he drove for a like number, the fourth he lifted 
 over the bowler's head to the boundary, the fifth ball 
 he left alone, and the sixth he drove to the on for an 
 easy one. For some reason best known to himself, 
 Bassingthwaighte hesitated, then starting to run, he 
 crossed Smith, turned, and doubled back to his own 
 crease like a frightened rabbit. 
 
 "Get back, you silly ass!" roared Smith; but nothing 
 could persuade the little man to forsake his own crease, 
 for was not the ball on its way to the other wicket? 
 
 A roar of triumph went up as the wicket-keeper 
 whipped off the bails; many thinking that it was Smith 
 who had been run out. The cheers subsided when they 
 saw Bassingthwaighte walking dejectedly towards the 
 scoring-tent, to be met half-way by Yardley, who, with 
 passionate and intimidating movement, was conveying 
 to the unhappy man his views upon fools and "numb- 
 skulls." 
 
 "One hundred and five for eight wickets. We shall 
 never do it," murmured the vicar. "The two last men 
 can never stand six balls from Marsh." 
 
 Smith walked towards the incoming batsman. 
 
 "Now listen!" he murmured, on reaching his side.
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 213 
 
 "When I beckon, you run. Don't stop to think; but run 
 like hell. If you don't I'll I'll kill you," and with 
 that he turned on his heel and walked back to his own 
 wicket. 
 
 The new man, Charlie Jackson, an inoffensive little 
 man who acted as odd man to any and everybody in 
 Little Bilstead, had watched with admiration Bassing- 
 thwaighte's strategy and had determined to emulate it. 
 With figure braced and bat held firmly to the ground 
 he waited the onset of the first ball. It struck the bat 
 full in the centre and re-bounded half-way up the pitch. 
 
 From his self-gratulation he was roused by a terrific 
 yell to run. He ran, blindly and madly. Marsh and 
 the wicket-keeper also ran, likewise point, cover-point 
 and mid-on. Suddenly in the middle of the pitch there 
 seemed to be a crowd of players ; but Jackson had scored 
 a run and Smith had got the bowling. 
 
 A roar passed round the ground like a cyclone. For 
 one short moment Charlie Jackson had become a hero. 
 Smith's face had lost the tenseness that had character- 
 ised it during the previous few minutes, and he pro- 
 ceeded to prove conclusively that if the game were 
 won, it would be through that single scored by Charlie 
 Jackson. Three fours and a one brought the score 
 up to 119. 
 
 As the players changed over, the excitement became 
 almost intolerable. Marsh was again the bowler. He 
 was very white, and the perspiration stood out in little 
 beads upon his forehead. 
 
 "Give him cosh, bor," boomed the Upper Saxton 
 supporter with the megaphone voice, as Marsh walked 
 from the wicket. 
 
 Ball after ball Smith played with care and respect;
 
 214 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the fourth, however, was short, and he drove it to the 
 on for two, bringing the score to 121. The spectators 
 held their breath. The next ball also yielded two. 
 
 Marsh gathered himself together for a final effort. 
 If he could prevent Smith from scoring, there was still 
 a chance for Upper Saxton to win. In an endeavour 
 to get additional pace on the ball he added a yard to 
 his run. 
 
 The ball pitched short. 
 
 There was a sharp crack, a terrific yell, and Marsh 
 knew that Smith had scored a boundary and won the 
 match. 
 
 Then the crowd seemed to go mad. Men yelled, 
 girls danced, fights broke out. 
 
 The next over accounted for the two remaining bats- 
 men. 
 
 Little Bilstead had won by a single run ! 
 
 At the "click" which told of the fall of the last 
 wicket, the crowd surged across the field. Smith felt 
 himself seized by many hands that endeavoured to 
 hoist him upon as many different shoulders. 
 
 He was deafened by the noise, bruised by the rough 
 handling he was receiving, and he was very thirsty. 
 
 Eventually, in a position of extreme discomfort, He 
 was carried towards the scoring-tent, where he learned 
 that his individual score was 99 not out. 
 
 Out from the surge of many impressions, people 
 wringing his hands, hitting him on the back, com- 
 miserating with him on not having reached a century, 
 a perfect babel of nothingnesses, came the picture of 
 Marjorie clapping her hands, her hair disordered, her 
 face flushed. He experienced a strange sensation as if 
 all his muscles had suddenly relaxed. 
 
 Everybody was talking at once, and every word in
 
 SMITH BECOMES A POPULAR HERO 215 
 
 praise of Smith's play. Such cricket had never been 
 seen in either Little Bilstead or Upper Saxton. It was 
 a match that would go down to posterity as the greatest 
 in the history of the county. 
 
 Every one strove to get a closer view of the hero of 
 the hour. The girls told one another how handsome 
 he was, with his curly fair hair and bronzed features; 
 whilst the men, remembering what he had done, re- 
 frained from criticism, which, in reality, would have 
 been self-defence. 
 
 The vicar was mopping his eyes with a coloured 
 handkerchief, pretending a fly was the cause of the un- 
 usual moisture. Miss Jell was actually cordial, whilst 
 Miss Mary never afterwards was able to explain how 
 it came about that her sister found her clutching Smith's 
 left shin, as he struggled to preserve a position that 
 would at least ensure his head being not lower than 
 his feet. 
 
 Mrs. Spelman's toque was resting on her right 
 shoulder. Mrs. Truspitt-Greene's millinery now sat 
 on her head like the straw hat of a stage Jack Tar, 
 whilst Mrs. Crane was crying softly to herself Mrs. 
 Crane always cried on occasions of great emotional 
 tension. 
 
 Colonel Enderby had gone home, and at that mo- 
 ment was mixing a whisky-and-soda with Hindustani 
 oaths; whilst Mr. Marshall had seized the moment of 
 excitement to do a little scavenging on his own account, 
 with the result that he succeeded in acquiring a cheese- 
 cake minus one bite, an apple, a piece of cake, two 
 tomatoes, and three sandwiches, a little curled at the 
 edges. Later he had to confess to himself that he had 
 seldom done so well at a cricket match. 
 
 Apart from the discomfort of having each limb in
 
 216 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the charge of a different section of the crowd, Smith 
 was gravely concerned as to the probable effect of such 
 robustiousness upon "Gents' Superfine Unshrinkable 
 Flans." 
 
 When at length he managed to free himself from 
 the embarrassing attentions of cheering Little Bil- 
 steadians, and assume an upright position upon his feet, 
 it was to find himself gazing down at Eric's flushed face. 
 
 U I say, you're the giddy limit," he cried. 
 
 Smith, however, did not hear. He was looking 
 about for Marjorie; but she had gone. At that mo- 
 ment she was sitting at her bedroom window, gazing 
 out at the gently swaying trees, wondering why she had 
 come away so suddenly and what people would think. 
 
 She had experienced the sensations of "The Hosts 
 of Tuscany," and had fled from the temptation to 
 cheer the enemy.
 
 FROM the hour that Smith won the cricket match 
 against Upper Saxton Little Bilstead became a 
 village divided against itself. 
 
 The sporting section of the community, and Little 
 Bilstead was intensely sporting in the matter of its an- 
 nual trial of strength with Upper Saxton, went over to 
 Smith in a body. Little Bilstead Society, however, 
 showed a nicer discrimination between the relative 
 claims of match-winning and morals. 
 
 Colonel Enderby was not the man to be influenced 
 by "mob-worship," as he called it, and the sudden popu- 
 larity of Smith rendered him almost apoplectic with 
 rage. He drank many whiskies-and-sodas, which re- 
 acted upon his liver, and his liver in turn affected his 
 temper. 
 
 There was between Colonel Enderby and peace with 
 Alfred Warren a linen line of fluttering filminess. He 
 had been known to swear audibly in a crowded thor- 
 oughfare at the sight of a shop-window dressed for 
 the part of a "Great White Sale," and to the astonish- 
 ment of the passers-by. Nothing could wipe out the 
 memory of what he regarded as, not only an insult to 
 himself, but an affront to the army. 
 
 When Tom Bassingthwaighte delivered to the 
 Colonel his letters on the morning after Smith had 
 
 made cricket history for Little Bilstead, he had added 
 
 217
 
 218 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 to his usual greeting of "Good mornin', Colonel" a 
 reference to the victory of the previous afternoon. 
 
 "Go to hell !" had been the explosive reply, and the 
 door was banged violently in the postman's face. 
 
 Can ninety-nine not out and a handful of wickets 
 wipe out the memory of a great scandal? That was 
 the question which had exercised the mind of Miss Jell 
 throughout a sleepless night. She knew that in the 
 morning her sister would return to her hero-worship 
 of the day before. Miss Jell had noted in the de- 
 meanour of her sister, when rebuked for her admiration 
 of the prodigal, an indication of mutiny. It was the 
 merest suggestion; but it had caused her some anxiety. 
 To her, Miss Mary was a younger sister, and as such 
 must be protected from all influences likely to imperil 
 the Victorian innocence of her naturally sweet nature. 
 
 Something must be done, Miss Jell had told herself 
 time after time, as she tossed from side to side on her 
 feather-bed. It was the flat-footed Ellen, however, 
 who had supplied the rod with which the unfortunate 
 Mary Jell was to be disciplined. 
 
 Miss Jell was first down that morning, and Ellen, a 
 woman and therefore a hero-worshipper, promptly 
 made reference to the cricket-match and how the lad 
 who brought the milk from the farm had made refer- 
 ence to "Miss Mary a-clinging to Mist' Alfred's leg." 
 
 Having frozen Ellen to silence, Miss Jell was con- 
 scious of a feeling of relief. During the night she 
 had prayed very hard for guidance, and Providence 
 had sent her Smith's left leg wherewith to rebuke her 
 delinquent sister. 
 
 By the time breakfast was over, that is to say Miss 
 Jell's breakfast, for her sister consumed nothing but 
 the bitterness of repentance, Miss Mary was reduced
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 219 
 
 to tears and a determination to slip into the church 
 that morning and ask God to forgive her for her un- 
 maidenliness in grasping the shin of a popular hero, 
 albeit in a moment of great excitement. 
 
 She was convinced that she would never be able to 
 meet Smith again without blushing, and the mere sight 
 of a man would recall to her mind that she, Mary Jell, 
 had been so forward as to grasp a masculine tibia. 
 
 "I I must be brazen," she sobbed on her bed that 
 morning, and Mary Jell knew no greater condemnation 
 of a woman than to say that she was brazen. 
 
 In each and every Little Bilstead home on the morn- 
 ing following Smith's sudden jump to fame, the talk 
 was exclusively concerned with the great and glorious 
 victory so recently achieved. Each player in the match 
 recounted his own particular deeds, particularly those 
 who had been the greatest failures. To listening 
 wives, mothers or brothers, they explained, to their 
 own entire satisfaction, that the match had been won 
 by that one particular run which they had either made 
 or prevented an Upper Saxton player from making. 
 
 All agreed that Mist' Alfred's play had been a reve- 
 lation, and those who possessed some knowledge of the 
 science of the game went over incontinently to the 
 Smith Heresy. 
 
 During the day Little Bilstead was inspired with 
 varying emotions and prompted to diverse occupations. 
 
 Mrs. Spelman took her toque to pieces, although it 
 had been re-trimmed specially for the cricket-match, 
 whilst Tom Simmons got most expensively drunk on 
 old ale, the strength of his head rendering indulgence in 
 this direction almost ruinous. Officially he reported 
 himself as suffering from colic. 
 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene spent the whole morning in
 
 220 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "waving" her best auburn wig, and composing an in- 
 vitation to "Mr. Alfred Warren" to take tea with her 
 a week hence. If anything happened in the meantime, 
 she argued, influenza should save her from the embar- 
 rassment of an engagement she was undesirous of 
 keeping. 
 
 Miss Marshall washed her father's linen trousers, 
 humming the while, "Onward, Christian Soldiers," in 
 honour of the victory of her village; whilst her father 
 was engaged in retrospective regrets for the many 
 dainties he had missed, which he now saw he might 
 easily have attached without exciting comment, either 
 verbal or mental. 
 
 At The Grange, Eric was irrepressible. He 
 "jazzed" Mrs. Higgs across the hall until she collapsed 
 upon the stairs, not from want of enthusiasm; but from 
 sheer lack of breath. He locked Willis in his pantry, 
 and burst in upon his sister at a time when at least two 
 inches more of silk stocking were exposed to view than 
 the public was privileged to see. The result was a 
 fierce combat, in which a table became upset and a vase 
 broken before Marjorie's dainty person was firmly fixed 
 upon what Eric called his stomach; but which she in- 
 sisted was his chest. 
 
 "Isn't it just spif ?" he gasped, when at length per- 
 mitted to rise, and Marjorie smiled. 
 
 "I say, Marjie," he burst out, when his sister had 
 assumed a dressing-gown of a rich amber tint. That 
 morning ordinary speech was denied him. He was in 
 a mood for bursts like those of a Lewis gun. 
 
 "Yes, Eric," she replied, without looking round from 
 the mirror, in front of which she had taken up her 
 stand and was proceeding to brush her hair. 
 
 "Why don't you marry Smith?"
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 221 
 
 There was a tinkling crash as the brush fell from her 
 hand among various toilet "requisites." 
 
 "Don't be silly, Eric," she said, as she picked up the 
 brush and proceeded to draw it over the auburn masses 
 of her hair. 
 
 "You like him." 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "You dropped your brush." 
 
 "It slipped from my hand." 
 
 "Why doesn't it slip now?" 
 
 "Because I'm holding it more tightly." 
 
 "Rats!" 
 
 And she continued in long sweeping strokes to re- 
 order her hair. 
 
 "Why won't you marry him?" he persisted, as she 
 made no sign of continuing the conversation. "He'll 
 play for England one of these days." 
 
 It seemed to him selfish of any sister to deny a fellow 
 such a brother-in-law. 
 
 "But you know he's not that Warren blighter," he 
 continued. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she demanded, turning 
 swiftly from the contemplation of her own reflection 
 to the screwed-up freckled face of her brother. Eric 
 always screwed up his features when demanding some- 
 thing he saw very little chance of getting. 
 
 "A fellow can't learn to play cricket like that; it's; 
 in him. You ask the vicar." 
 
 Marjorie turned slowly back to the mirror. The 
 movement of the brush was slower, and there was a 
 slight pucker about the delicately pencilled eyebrows. 
 
 "He's frightfully keen on you," Eric went on pres- 
 ently. "He seems ' 
 
 "Be quiet, Eric, and don't talk nonsense," she cried,
 
 222 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 and the mirror reflected a blush that she knew was 
 not hers. 
 
 "He's always talking about you," Eric continued 
 remorselessly, "or trying to get me to. He thinks I 
 don't see through it; but I do," he added, with a know- 
 ing air. "I may have a fool name; but " 
 
 "Where do you learn such expressions, Eric?" broke 
 in Marjorie, anxious to divert the conversation from its 
 present embarrassing channel. 
 
 "What expression?" 
 
 "Fool name." 
 
 "Oh! that's Otis P. Wannerbocker's. He's an 
 American, one of Hambly's crowd. Not a bad fellow. 
 He broke Gambrill's nose, and it made him popular." 
 
 "Made him popular!" cried Marjorie, pausing in her 
 brushing. 
 
 "Gamb's always bullying somebody, and he said 
 Washington was a rebel. So Otis P. went for him, and 
 Gamb went about with his nose in a sling. Of course, 
 we all know that old Wash was a reb; but it was rotten 
 bad form to say so," he added for his sister's illumina- 
 tion. "But I say, Marjie, it's jolly beastly of you." 
 
 "What is?" she queried weakly. 
 
 "You know what I mean," he retorted sullenly. 
 "You might, you know how rotten I am with fast bowl- 
 ing, and he would " 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous, Eric," she retorted, resuming 
 her brushing. 
 
 "It's precious little I ever ask," he grumbled, "and 
 when I do you here, what the " 
 
 She had turned swiftlv and, before Eric could com- 
 plete his sentence, or had time to dodge, her arms were 
 round his neck, and she had kissed him.
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 223 
 
 "You off your Brazil?" he demanded angrily, as he 
 rubbed the back of his neck, then withdrawing his hand 
 he examined it carefully for signs of blood, but seeing 
 nothing, he resumed the rubbing. "That brush hurts." 
 With heightened colour, Marjorie returned to the 
 mirror and recommenced the brushing of her hair. Did 
 her eyes really sparkle as much as the mirror said? 
 
 "It was to show I forgive you for bursting into my 
 room when well, just now," she said, with a calmness 
 she was far from feeling. 
 
 For nearly a minute he continued to regard the 
 rhythmic sweep of the brush and the billow of her hair 
 as from time to time she threw back her head. Finally, 
 without further remark, he slipped out of the room, 
 his brow puckered in thought, as have been the brows 
 of many other males at the inexplicability of the female 
 of their own species. 
 
 It was then that he locked Willis in his pantry. He 
 required dramatic relief. 
 
 That morning's breakfast at the vicarage was the 
 brightest that either Miss Lipscombe or Janet remem- 
 bered. For the time being, the vicar seemed to find 
 more in the smallness of Little Bilstead than in the 
 glory and the grandeur of the ancients. 
 
 The cricket-match was replayed in its every detail; 
 each thrill was re-experienced, and every pang was felt 
 anew. Time after time came from Miss Lipscombe 
 the reminder, "John, your coffee is getting cold," or 
 "Cricket will keep hot; but eggs and bacon won't," at 
 which the vicar, ever obedient, would either drink, or 
 eat, a moment later returning to the excitements of the 
 previous day's game. 
 
 Both he and Miss Lipscombe were now entirely con-
 
 224. THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 vinced that Smith was not Alfred Warren. The vicar 
 had dismissed the matter in a few words. A first-class 
 cricketer himself in his youth, he knew that such skill 
 as Smith had shown was as remote from acquirement 
 as the genius of a Theocritus, or a Horace. 
 
 Janet marvelled at the change in "the master," whilst 
 the lines at the corners of Miss Lipscombe's mouth 
 fluttered as she watched the keen, nervous hands of her 
 brother as they emphasised his words. 
 
 Once he upset his coffee-cup in illustrating a stroke 
 to which he had been addicted nearly half a century be- 
 fore, and he forgot even to apologise to his sister, a 
 thing he invariably did at any mishap due either to his 
 own or another's act. 
 
 Suddenly there was a whirr of wings, followed by 
 shrill pipings of protest, announcing that some forbid- 
 den foot was invading the birds' breakfast-table. The 
 flutters disappeared from the corners of Miss Lip- 
 scombe's mouth, as she turned to rebuke the intruder 
 for an unpardonable act of sacrilege. 
 
 A moment later the grinning face of Eric appeared 
 at the open French windows. 
 
 "Eric, haven't I told you " 
 
 "Sorry, Miss Lipscombe," he cried; "but I couldn't 
 wait to go round. I've just got to talk about it to some 
 one or I shall explode. I've had a fight with Marjie, 
 jazzed Higgy out of breath, and locked Willis in his 
 pantry; but isn't it ripping, sir," he broke off, ad- 
 dressing the vicar, "absolutely top-hole. Morning," 
 he nodded to Smith. 
 
 "We were just talking about the match, Eric," said 
 the vicar. 
 
 "I shan't talk of anything else, sir, for a month," 
 cried Eric.
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 225 
 
 "It was a wonderful day," said the vicar, relapsing 
 somewhat into his customary dreaminess, "a wonderful 
 day. I often wonder, Hannah," he continued, address- 
 ing his sister, "if I ought not to modify the interest I 
 take in sport. For a shepherd " 
 
 "Rubbish !" she cried. "If a shepherd isn't a sports- 
 man, how is he to know how to keep wolves away from 
 his flock?" 
 
 The vicar's eyes widened slightly as he gazed across 
 at his sister. 
 
 "That savours of the Sophists, Hannah," he said 
 gently. "I must seek the guidance of the bishop when 
 he comes," and Miss Lipscombe made a mental note 
 to have the first word with the bishop. 
 
 It had become the bishop's custom, when visiting his 
 old friend, the vicar of Little Bilstead, first to enquire 
 of Miss Lipscombe for details of what he called "the 
 dark patches." Consequently, when the vicar asked 
 for guidance, the bishop was never at a loss how to 
 advise him, and in such a way as to deny him none of 
 the few pleasures he loved; but which he thought might 
 be wrong just because he loved them. 
 
 "I wish we were playing again to-day," said Eric, 
 as he seated himself at the table, and began work upon 
 a large slice of currant cake. 
 
 "Are you collecting eggs then?" asked Miss Lip- 
 scombe drily. 
 
 "I say that's too bad, Miss Lipscombe," he pro- 
 tested through a mouthful of cake. "I know I made a 
 blob; but if I hadn't stopped that boundary, we should 
 have been licked." 
 
 "I suppose there are ten different men who think 
 they won," suggested Miss Lipscombe, who loved to 
 tease Eric.
 
 226 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "No, Miss Lipscombe," he replied, "nine men and 
 a boy," and he took another bite of cake, which to fur- 
 ther controversy was like an editorial, "this discussion 
 is now closed." 
 
 As soon as Colonel Enderby was shaved and dressed 
 that morning, he went down to the village in the hope 
 of encountering one of his own "social set," as he was 
 accustomed to regard those whom he allowed himself 
 to meet on equal terms. 
 
 As he passed Rose Cottage, he caught a glimpse of 
 Mr. Marshall's white trousers swaying gently in the 
 breeze. Some strange association of ideas caused him 
 to flush darkly and swear fluently under his breath. 
 
 Outside the post-office, he encountered Mrs. Trus- 
 pitt-Greene, who had just posted her letter inviting 
 Smith to tea with her. She had taken the precaution 
 of altering the slope of her handwriting, so that "Paul 
 Pryingthwaighte," as she called the village postman, 
 should not discover who was writing to the prodigal. 
 She had taken the further precaution of securing the 
 flap with sealing-wax. Mrs. Truspitt-Greene took no 
 risks. 
 
 As she had addressed her invitation to Alfred War- 
 ren, it was not until months later that it was opened, 
 and Smith became aware of the honour that had been 
 conferred upon him. 
 
 "Good morning, marm," cried the Colonel, as he 
 lifted his cap. "None the worse for yesterday's heat, 
 I hope," he added gallantly. 
 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene smiled up at him, using the 
 same smile which, forty years ago, had secured her a 
 husband. 
 
 "What did you think of it, Colonel?" she asked,
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 227 
 
 guardedly. Not quite seeing how she could ascribe the 
 defeat of Upper Saxton to Heavenly Will, she decided 
 it were better to seek earthly guidance. 
 
 "A scandal, marm !" he cried, in the tone he had been 
 accustomed to use to his officers when informing them 
 that the regiment, and incidentally the British army, 
 was going to the dogs. "Last night the whole village 
 was intoxicated, marm, intoxicated," he added, in what 
 was almost a shout. 
 
 "You don't say so !" cried Mrs. Truspitt-Greene. 
 All the morning she had been regretting the fact that 
 the previous evening she had allowed herself to be dis- 
 suaded from taking a walk with her maid towards the 
 village. It was the maid who had dissuaded her; she 
 had plans of her own, also the back-door key. At 
 breakfast she had told her mistress of the "goings on" 
 of the night before, mentioning the milk-boy as her 
 source of information. 
 
 "I saw it myself," he barked. "The whole village 
 was full of men and women, drinking and fighting and 
 dancing. It's a scandal, and all through that scoundrel 
 Warren. He ought to be deported." 
 
 It was true that Little Bilstead had held high car- 
 nival the previous night, gathering in force outside 
 The Pigeons. The local contingent had been rein- 
 forced by a good sprinkling of Upper Saxtonians. 
 
 By nine o'clock The Pigeons' cellars had been drunk 
 dry of all save a few bottles of spirits and mineral 
 waters, after which strange concoctions were invented 
 and drunk, including cider and rum, cherry-brandy and 
 stone ginger-beer. 
 
 There had been several faction fights, in all of which 
 Little Bilstead had triumphed; for never had Little
 
 228 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Bilstead tails been so erect as on that dramatic night 
 of unexpected victory. 
 
 At first the general attitude had been a little uncer- 
 tain; but after a few rounds of the flowing bowl, as rep- 
 resented by mugs of ale, the name of "Mist' Alfred" 
 was heard again and again, coupled with toasts of vain- 
 glory and rhodomontade; for Little Bilstead wore its 
 newly-acquired laurels no more modestly than Upper 
 Saxton had worn theirs in the past. 
 
 Yardley had been seen hopping about unsteadily on 
 one foot, like an intoxicated robin, moving from group 
 to group enquiring if any one had seen his boot, which 
 had somehow disappeared when removed in order that 
 a crease in his sock might be readjusted. Roars of 
 laughter had greeted his efforts to discover it. 
 
 Yardley had been one of the chief victims of the vic- 
 tory. Every one wanted to be his host, and quite a 
 number succeeded, with the result that the Little Bil- 
 stead captain, who boasted one of the strongest heads 
 in the Eastern Counties, found it extremely difficult to 
 move about on one leg.. 
 
 "That fellow Postle was one of the worst," barked 
 Colonel Enderby. "I shall report him." 
 
 It was true that P.C. Postle had somewhat forgot- 
 ten the dignity due to the uniform he wore. 
 
 Colonel Enderby was prepared to report an arch- 
 angel for making a draught with his wings. There 
 were few of his inferiors in Little Bilstead, male or 
 female, whom at one time or another he had not threat- 
 ened to report. 
 
 At that very moment, the village policeman himself 
 was engaged in going through his cottage with a tooth- 
 comb in search of his helmet. He was puzzled to ac-
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 229 
 
 count for a red hat, adorned with blue poppies, which 
 hung from the peg dedicated to his official headgear 
 when not in action. 
 
 "Ha!" cried the Colonel, as the Miss Jells came 
 out of the post-office and, with a bow and another ex- 
 posure of his manifest baldness to the blue dome of 
 heaven, he hurriedly left Mrs. Truspitt-Greene. 
 
 "Good morning!" he cried, with a sudden stiffening 
 of his frame, followed by a bow and yet a third ex- 
 posure of the crown that took so high a polish. "I 
 hope you were not disturbed by last night's disgrace- 
 ful scenes." 
 
 Neither of the Miss Jells had heard of anything dis- 
 graceful, although Miss Mary blushed at the sound^of 
 a word she heard for the second time that day. Colonel 
 Enderby once more plunged into the story of the 
 scandalous conduct of the Little Bilsteadians in the 
 hour of victory. 
 
 Miss Jell looked shocked, whilst Miss Mary strove 
 not to appear as interested as she felt. 
 
 "We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole 
 county," he cried angrily in conclusion, "and all through 
 that young reprobate Warren." 
 
 Miss Mary gave a little shudder of fear; for had 
 not she, Mary Jell, clung to the left shin of the very 
 man the Colonel was denouncing she felt almost fast. 
 
 "I tried to find Postle," continued the Colonel, 
 "and " He stopped suddenly. Coming towards 
 them was the epitome of the law himself, carrying 
 something done up flimsily in a newspaper. 
 
 At the sight of the Miss Jells and Colonel Enderby, 
 whom he held in considerable dread, Postle hurriedly 
 transferred the parcel to the rear, walking along with
 
 230 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 an elaborate air of unconcern, which in another would 
 not have deceived even him. 
 
 Memory had at length come to his aid, and he re- 
 called having exchanged hats the previous night with 
 pretty Millie Marjoram, and he was now on his way 
 to effect a re-exchange. 
 
 Although wearing his uniform, Postle had on his 
 head a cloth cap, which gave to his appearance the sug- 
 gestion of a music-hall turn. 
 
 He was so intent upon the little group of notabili- 
 ties that he did not see the smiling Millie herself ap- 
 proaching, his helmet on the back of her impudent head. 
 
 Colonel Enderby, however, saw it and, being a man 
 of the world and one who had "fought for his king and 
 country," as he was fond of expressing it, realised 
 immediately the significance of what he saw. 
 
 "Postle!" he cried, in a voice that would have 
 brought a squad of the rawest recruits to attention like 
 a Prussian regiment. 
 
 There was a scream, a helmet dropped a few feet 
 in front of the astonished Postle, whilst Millie was 
 running towards a red hat with blue poppies lying in 
 the middle of the road. That jaunty air of detach- 
 ment had been fatal to the fastenings of P.C. Postle's 
 parcel, and the hat had fallen out. 
 
 "Catch me changin' hats wi' you again, bor," cried 
 the outraged Millie, as she proceeded to blow the dust 
 from her precious headgear. "You gowk !" she added, 
 her eyes still upon the reds and blues of her treasured 
 millinery. 
 
 Postle continued to stare at the Colonel, whilst Miss 
 Jell turned aside and Miss Mary blushed. Somehow 
 or other the incident reminded her of her own un- 
 maidenly act of the day before.
 
 A VILLAGE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 231 
 
 To Miss Jell, it seemed almost indelicate that such 
 revelations should be made in the presence of a man. 
 She had always disapproved of Millie Marjoram; she 
 disapproved of all pretty girls on principle, for was not 
 prettiness in a girl merely a trap, and did it not, sooner 
 or later, invariably lead to scandal? This incident, 
 however, was both flagrant and indelicate. It 
 
 "What have you to say for yourself, Postle ?" barked 
 the Colonel fiercely, his moustache appearing strangely 
 white against the purple of his face. 
 
 "She took my 'elmet," he grumbled, as he stooped 
 to retrieve his official headgear. "Blaam her !" he mut- 
 tered under his breath, as he rose once more to an up- 
 right position. Then, in what appeared to be one 
 movement, he placed the helmet on his head, saluted, 
 turned, and was walking swiftly away in the direction 
 of his own cottage. 
 
 "I 'ont forget this, mor," he hissed, as he passed the 
 now smiling Millie, who promptly put out her tongue 
 at him. 
 
 Miss Mary, who saw the action, was once more 
 strangely reminded of her own lapse. 
 
 "I hope you are not going to receive this young 
 scoundrel!" cried Colonel Enderby, tearing his gaze 
 from the back of the retreating Postle to Miss Jell. 
 "We look to you," he added, as she appeared to 
 hesitate. 
 
 "Certainly not, Colonel Enderby," was the icy retort 
 and, with a slight bow, Miss Jell passed on, followed 
 by her sister, who blushed for the third time that 
 morning. 
 
 "Now what the devil !" he spluttered, bewildered 
 at the sudden change in Miss Jell's social barometer. 
 "Damn!" he exploded, as he turned on his heel and
 
 232 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 stamped off in the direction of his own house, where 
 Mrs. Warnes was engaged in preparing a curry almost 
 as hot as the Colonel's temper. 
 
 "It is not for Colonel Enderby to suggest whom we 
 shall receive and whom we shall not receive," Miss 
 Jell remarked to her sister, as they walked through the 
 village in the direction of The Cedars. "His remark 
 is a presumption," she added, and her sister wondered 
 if they were really going to receive the man whose 
 shin she had embraced with such abandon, and again 
 she blushed.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 P.C. POSTLE ASSUMES HIS UNIFORM 
 
 * * ,4 RE you the village constable ?" 
 /"\ "I be, sir," replied John Postle, wishing he 
 were in uniform, and that he had selected an- 
 other day for cleaning out the fowl-house. The indica- 
 tions all pointed to "a case." 
 
 "I have been assaulted!" 
 
 The speaker was the man in the brown-and-white 
 check suit whom Eric had "pinked," as he called it, the 
 previous Saturday afternoon on the way back from 
 Norwich. 
 
 "Assaulted, sir ! You don't mean it." John Postle's 
 heart leapt with joy. 
 
 In a flash he saw his portrait in the papers, particu- 
 larly the London papers. He saw himself arresting 
 dangerous characters, he saw himself promoted. He 
 saw 
 
 "Where ha' you been assaulted, sir?" he heard him- 
 self enquiring. 
 
 "About three miles from here," said the stranger, 
 and he went on to say that he had been forced to accept 
 a lift to Norwich from a passing carter, both for him- 
 self and his motor bicycle. This accounted for the de- 
 lay in lodging his complaint. 
 
 "Ay, but what part o' the body, sir?" asked Postle 
 eagerly. He was more than ever resentful that the 
 fowls should have claimed him on this of all days. 
 His uniform would have made all the difference in the 
 world. 
 
 233
 
 234. THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I was in a stooping position," explained the 
 stranger, with great delicacy. 
 
 Postle rubbed his chin with the pad of his right 
 thumb, which bore marked evidences of his recent 
 occupation. The law required the utmost detail. In 
 his own mind he was quite satisfied that the stranger 
 had been kicked; but he doubted if his superiors would 
 consider "assaulted whilst in a stooping position" as 
 sufficiently explicit. The impressive appearance of the 
 prosecutor, as in his own mind he already called him, 
 with his luxuriant auburn moustache, seemed to forbid 
 a demand for further particulars. 
 
 "I was bending over my motor-cycle," continued the 
 stranger, "which had developed engine-trouble, when 
 I was shot " 
 
 "Shot!" 
 
 The word burst from John Postle's lips like a shout 
 of thanksgiving. At last his hour had come ! With- 
 out a word he turned and bolted into the house, leav- 
 ing the stranger with the auburn moustache gazing into 
 a little room crowded with the village constable's cher- 
 ished possessions. Before, however, he had time to 
 make up his mind whether or not to enter, Postle reap- 
 peared, struggling into his official tunic, his helmet on 
 the back of his head. 
 
 A few seconds later his calloused hands grasped 
 note-book and pencil P.C. Postle was prepared for 
 the great moment of his official career. A man had 
 been shot in Little Bilstead ! 
 
 Already he saw the newspapers full of the sensation. 
 He heard paper-boys shouting the news in the streets 
 of London, he saw himself at The Pigeons, a dictator, 
 knowing neither thirst nor interruption.
 
 P.C. POSTLE ASSUMES HIS UNIFORM 235 
 
 "You were shot, sir?" he began, the tip of the pencil 
 pressed against his lower lip, his eyes searching the 
 stranger's generous person for bloodstains. "You 
 come inside, sir," he added with inspiration, suddenly 
 becoming conscious that a little fringe of juvenile spec- 
 tators was collecting round the gate. 
 
 The stranger entered the little room, to which the 
 front door gave direct access, and seated himself at 
 the round-table in the centre, whilst Postle worked 
 industriously with his stub of pencil, pausing after every 
 other word to moisten the tip. 
 
 "Shot in a stooping position," he read slowly as he 
 wrote, "with What were you shot with, sir, was it 
 a gun or a pistol?" he enquired, looking up. 
 
 "I think it was a catapult." 
 
 In a flash P.C. Postle's house of cards was de- 
 molished. 
 
 A catapult ! 
 
 Although it was an irregular and illegal proceeding 
 for one liege subject of His Majesty King George to 
 assault another, even with a catapult, there was some- 
 thing almost grotesque in the view that a catapult was 
 a lethal weapon. 
 
 There was about John Postle nothing of the sleuth- 
 hound, with a face that is a mask for the emotions be- 
 hind. His surprise and disappointment expressed 
 themselves so clearly in his widened eyes and half-open 
 mouth, that the stranger felt called upon to say some- 
 thing in justification of his charge. 
 
 "If I had been riding my motor-cycle instead of 
 standing by it," he said, "I might have been killed. Be- 
 sides, it hurt. It still hurts," he added, and he shifted 
 uneasily in his chair.
 
 236 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 With flagging and laborious pencil, Postle took down 
 the remaining particulars the stranger had to give. 
 His heart was no longer in his task, he even regretted 
 having donned his official tunic. The absurdity of 
 assuming such a garment to take down details of a 
 man having been shot at by some one with a catapult 
 was obvious even to him, and he was proud of his uni- 
 form and besides, there was no blood. 
 
 To John Postle assault without bloodshed was not 
 crime as he understood it. He. always thought of the 
 victim as "weltering in his own blood." It added 
 colour to the crime. 
 
 He proceeded to rub his chin with the pad of a 
 dubious thumb. He was a little uncertain as to the 
 next step in the procedure. Had it been murder, with 
 a "weltering" corpse, he would have known exactly 
 what was required of him; but a man assaulted by a 
 catapult whilst in a stooping position! This presented 
 difficulties. 
 
 "Did you see the prisoner?" he enquired, anticipat- 
 ing the natural order of events. 
 
 "Did I see?" queried the stranger. 
 
 "Did you see the man what assaulted you, sir?" en- 
 quired Postle, "whilst in a stooping position," he added 
 as an afterthought. 
 
 "It wasn't a man," said the stranger irascibly. "It 
 was a boy, a boy with red hair. He was in a motor- 
 car. I took the number of the car, or at least part of 
 it," and he dived into his breast-pocket. "It was " 
 he drew a note-book from his pocket and gazed at it 
 earnestly, "N 078, and some other figure I could not 
 quite see; it was partly covered with mud." 
 
 Postle looked solemn as he still rubbed a bristly
 
 P.C. POSTLE ASSUMES HIS UNIFORM 237 
 
 chin with his left thumb. The number of the car, even 
 in its incomplete state, coupled with the redness of 
 the hair of the delinquent, constituted clues of the ut- 
 most importance. In other words, he had identified 
 the aggressor, and the knowledge embarrassed him. 
 After all, the complainant or prosecutor, he was not yet 
 quite sure how he ought to classify him, was a stranger, 
 and with him all strangers were suspect. 
 
 On the other hand, there was Miss Marjorie to be 
 thought of. About Eric he troubled nothing, all boys 
 were "young varmen"; but the idea of causing Miss 
 Marjorie trouble or worry was alien to his thoughts. 
 
 There was, however, the official aspect of the case to 
 be considered. 
 
 "I have to go on to Norwich now to get a new mag- 
 neto," announced the stranger, caressing the auburn 
 luxuriance that cascaded from his upper lip. "I shall 
 be back in a few days. If you haven't found this boy 
 by then, I shall report the matter at Scotland Yard." 
 
 Postle shivered at the mention of Scotland Yard. 
 He was impressed by the stranger's firm demeanour. 
 He might be anybody. 
 
 "It's Master Eric, that's a sure moral," was his 
 unuttered thought. "I think, sir," he said, turning to 
 the stranger, "I ha' got a clue." 
 
 "You know this boy?" 
 
 Postle hesitated. It seemed disloyal to Miss Mar- 
 jorie to betray Eric; still, there was duty to be con- 
 sidered. 
 
 "I fare to think I can find him, sir, by the time 
 you're back." 
 
 "Then I shall want you to take me to a magistrate 
 and obtain a summons for "
 
 238 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Shooting at you with a catapult while in a stooping 
 position," murmured Postle, as the stranger rose. 
 
 With a sigh, he straightened his tunic and cast a 
 glance at his boots, which still bore traces of the 
 fowl-house. 
 
 Opening the door, he stood aside for the other to 
 pass out. A moment later he was startled by an ex- 
 clamation from his visitor, and he had a vision of the 
 burly figure running down the path shouting to some 
 one to stop. 
 
 "That's him !" cried the stranger over his shoulder, 
 pointing at Eric, who had just passed the house and 
 was walking in the direction of The Grange. "That's 
 the young scoundrel," he cried dramatically, "I give 
 him in charge." 
 
 The recognition had been mutual. One swift glance 
 over his shoulder had been sufficient to enable Eric 
 to identify the man he had "pinked." Without hesi- 
 tation he took to his heels. 
 
 Postle was fumbling at the tails of his tunic for 
 the notebook he had just returned to its customary 
 place of abode. The situation was not without its 
 embarrassments. 
 
 "Why didn't you catch him?" demanded the 
 stranger. 
 
 Postle rubbed his chin. Why hadn't he "effected 
 an arrest" ? In his own mind he clung tenaciously 
 to the terminology of the weekly paper he devoured 
 from breakfast-time till bed-time each Sunday. 
 
 "I'll " he began, when he stopped suddenly. 
 
 Coming towards them was Miss Mary Jell. At the 
 sight of the stranger she paused. 
 
 "Is anything the matter, Postle?" she enquired.
 
 P.C. POSTLE ASSUMES HIS UNIFORM 239 
 
 looking up shyly at the florid figure of the stranger, 
 at a loss to classify him. 
 
 "This be the prosecutor, Miss Mary," was the stam- 
 mered reply. "He say that Master that he ha' been 
 shot while he was in a " 
 
 "Shot!" repeated Miss Mary in horror. "How 
 dreadful ! Are you " 
 
 "With a catapult, miss," broke in the stranger, thus 
 assisting in his own classification. 
 
 "The prosecutor say he had engine-trouble," ex- 
 plained Postle, "and that he were shot while in a 
 stooping position " He stopped suddenly. The 
 stranger was coughing violently. 
 
 Miss Mary blushed, whilst Postle looked from one 
 to the other uncomprehendingly. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," said Miss Mary, feeling dreadfully 
 adventurous in addressing a stranger who had not been 
 introduced to her. "I hope it it didn't hurt." 
 
 It was the stranger's turn to show embarrassment. 
 He flushed a brick red. 
 
 "Constable," he said, to cover his confusion. "I j 
 I " then with a lifting of his cap and a bow to 
 Miss Mary that thrilled her, he turned and made 
 off in the direction taken by the fugitive Eric. 
 
 For nearly a minute Postle stood regarding the im- 
 pressive brown-and-white check back of the man who 
 had brought a transitory hope to his official heart. 
 
 "Well, I'm danged !" he muttered, pushing his helmet 
 still further back and proceeding to scratch a puzzled 
 head. "If that ain't a rum un." 
 
 He turned to Miss Mary for comfort; but she was 
 retreating hurriedly in the opposite direction from that 
 taken by the smitten stranger.
 
 240 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Slowly P.C. Postle returned to the fowl-house, minus 
 his helmet and tunic, whilst Miss Mary hurried back 
 to The Cedars. For the rest of the afternoon she 
 was engaged in a struggle between a sense of delicacy 
 and her feeling for drama. How was she to tell Jane, 
 and at the same time suppress the embarrassing details? 
 
 When at length she told of her adventure and the 
 inevitable question presented itself, as she had fore- 
 seen it would, she replied with a blush, "I think he 
 was shot in the arm, Jane.'^/
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 
 
 JUST as P.C. Postle emerged from his fowl-house 
 to receive the complaint of the stranger with the 
 auburn moustache, Janet entered the vicarage 
 drawing-room. 
 
 "A gentleman has called to see you, sir," she an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "To see me?" queried Smith, looking up from the 
 writing-table where he was engaged in glancing through 
 the pages of an illustrated paper. 
 
 u Yes, sir. He said Mr. Willis sent him over from 
 The Grange. He wouldn't give his name, sir." 
 
 "Always a suspicious sign, that," murmured Smith. 
 "By the way, whom did he happen to ask for?" 
 
 "For you, Mr. Warren." 
 
 "That is to say for Mr. Alfred Warren?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Janet, haven't I told you a thousand times that 
 I am not Mr. Alfred Warren; but Mr. Smith?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Warren." 
 
 "Show him in," he said wearily. 
 
 When the door once more opened, Smith rose to 
 find himself facing a little, ferret-faced man, sandy 
 where he was not bald, and with a chin that manifested 
 a marked inclination to retreat down his collar. 
 
 As he entered, he gave a swift glance round the 
 room, his shifty little eyes blinking craftily. At the 
 
 241
 
 242 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 ;sight of Smith, an evil expression passed over his un- 
 prepossessing features. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred Warren?" he interrogated. 
 
 "Sometimes I almost wish I were," said Smith, who 
 was speculating as to what particular period of Alfred 
 Warren's activities his caller represented. "As it is, 
 I am always disappointing people. Won't you sit 
 down, Mr. " 
 
 "Gadgett, of the firm of Gadgett, Grandson and 
 Gadgett, solicitors of New Court, London, W.C." 
 
 "And may I take it that you are the grandson?" 
 enquired Smith gravely. 
 
 "I am the senior partner, Mr. Grimthorpe Gadgett," 
 he replied with a touch of self-importance. 
 
 "Thank you," said Smith, with the air of one who 
 has settled an important point. 
 
 "Am I addressing Mr. Alfred Warren?" 
 
 ""You are not," smiled Smith. 
 
 For a moment, Mr. Gadgett looked nonplussed. His 
 face assumed an even more ferrety expression. He 
 gazed at Smith as if trying to read his thoughts. 
 
 "Then may I enquire who it is I have the pleasure 
 of addressing?" 
 
 "Certainly; my name is James Smith." 
 
 Mr. Gadgett glanced up at him sharply. It was 
 obvious that the answer was unexpected. 
 
 "We are a large family, we Smiths," said Smith, 
 as he sank back into a chair opposite that taken by 
 Mr. Gadgett. "In the London Telephone Directory 
 alone there are fourteen columns of us, including 
 twenty-four gentlemen who frankly confess to the name 
 of James. I looked it up myself. It's a terrible in- 
 heritance, Mr. Gadgett, a name such as mine." 
 
 Whilst Smith was speaking, Mr. Gadgett had opened
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 243 
 
 a small leather attache-case he carried. Taking out 
 a photograph, he gazed at it intently, then across at 
 Smith, and finally back again at the photograph. 
 
 "I enquired at The Grange for Mr. Alfred War- 
 ren," he said at length, "and I was told to come here." 
 
 "That would be Willis," said Smith easily. "You 
 never can be sure what Willis will be up to. If you 
 had enquired for the Grand Llama himself, you would, 
 /-in all probability, have been told he was here." 
 
 "Am I to take it that you maintain you are not 
 Mr. Alfred Warren?" Mr. Gadgett's eyes returned 
 to the photograph. 
 
 "There would be no risk whatever in such an as- 
 sumption." 
 
 "Then why, may I ask, was I sent here when I 
 enquired for Mr. Warren?" he demanded, his eyes 
 snapping venomously. 
 
 "That involves psycho-analysis and family history," 
 was the reply ; "The psycho-analysis being necessary 
 to interpret Willis, and the family history to explain 
 the disappearance of Mr. Warren some seven years 
 ago, and the discovery of James Smith a few days 
 
 since." 
 
 "In the village I was given to understand that Mr. 
 Warren had returned after a long absence, and was 
 living here. Is that correct?" 
 
 "Which statement do you wish me to verify?" en- 
 quired Smith. "That you were assured of the cir- 
 cumstance, or that the circumstance of which you were 
 assured is an actual fact?" 
 
 "We are wasting time, sir," said Mr. Gadgett, with 
 a touch of asperity in his voice. "The question is, 
 are you or are you not Mr. Alfred Warren?" 
 
 "I have just told you that my name is James Smith,'*
 
 244 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 was the reply. "If I am James Smith, Mr. Gadgett, 
 you, as a lawyer, must realise that I cannot be Alfred 
 Warren. May I in turn enquire why it is you are 
 subjecting me to this cross-examination?" 
 
 "I must first establish your identity before I can 
 proceed," said Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "Then I fear you are in for a troublesome business," 
 was the smiling reply. "For the past week I have 
 been endeavouring to do that self-same thing; but with 
 the most miserable results. I suspect that nothing 
 short of an Act of Parliament or Direct Action can 
 establish my identity, because " 
 
 "Because," prompted Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "Because I don't seem to have an identity, at least, 
 not one about which there appears to be any unanimity 
 of opinion. I'm a sort of stormy petrel. Wherever 
 I go I seem to excite faction. In this peaceful little 
 village, for instance, I've aroused the devil's own dis- 
 sensions. Nothing like it has "been known since the 
 Wars of the Roses." 
 
 For nearly a minute Mr. Gadgett sat pondering, 
 the photograph in his hand, his eyes shifting restlessly, 
 always avoiding Smith's steady gaze. 
 
 "Sir!" he said at length, "I venture to suggest that 
 you are deliberately adopting an attitude of verbal 
 ambiguity, and it is my duty to warn you that such 
 a line of defence will not in any way benefit you." 
 
 "And I, on my part," said Smith, with a smile that 
 gave no indication of what was to follow, "warn you, 
 Mr. Gadgett, that unless you are reasonably civil, I 
 shall throw you out of that window into Miss Lip- 
 scombe's favourite bed of begonias. They're mostly 
 prize plants, by the way."
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 245 
 
 Mr. Gadgett started back in his chair, his little eyes 
 blinking apprehensively. He glanced furtively about 
 him, as if in search of a line of retreat. 
 
 "That is a threat of violence, sir," he blustered, 
 "an attempt to intimidate." 
 
 "As a matter of fact, it is neither the one nor the 
 other. It is just a prophecy. We Smiths are like 
 that, at least those of us who are not hyphenated. 
 It's no doubt due to our sensitiveness," he continued, 
 as Mr. Gadgett remained silent. "The least suggestion 
 of discourtesy and " He paused significantly. 
 
 "I am sorry if " began Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "Don't be sorry," said Smith, "just be explicit." 
 
 He was enjoying Mr. Gadgett's embarrassment, so 
 obviously tinctured with fear. He sat blinking his eyes 
 uncertainly, looking more ferret-like than ever. It was 
 clear he found some difficulty in deciding his mode 
 of procedure. Smith sat gazing at him, like a good- 
 humoured mastiff at a small dog that has barked a 
 challenge. 
 
 "To prevent any misunderstanding, Mr. Gadgett,'* 
 continued Smith, "I think it only right to say that I 
 used to be regarded as a light heavy-weight of some 
 promise." 
 
 "That, I suggest, is a covert threat of violence," 
 said Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "On the contrary, it is merely a little piece of bio- 
 graphical information that may tend to preserve the 
 peace the King is supposed to value so much. You 
 have rather an unfortunate manner, Mr. Gadgett," 
 he added, still smiling. "Doubtless it is unintentional." 
 
 "I repeat," said Mr. Gadgett at length, "that if I 
 have said anything calculated to cause you irritation 
 or annoyance " He paused.
 
 246 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "You cannot repeat what you have not already 
 stated," said Smith evenly. "As a matter of fact, your 
 presence causes me both." 
 
 "I'm sorry " began Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "You've just said that." Smith glanced significantly 
 at the watch on his wrist. "Don't you think you might 
 take the plunge, and tell me why you have called?" 
 
 "I came," said Mr. Gadgett, "to interview the 
 er- gentleman who is masquer who is known here as 
 Mr. Alfred Warren." 
 
 "I gathered as much from your previous remarks/' 
 was the dry retort. Smith was determined to render 
 him no assistance. "As a lawyer you will realise that 
 the actual expression of other people's opinions does 
 not involve me in any liability." 
 
 "If you are not he who is known in this neighbour- 
 hood as Mr. Alfred Warren, then where can I find 
 the gentleman in question?" 
 
 Smith shrugged his shoulders with the air of one 
 who acknowledges that the problem is beyond him. 
 
 "Mr. er Smith, I have decided, for the purpose 
 of my visit, to assume that you are the gentleman who 
 has been identified in this neighbourhood as Mr. Alfred 
 Warren." 
 
 Mr. Gadgett paused, and glanced swiftly at Smith, 
 who, however, evinced no emotion. 
 
 "It is, therefore," he continued, with more assurance 
 in his voice, "it is, therefore, my duty to inform you 
 that some years ago, before going er abroad, the 
 real Mr. Alfred Warren placed his affairs in the hands 
 of my firm, with instructions to take such steps as 
 we may deem necessary to protect his interests and 
 reputation. Do I make myself clear?" 
 
 "Abundantly."
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 247 
 
 "Have you anything to say?" Mr. Gadgett's for- 
 mer assurance of manner was returning to him. 
 
 "I was wondering," said Smith quietly, "if that little 
 bit about protecting his reputation was your idea or 
 his." 
 
 "You must understand, Mr. Smith, that, presuming 
 I am right in my assumption that you are lie who is 
 generally accepted as Mr. Alfred Warren, you are 
 running a very considerable risk." 
 
 "We all run risks, Mr. Gadgett," said Smith evenly, 
 "the world is full of them. That is why we buy news- 
 papers, to insure against the mere risk of living. Quite 
 recently I played cricket in flannel reach-me-downs." 
 
 "That is not relevant to the matter under discus- 
 sion." 
 
 "On the contrary, it is peculiarly relevant. You 
 think of my risks, I think of yours. I should hate to 
 see you take a header into that begonia-bed." Smith 
 significantly felt the biceps of his left arm. 
 
 Mr. Gadgett rose and performed a strategic move- 
 ment that placed the chair, on which he had been sitting, 
 between him and Smith. 
 
 "We do not wish to be unduly precipitate in any 
 action we take," he said over the back of the chair. 
 
 "I commend your wisdom," was the dry rejoinder. 
 
 "It is that fact which accounts for my presence here 
 to-day," continued Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 Smith nodded. 
 
 "I have it in my power to prove that you are not 
 Mr. Warren," announced Mr. Gadgett, with the air of 
 a man who is playing a trump card. 
 
 "Mr. Gadgett," said Smith impressively, "you are 
 the man I have been looking for. If you can do as.
 
 248 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 you say, then the moving of mountains is a mere 
 bagatelle." 
 
 "Have you, Mr. er Smith, anything to say before 
 I take my departure?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Smith, glancing once more at his 
 wrist-watch, "except to thank you for calling," he 
 added. 
 
 "In the light of anything that may subsequently 
 transpire," continued Mr. Gadgett, as he backed to- 
 wards the door, "you will recall that I approached 
 you with a view to hearing any explanation you might 
 have to make, and, er see if a satisfactory settlement 
 could be arrived at." 
 
 "I most certainly shall." 
 
 "I have sent two letters to Mr. Alfred Warren at 
 The Grange. Did you receive them?" 
 
 "Mr. Warren has not authorised me to deal with 
 his correspondence." 
 
 "I take it " began Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "Don't!" said Smith, "it's safer." 
 
 "I am afraid we are not progressing," said Mr. 
 Gadgett, who had apparently forgotten his intention 
 of terminating the interview. 
 
 "I quite agree with you." 
 
 "You will, er pardon me, Mr. er Smith, if I 
 say that you are now faced with a matter requiring the 
 most careful and well-considered judgment. I will add 
 that I apologise for any offence I may unwittingly have 
 caused, and " He paused. 
 
 "Enough, Mr. Gadgett," said Smith. "I think you 
 may now safely resume your chair." 
 
 Acting on the hint, Mr. Gadgett slid round the chair 
 with obvious relief.
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 249 
 
 "It has come to our knowledge, Mr. er Smith " 
 
 "Smith without the 'er' sounds better," said Sm'th 
 evenly. 
 
 "That you recently threatened a gentleman with 
 violence," continued Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 "You mean Mr. Bluggs," suggested Smith. The 
 process of sweetening the memory of the absent Alfred 
 promised to be more interesting than had at first ap- 
 peared likely. 
 
 "I refer to Mr. Jonathan Bluggs, and I feel I ought 
 to inform you that such threats are calculated to preju- 
 dice your case. It was " 
 
 "A holly-bush," came the smiling interruption. 
 "You see, we were some way from the begonia-bed; 
 besides, he was peculiarly offensive." 
 
 "You realise, of course, that it is within Mr. Bluggs's 
 power to have you bound over," said Mr. Gadgett. 
 He gave Smith the impression of one talking to gain 
 time, apparently with a view to deciding his line of 
 action. 
 
 As Smith made no comment, he turned once more 
 to the likeness he still held in his hand. 
 
 "The likeness is certainly very remarkable," he said. 
 
 "Physically, it is almost uncanny," remarked Smith 
 drily. 
 
 Mr. Gadgett winced a little. He was still obviously 
 nervous, and Smith realised that he desired to say 
 something which he found it difficult to frame in words. 
 
 "Were you ?" he began, then paused. 
 
 "Was I?" interrogated Smith with polite indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 "You have been at Little Bilstead for for several 
 days?"
 
 250 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "This is the eighth to be exact," was the rejoinder. 
 
 "Have you during that time, er met with any ?" 
 He paused again. "I mean, have you has your stay 
 been a pleasant one?" 
 
 "Eminently!" said Smith with a smile. "At first 
 I was regarded a little coldly, except at The Grange, 
 where Willis spent much of his time in following me 
 about with a decanter." 
 
 "And outside The Grange?" enquired Mr. Gadgett 
 hastily. 
 
 "Fair to medium. I made friends with the vicar, 
 have been denounced by a peppery old colonel, man- 
 aged to invest the dislike of a pretty girl, knocked up 
 one short of the century at cricket, and well, that's 
 about all so far." 
 
 "Will you permit me to put a few questions to you, 
 Mr. er Smith?" 
 
 "With pleasure," said Smith, amused at the change 
 in Mr. Gadgett's tone. "By the way, you've already 
 put two or three." 
 
 "Er have you any reason to believe ?" began 
 Mr. Gadgett. He paused, then, as if deciding upon 
 another course of action, he said, "I will be quite frank 
 with you, Mr. Smith." This time he got the name 
 without the preliminary "er." 
 
 "Frankness is always refreshing." 
 
 There was a short pause. From the ferrety snap- 
 ping of Mr. Gadgett's eyes, Smith realised that he 
 was about to spring his mine. He had clearly been 
 working up to something dramatic. 
 
 "Are you aware, Mr. Smith," he began, emphasising 
 the name, "that there is a warrant out for the arrest 
 of Mr. Warren?"
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 251 
 
 "The deuce there is!" cried Smith, startled in spite 
 of himself, and sitting up straight in his chair. This 
 was an aspect of the sweetening process he had not 
 bargained for. 
 
 Mr. Gadgett displayed the yellowness of two par- 
 ticularly evil-looking canines. His mine was a success. 
 
 "It was issued six years ago," he said, "and, as I 
 happen to know, it has never been withdrawn." 
 
 "And why do you come to tell me this?" enquired 
 Smith, a stern look coming into his eyes. 
 
 "I, er we may possibly be of assistance to you," 
 was the fluid rejoinder. "In our professional capacity," 
 he added. 
 
 "And why was the warrant issued?" 
 
 "In connection with the death of a girl named Thir- 
 kettle. Before she died she made a statement," he 
 added, with a leer. 
 
 "I think you have given me sufficient data to be 
 going on with," said Smith, rising. There was a 
 whiteness at the corners of his set mouth that caused 
 Mr. Gadgett some anxiety. 
 
 "I think that is all I need trouble you with at pres- 
 ent," he said as he rose, having first stowed away the 
 photograph in his case. "We do not propose to take 
 action for a week or ten days," he added. 
 
 "I shall not forget." 
 
 "You have our address," said Mr. Gadgett, signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 "I have," said Smith. "I'm glad you came." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Smith," and Mr. Gadgett made a 
 repulsive movement with his dust-coloured lips, which 
 his intimates would have recognised as a smile. "So 
 am I."
 
 252 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Because," said Smith quietly, "you are the first 
 blackmailer I have ever met." 
 
 Mr. Gadgett's jaw fell. For a moment he gazed at 
 Smith, fear in his eyes. 
 
 "That is " He stopped suddenly, and began to 
 back nervously towards the door. There was some- 
 thing in Smith's look that suggested Miss Lipscombe's 
 bed of begonias. 
 
 "You know Alfred Warren to be dead." 
 
 It was a shot at a venture; but in the apprehensive 
 look in Mr. Gadgett's turbid eyes Smith thought he 
 saw a confirmation of his words. The next moment 
 Mr. Gadgett had slid round the door and disappeared. 
 
 "So that was why A. W. bolted," murmured Smith, 
 as he stepped out from the French windows on to the 
 lawn. There was something about the moral atmos- 
 phere of Mr. Gadgett that made fresh air essential. 
 
 He turned and walked slowly down the drive, his 
 face grave. This process of sweetening the memory 
 of the absent Alfred seemed likely to involve him in 
 serious complications. It was not pleasant to con- 
 template arrest; but on such a charge it was intolerable. 
 He could prove his innocence of the crime and of 
 being Alfred; still there was all the unpleasantness 
 and the scandal. 
 
 It was obvious that the unspeakable Gadgett was 
 out for blackmail, disguised as some form of profes- 
 sional service. He had heard of such solicitors; but 
 had never believed they really existed. Such forms 
 of animal life ought to be trodden on, he decided. 
 
 Was Alfred Warren alive or dead? That was the 
 question. The startled look in Gadgett's eyes, coupled 
 with the hurried nature of his departure, certainly
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 253 
 
 looked suspicious; but suspicion was not proof. Then 
 how had he got to know about Bluggs? Was he in 
 league with that gold-toothed abomination? Taken 
 all round he was in the very 
 
 He stopped suddenly at the sound of a cry, some- 
 thing between a yelp and a scream, which appeared to 
 come from somewhere in the neighbourhood of the 
 vicarage gates. 
 
 Hurrying along the drive, he passed out into the 
 road, just as another yelp broke the drowsy stillness 
 of the summer afternoon. This time it developed inta 
 a howl. 
 
 Smith gazed along the road in the direction of The 
 Grange. As far as the eye could reach there was no 
 spot or blemish upon its ribboned whiteness. Obvi- 
 ously the drama was being enacted in the opposite direc- 
 tion, where the road took a sharp turn towards the 
 village. 
 
 Running the few steps necessary to gain a view 
 round the bend, Smith was met by a sight and sound 
 that brought him once more to a standstill. 
 
 There in the middle of the road lay Mr. Gadgett, 
 at least he judged it to be Mr. Gadgett, the hat and 
 attache-case that lay a few yards off were certainly 
 his. Mr. Gadgett himself seemed to be somewhere 
 beneath a body infinitely larger than his own, encased 
 in a startling scheme of brown-and-white checks. 
 
 Mr. Gadgett appeared to be engaged in screaming 
 for mercy, invoking the aid alike of God and man, 
 whilst his thin legs worked like flails. 
 
 It was obvious that Mr. Gadgett was getting it in 
 the neck. 
 
 Hastening forward, Smith seized a handful of the
 
 254 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 checked material, and hauled with all his might. There 
 was a gasping sound from the upper part of the mound 
 and, a moment later, a foxy little figure wriggled from 
 beneath the mountain of checks. 
 
 It was indeed Mr. Gadgett, and a very agile Mr. 
 Gadgett. Before Smith quite realised what was hap- 
 pening, he had gathered up his hat and case, and was 
 legging it down the road towards the village as if the 
 Inquisition itself were after him. 
 
 Turning to the brown-and-white-checked assailant, 
 whose collar he had been grasping, Smith, by a move- 
 ment of his wrist, swung him round. 
 
 "Peters!" 
 
 He released his hold and stood gazing at the man 
 in sheer bewilderment. 
 
 "What the devil does this mean?" he demanded, 
 his eyes still upon the perspiring face from which an 
 auburn moustache stood out with astonishing sudden- 
 ness. 
 
 "I am taking a holiday, sir," was the reply of the 
 man whom Eric had pinked, and Peters proceeded to 
 draw a large bandana handkerchief from his pocket 
 and mop his streaming forehead. He was a big man 
 and unaccustomed to any form of violent exercise. 
 
 "And is this your idea of a holiday," demanded 
 Smith, "battering the life out of a man half your 
 own size?" 
 
 "That was Private Gadgett, sir," he said, as calm 
 as if in his own pantry. 
 
 "That, Peters," said Smith severely, "is Mr. Grim- 
 thorpe Gadgett, of Gadgett, Grandson and Gadgett, 
 solicitors of New Court, London, W.C., as he has just 
 informed me. What the devil are you doing?"
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 255 
 
 In what appeared to be one movement, Peters had 
 returned the handkerchief to his pocket, produced a 
 notebook, and was apparently engaged in making a 
 note of something. 
 
 "I am taking down the address, sir," he said, with- 
 out raising his eyes from the page. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It will be useful, sir." 
 
 "The devil it will !" cried Smith. "How?" 
 
 "Private Gadgett deserted from our regiment one 
 night when out on patrol, sir, in the final advance," 
 continued Peters, "and the Huns the Germans, sir," 
 he corrected himself, "surprised a working-party and 
 killed six men." 
 
 "The swine !" The words broke from between 
 Smith's clenched teeth, and he was not thinking of the 
 Huns. 
 
 "My company commander ordered me, if ever I 
 caught him, to to smash his face in. I was doing 
 it when you interrupted me, sir," he added. 
 
 "Peters," said Smith gravely, "I owe you an apol- 
 
 ogy." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "By the look of what he took away with him, how- 
 ever, you seem to have achieved your mission," he 
 added drily. 
 
 Peters looked doubtful. It was evident that in his 
 code of ethics, a man with a smashed face ought not 
 to be able to run away. 
 
 "But what the devil do you mean by turning up 
 here?" Smith demanded, suddenly recalling the strange- 
 ness of the encounter. 
 
 "I was in pursuit of a boy, sir."
 
 256 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Smith stared at him. 
 
 "You don't happen to have turned Bolshevist, I 
 suppose?" he enquired. 
 
 "He assaulted me with a catapult," said Peters with 
 expressionless face. 
 
 "I don't wonder at it, in that get up," smiled Smith, 
 venturing a guess at the identity of the "boy." "It's 
 like a musical comedy." 
 
 "The boy escaped, sir," continued Peters. "It was 
 then that I saw Private Gadgett and " 
 
 "Proceeded to smash his face," suggested Smith, 
 as Peters paused. "But that does not account for 
 your turning up here in this fashion, and in those 
 extraordinary clothes." 
 
 "I developed engine-trouble, sir my motor-cycle, 
 sir," he added. 
 
 "You invariably do." 
 
 "I think, sir, I mentioned that I was going to Nor- 
 folk because " 
 
 "Your old bus wouldn't climb hills," broke in Smith 
 with a smile. 
 
 "I have certainly had a considerable amount of trou- 
 ble with my motor-cycle," agreed Peters. "I think it 
 must be the petrol." 
 
 "The avoirdupois, you mean." 
 
 "Sir?" interrogated Peters. 
 
 "When you put about fifteen stone on a broken- 
 winded motor-bike like yours, Peters, and then expect 
 it to take a hill at a canter, you're asking for trouble." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Peters dutifully. 
 
 "Incidentally, Peters, I am in the very deuce of a 
 hole," Smith continued. "I have not only been written 
 off as a bad debt by my uncle; but I have also been
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 257 
 
 proclaimed the returned prodigal of Little Bilstead, 
 and it's the very devil." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Peters, his face immobile as the 
 Houses of Parliament. 
 
 "But I can't tell you now, there isn't time." 
 
 "I feel I ought to inform you, sir, that Sir John has 
 written to me." 
 
 "Written to you !" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Then how the devil did he know " 
 
 "Soon after I started, I developed engine " 
 
 "Oh, damn your engine-trouble, Peters ! Let us take 
 it for granted." 
 
 "Certainly, sir," said Peters in his best professional 
 manner. "I returned to London for certain repairs, 
 and I took the opportunity of calling at the flat, sir, 
 where I found a number of letters." 
 
 "And some bills?" suggested Smith. 
 
 "A large proportion of the correspondence bore 
 evidence of having come from tradesmen," admitted 
 Peters. "There was also a letter from Sir John ask- 
 ing for your address, sir." 
 
 "I hope you wrote and told him I had gone to the 
 devil." 
 
 "No, sir. I informed him that you had entered upon 
 a new life of usefulness." 
 
 "A new life of what?" he demanded. 
 
 "I mentioned, sir, that you hoped by industry and 
 application and attention to detail, that you would 
 merit " 
 
 "You've been reading some infernal tradesman's 
 circular, Peters. What the deuce do you mean by 
 writing such utter balderdash to Sir John?"
 
 258 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I thought it would probably appeal to him, sir," 
 said Peters, as devoid of expression as a barrel-piano. 
 "If I may say so, Sir John is very much attached to 
 you, sir." 
 
 "Peters, you're indulging in what the Americans 
 call 'sob stuff.' You've been reading The Lamplighter 
 or A. Peep Behind the Scenes. In the idiom of the 
 modern flapper, you're getting soppy." 
 
 "I'm sorry, sir." 
 
 "You need not be, Peters. It's an emotional state 
 largely due to films. Did my uncle say what he wanted 
 me for?" 
 
 "I think, sir, he found his heart softening." 
 
 "Like your brain, Peters," smiled Smith. "What 
 are your plans now?" 
 
 "For the moment, sir, I have no plans. I have 
 to return to Norwich to get a new magneto. I think 
 that is the cause of the trouble I have with the engine." 
 
 "You can do better," said Smith with sudden in- 
 spiration. "You can go to town and get me some 
 clothes." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You know what you packed. I've wrecked the 
 rain-coat in climbing a gate, and the suit I wore has 
 ceased to be a suit, and is merely a study in exposure. 
 When you get back, come up to the vicarage and ask 
 for the keys of the church, then we can arrange to 
 smuggle the things in." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Peters as if he were being asked 
 for a whisky-and-soda. 
 
 "Now you had better slip off," said Smith. "It 
 won't do for us to be seen together." 
 
 "No, sir," said Peters vaguely.
 
 MR. GADGETT PAYS A CALL 259 
 
 "Great Gulliver!" Smith cried suddenly. "Why, 
 Peters, you're the deus ex machina of this adventure." 
 
 "Am I, sir?" 
 
 "You most certainly are," he assured him. "You'll 
 have to follow up this Gadgett fellow," he paused, to 
 see the effect of the announcement. 
 
 "That was my intention, sir," said Peters. 
 
 "The deuce it was !" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you will exert such influence as you possess 
 with ex-Private Gadgett," continued Smith, "to extract 
 from him full particulars, documentary or otherwise, 
 as to the death or present whereabouts of one Alfred 
 Warren of The Grange, Little Bilstead, that's where 
 we now are." 
 
 "Very good, sir!" and Peters once more drew forth 
 his notebook. 
 
 "If he is difficult, suggest the War Office and, fail- 
 ing that, hint at publishing the story of his desertion." 
 
 "Very good, sir," repeated Peters, as he replaced 
 the pencil in the slot at the back of his notebook and 
 returned it to his pocket, a baleful look in his promi- 
 nent eyes. 
 
 "And, Peters." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "After you have obtained the information I require,, 
 you can then get to work upon his face." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?" 
 
 "By the way, how long will it take you to get to 
 Jermyn Street and back?" he enquired casually. 
 
 "I think, sir, I ought to do it in a week," said 
 Peters gravely. "If the engine-trouble doesn't get 
 worse, sir."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 
 
 "f SAY, you haven't been " Eric paused and, 
 screwing up his eyebrows, regarded Smith with 
 the air of one who finds it difficult to express 
 what is in his mind. 
 
 "I haven't been?" queried Smith. 
 
 "You know I told you that you'd find Marjie a " 
 
 "A regular old water-jump," suggested Smith, as 
 the boy paused once more. "You most certainly did, 
 Eric." 
 
 "You know she's frightfully dece," he added hastily, 
 as if in his previous words he had been guilty of dis- 
 loyalty, "but " Again he paused. 
 
 "But what?" enquired Smith. 
 
 "You see," Eric continued, after frowning at Smith 
 for several seconds, the sun was in his eyes and he 
 was puzzled how to proceed. "You see, I'm afraid 
 she doesn't altogether like you yet," he added. 
 
 "I too had begun to suspect it," said Smith drily. 
 
 "Well, you see," cried Eric, his brow clearing. 
 "We've got to make her." 
 
 "We?" 
 
 "Yes, you and me. You see," he continued confi- 
 dentially, "women are like that. They never like the 
 fellows that they that they really like." 
 
 260
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 261 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "You know, Marjie used to be quite all right until, 
 until she grew up." Eric was finding verbal expression 
 somewhat difficult. "Girls are like that. You should 
 have seen her climb trees," he cried with enthusiasm. 
 "She would go up like a monkey ; but now " His look 
 expressed disgust. 
 
 "Am I to gather that, in your opinion, my learning 
 to climb trees with agility would be a short cut to your 
 sister's favour?" enquired Smith. 
 
 "It wouldn't make a bit of diff," he said, shaking 
 his head lugubriously. "You see, you did paint the 
 place a bit purp, didn't you?" 
 
 Eric gazed at Smith with screwed-up eyes. Loyalty 
 demanded that there should be some excuse for Mar- 
 jorie's dislike. 
 
 "You mean Warren," Smith suggested. 
 
 "Oh! I forgot the wang," grinned the boy. "Any- 
 how, you can't blame Marjie, can you?" 
 
 "Far be it from me to blame any one." 
 
 "You know, I've been thinking things over, and 
 I've come to the I think you're wrong." 
 
 "Wrong?" 
 
 "About the wang, you know," he added hastily. 
 "I got the idea in church on Sunday." 
 
 Smith nodded encouragingly. 
 
 "I don't often take notice of sermons," there was 
 apology in his tone; "but as it was about the sinner 
 that repenteth, you know, and all that sort of thing. 
 It reminded me of you." 
 
 "That was very nice of you," said Smith gravely, as 
 he proceeded to fill his pipe. 
 
 "You See " Eric paused.
 
 262 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't," said Smith without raising his 
 eyes from his pipe-bowl. 
 
 "I say, I hope I don't seem impert" There was 
 anxiety in his voice. 
 
 "On the contrary, I am sure you are going to be 
 extremely helpful," said Smith, looking up with a 
 smile. "Carry on." 
 
 "If you were to own up and say you really are 
 A.W.," he burst out, "they'd soon forgive you even 
 if you are Mr. Smith?" he added apologetically. "You 
 see, there'll be another match next year, and those 
 blighters will be out for revenge, and I want you to 
 bowl to me for practice," he added ingenuously. 
 
 "I see," said Smith, as he struck a match and be- 
 came absorbed in lighting his pipe. 
 
 "You never know just what Marjie will do," Eric 
 continued, with the air of one who has experienced 
 something of the vagaries of a woman's temperament. 
 "She might be all over you if she thought you were 
 sorry." He paused and gazed at Smith tentatively. 
 
 "Sorry for what?" he queried. 
 
 "Oh! for for everything. Of course I don't re- 
 member much; but you made things pretty hot I mean 
 A.W. did," he added hastily, looking up uncertainly 
 at Smith, as if in doubt as to how his remarks would 
 be received. 
 
 "And you think," said Smith, "that if I were to own 
 up to being an unspeakable blackguard, I might be 
 forgiven." 
 
 "Oh! I say, T didn't mean that, you know," pro- 
 tested Eric hurriedly. "You know girls are so jolly 
 funny. Marjie'll take home any beastly mongrel if it 
 looks miserable. She gets it from the dad he's a 
 topper."
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 
 
 "In other words you suggest that I should stoop, or 
 rather grovel, to conquer?" 
 
 "I " began Eric, then he stopped. Put like that, 
 somehow, the idea didn't seem quite right. "I'll tell 
 you something," he said suddenly, with a hasty glance 
 over his shoulder. "There used to be a girl in a tuck- 
 shop at Wilchester that I was awfully gone on. She 
 wouldn't look at me though, just tossed her head and 
 sniffed. I heard afterwards she was engaged to a 
 plumber, an awful cad. One day I cut my finger. 
 Then she was all over me. After that I had to hurt 
 myself once a week; but she always wanted to see the 
 damage." 
 
 With difficulty Smith restrained a smile at the man- 
 of- the- worldly air with which Eric made his confes- 
 sion. 
 
 "But just where does what you call 'the wang' 
 come in?" he enquired. 
 
 "You just own up," said Eric, after a slight hesita- 
 tion. '7 always do when they find out," he added, 
 as an after- thought. 
 
 "I'll think it over," said Smith gravely. "I suppose 
 cutting my finger wouldn't do?" 
 
 Eric shook his head, then, realising that Smith was 
 "pulling his tib," as he was wont to express it, he 
 grinned. 
 
 "You know Marjie's frightfully funny," he con- 
 tinued. "Only last month she picked up a dog that had 
 got run over, covered in mud and blood it was. She 
 spoilt her things and we're not rich, you know," he 
 added, to give point to the story. 
 
 "Eric," said Smith with the utmost solemnity, "I 
 find you most encouraging." 
 
 For a moment the boy gazed at him doubtfully;
 
 264 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 but seeing not even the flicker of a smile upon Smith's 
 grave face, he took heart. 
 
 "You just try it," he advised. "I say, you will 
 bowl to me?" he added anxiously. "I must get used 
 to fast bowling by next year. I mean 'the goods,' 
 not half-volleys and full-tosses to leg," he added. 
 
 U A lot will of course depend on the wang," said 
 Smith meditatively. 
 
 "You just drop it, and see if I'm not right," cried 
 Eric, with a sigh of relief at the success of his diplo- 
 macy. "Now I must tod," and he made a movement 
 to depart. 
 
 "By the way," said Smith. "You do not say how 
 I had best proceed. You see, I scarcely ever see 
 Marjorie." 
 
 "You be at the edge of Buckdale Wood this after- 
 noon, just after four, and I'll tell you then. Near 
 the pond. You know it, don't you?" he enquired 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Intimately," said Smith. "But why not tell me 
 now?" 
 
 "Can't. Frightfully busy. S'long," and with that 
 he was gone. 
 
 "The mercenary young scamp," muttered Smith as 
 he sucked at his pipe, "to sell a sister for bowling- 
 practice." 
 
 II 
 
 Smith was a few minutes late for his appointment 
 with Eric, due to what seemed an obvious short cut; 
 but a dyke intervened and he had been forced to go 
 back.
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 265 
 
 As he came within sight of the wood, he was sur- 
 prised to see Marjorie sitting on the trunk of a fallen 
 tree, with Nero grazing contentedly beside her. 
 
 At the sound of Smith's approach, Nero raised an 
 alert head. Recognising his Sugar Man, he gave a 
 little snort of pleasure and, disregarding his mistress' 
 sharp "Come here, Nero," walked to meet him. 
 
 A moment later he was nuzzling Smith's pockets for 
 sugar. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't " she began, and then 
 stopped. 
 
 "Wish I wouldn't what?" he smiled. 
 
 "You make him so disobedient with with sugar," 
 she replied. 
 
 "Your mistress implies that you do not love me for 
 myself alone," said Smith, lifting the horse's muzzle 
 from the region of his pockets, and gazing into his 
 large liquid eyes. 
 
 Nero stretched forward and nibbled Smith's ear. 
 
 "You see," laughed Smith, "he denies it," and he 
 drew three lumps of sugar from his pocket and held 
 them out to Nero, who proceeded to crunch them con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 "Have you seen Eric?" Marjorie enquired, as she 
 rose and glanced at her wrist-watch, a little impatiently 
 he thought. "I was to meet him here at four o'clock. 
 I'm afraid he has been getting into mischief again, he 
 was so mysterious about it." 
 
 In his surprise, Smith was on the point of telling her 
 that he too had an appointment with Eric by the edge 
 of Buckdale Wood. Fortunately he realised in time 
 that Eric had merely taken another step towards en- 
 suring continuous fast-bowling practice.
 
 266 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Eric?" he repeated vaguely. "I saw him this morn- 
 ing." He in turn glanced at his watch. It was a 
 quarter-past-four. 
 
 There was a short silence, which Nero occupied in 
 a further investigation of Smith's pockets. He was by 
 no means sure that the bonanza of sugar had yet been 
 exhausted, and he was right. 
 
 Marjorie caught the reins and gave them a tug; 
 Nero blew through his lips as if in protest at such 
 selfishness. 
 
 "Oh ! please make him come away, Mr. Warren," 
 she pleaded. "I hate hurting him. Nero, don't be 
 so naughty." She made another effort to pull his 
 head from the vicinity of Smith's pockets. 
 
 Then suddenly she laughed. Smith glanced down 
 at her, surprise in his eyes. 
 
 "It's so absurd," she cried. "Unless you do some- 
 thing, or I hurt Nero, it seems as if we shall both be 
 here for the rest of the day." 
 
 Without a word, Smith drew four more lumps of 
 sugar from his pocket, which Nero fastened upon in a 
 flash. 
 
 "That's all," he cried. 
 
 "If you see Eric, will you tell him I have gone 
 home?" said Marjorie, as she walked to Nero's side. 
 "He may have been detained," suggested Smith, ten- 
 tatively. 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "It's only twenty-minutes-past-four," he added, in- 
 tent upon following-up the advantage he felt he had 
 gained. "No more!" he cried, as Nero, having eaten 
 the four lumps of sugar he had just received, was pre-
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 267 
 
 paring for further investigation. Smith turned his 
 coat-pockets inside out. With a snort of contempt, 
 Nero turned aside and proceeded to make pretence of 
 grazing. 
 
 "Don't you think Nero might be permitted to finish 
 his meal?" he suggested tentatively. 
 
 "He eats too much," she said, with a little smile. 
 As she spoke she looked across at her favourite, who 
 was moving from spot to spot, taking a nibble here 
 and a nibble there, with the daintiness of a Victorian 
 
 belle. 
 
 "Perhaps grass is an antidote for sugar," suggested 
 
 Smith gravely. 
 
 She glanced at him quickly, to see if he were serious. 
 
 "Couldn't you sit down just for ten minutes?" he 
 said tentatively. "I rather want to ' He paused. 
 "Perhaps Eric has been detained," he added hastily. 
 
 She turned to the tree-trunk, reseating herself where 
 he had found her. 
 
 He selected the least uncomfortable spot that the 
 irregularities of the fallen monarch presented, and 
 followed suit. 
 
 He had longed for an opportunity such as this, and 
 now it had presented itself he was at a loss what to say. 
 
 In spite of himself he smiled. 
 
 Marjorie too was wondering why she had so meekly 
 accepted the invitation of the man she had, in her own 
 mind, vowed to avoid. She'd found a certain em- 
 barrassment in his silence. At his smile she turned 
 on him a look of interrogation. 
 
 A sudden Puck-like instinct prompted him to tell 
 her the truth.
 
 268 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I was wondering why I asked you to sit down," he 
 said, keeping his gaze on the pond, upon which no 
 ripple broke the glass-like surface. 
 
 Her eyes widened slightly; his remark was so un- 
 expected. 
 
 "Was it not to wait for Eric?" she enquired, with 
 perfect self-possession. 
 
 She continued to regard him steadily. 
 
 He could have sworn that, just for the fraction of 
 a second, there was a flash of mischief in her eyes; 
 but it was gone in an instant. 
 
 "It sounded worse than it really was," he said with 
 a smile, as he drew out his cigarette-case and preferred 
 it to her. 
 
 She made a movement of refusal and, a moment 
 later, inclined her head slightly to the question in his 
 eyes, as he half drew a cigarette from the case. With 
 great deliberation he proceeded to light it. 
 
 "I suppose what I really wanted," he said, throwing 
 away the match, "was a quiet talk, without the feeling 
 that at any moment you could flick Nero's rein and 
 disappear." 
 
 "But you are not sure?" she queried gravely. 
 
 "Emotionally, I am never sure of anything," he 
 replied. "That is the woman in me." 
 
 "You are frank, at least." The even tone of her 
 voice irritated him. 
 
 "Is that a quality or a defect?" he enquired. 
 
 "Need we analyse everything?" she countered. 
 
 "When I was first mis-identified," he said, ignoring 
 the question and gazing at the blue spiral that rose 
 through the still air from his cigarette, "I asked Willis 
 what he would do if he were suddenly accused of being
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 269 
 
 the Lord High Admiral of Timbuctoo, or some such 
 place, I forget the exact locality. His reply was that 
 he would produce people to prove that he was Lady 
 Warren's butler." 
 
 He paused; but as she showed no inclination to 
 speak, merely sitting with the air of one who is politely 
 interested, he continued. 
 
 u That shows Willis to be a man capable of rising to 
 a great occasion," he continued. "The answer was 
 obviously correct; it indicated the only possible course 
 open to him in the light of such a contingency." 
 
 Her instinct was to ask why he did not profit by 
 such wisdom, particularly as he believed in it; but 
 she remained silent. 
 
 "Nero," she called, as he showed a tendency to 
 explore too large a tract of turf. Obedient to her voice, 
 there being no sugar to lure him from his allegiance, he 
 turned and proceeded to graze towards where they were 
 sitting. 
 
 "Do you ever do things for which you can find no 
 reasonable explanation?" he enquired. It was most 
 infernally awkward approaching a difficult subject with 
 one who gave you no help. 
 
 She started slightly at the question. She could find 
 no reasonable excuse for sitting on a tree-trunk within 
 a few feet of a man whom she was pledged cordially to 
 dislike, as she told herself she did a dozen times a day. 
 
 "Sometimes," she conceded, her eyes following the 
 slow and deliberate movements of the contented Nero, 
 who from time to time cast an enquiring glance in 
 her direction, as if to assure himself that she were 
 still there. 
 
 "That is the case with me at the present moment,"
 
 270 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 he said quietly. "I don't know why I am here. No, I 
 don't mean here on this old tree," he added hurriedly, 
 as she made a movement as if to rise. "I mean in 
 Little Bilstead." 
 
 For the first time she looked interested, at the same 
 time puzzled by his remark. 
 
 "Do you really think," he continued, "that any 
 self-respecting man would deliberately endeavour to 
 be taken for Alfred Warren?" He paused, and as 
 she remained silent he went on. 
 
 "Even Willis found it difficult to camouflage the 
 spots of the family leopard. When I asked him a few 
 leading questions about my alleged past, it was quite a 
 picture to see him struggling between loyalty to the 
 family and a truthful upbringing." 
 Still she made no reply. 
 
 "Then there's that dear old creature of a nurse, 
 who insists on delving into the past with which I am 
 credited, for reminiscences of the most intimate and 
 embarrassing nature, concerned with what happened 
 a quarter of a century ago." 
 
 This time Marjorie smiled. She had bitten her un- 
 derlip until it was sore. The picture of Mrs. HSggs, 
 as she had appeared the night of Smith's arrival, was 
 too irresistibly funny, even for her present mood of 
 austerity. 
 
 "Can you imagine any man," he persisted, "deliber- 
 ately assuming the rather murky past of another for 
 no conceivable reason?" He paused for her to reply. 
 "Frankly I cannot," she said simply. 
 "And yet that is what you attribute to me," he con- 
 tinued. "According to all I hear, it even involves 
 danger to life and limb." He flicked the ash from his
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 271 
 
 cigarette with a mechanical fourth finger, a habit he 
 had contracted in the trenches. 
 
 "If you are not Mr. Warren," she began in a low, 
 even tone, "don't you think you have been a little 
 cruel?" 
 
 "Cruel!" he exclaimed, startled. "Cruel to whom?" 
 
 "To Lady Warren," was the quiet reply. "No doubt 
 half-a-dozen people have written telling her that her 
 son has returned and " 
 
 "Good Lord !" he cried. "I hadn't thought of that" 
 
 He watched her as, with a twig, she picked at a 
 piece of moss on the tree-trunk. 
 
 "But they don't know her address," he protested, 
 with the air of one seeking to defend himself against 
 what he knows to be a just charge. 
 
 "That would not prevent certain people writing," 
 she said, and he noticed that she stressed the "certain" 
 ever so slightly. "They know she is staying in Cape 
 Town, and a letter addressed to the shipping company 
 on whose boat she travelled would reach her." 
 
 "I hadn't thought of that," said Smith, tossing away 
 his half-smoked cigarette and proceeding to light an- 
 other. Here was an entirely new factor in a situation 
 that was already rich in embarrassments. 
 
 "Do you think I ought to go away at once?" he 
 asked, conscious of the unreasoning eagerness with 
 which he awaited her reply. 
 
 "That is not a subject on which I can advise," she 
 said gravely. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I do not know all there is to know," she 
 replied simply. 
 
 He was conscious that she had thawed somewhat,
 
 272 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 that her manner was less unsympathetic. For nearly a 
 minute there was silence, broken at length by Smith. 
 
 "I want to ask you a question," he said. 
 
 "Yes ?" She turned to him with slightly lifted brows. 
 
 "Do you really think that I am Alfred Warren, 
 knowing what you do about him, and having seen what 
 you have of me?" He gazed steadily into her eyes. 
 
 "Every one recognises you as Mr. Warren," she re- 
 plied, after a short pause. There was a note of hesi- 
 tation in her voice. 
 
 "Yes; but you?" he persisted. 
 
 "I I " She stopped short. "It is impossible for 
 me to say," and her eyes dropped before his intense 
 gaze. 
 
 "Does that mean that in your heart you don't?" 
 he asked, in his eagerness leaning slightly towards her. 
 
 "Pleeeeeeeeease !" 
 
 There was genuine distress, both in her tone and 
 her look, as she lifted her eyes once more to his, her 
 red, moist lips slightly parted. 
 
 "I thought women always knew such things by in- 
 tuition," he said, half to himself. 
 
 She continued to regard him, a puzzled look in her 
 eyes. It was as if she were seeking to draw something 
 from him without the aid of speech. She was conscious 
 that her reason had never been less in control of the 
 situation. 
 
 "If you are not Mr. Warren," she said at length, 
 speaking slowly and deliberately, "why do you not 
 say who you are?" 
 
 "Because " he paused, "because there are reasons 
 why I prefer to be known as James Smith," he said 
 quietly, conscious that, in spite of his endeavour to
 
 ERIC PLAYS A PART 273 
 
 keep his tone friendly, there was an implied snub in 
 his words. 
 
 She rose and called to Nero. 
 
 "I must go now," she said. A few moments later 
 she was in the saddle, Nero impatiently pawing the 
 ground. 
 
 She hesitated before giving the signal that would 
 take them careering over the countryside. Smith 
 looked up at her curiously. It seemed as if she wished 
 to say something, which she found some difficulty in 
 putting into words. 
 
 "I think I ought to tell you," she said at length, 
 "Robert Thirkettle is coming back." 
 
 In spite of himself Smith started. The remark was 
 so entirely unexpected. She was gazing down at him, 
 the same look in her eyes that he had noticed before, 
 as if she would penetrate behind the veil of his words. 
 
 "When?" he asked at length, conscious that the 
 question might easily be translated into anxiety. 
 
 "This week." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "The groom, Nudd, told me in confidence," she 
 added, flushing slightly. "His father told him. No 
 one else knows." 
 
 "And why do you tell me?" Smith enquired, con- 
 scious that there was a note of sternness in his voice. 
 
 "I I thought you might want to, to " Her eyes 
 dropped beneath the anger that blazed in his. A 
 moment later Nero was outraged by feeling the touch 
 of the light riding-switch she always carried. He 
 plunged forward, angry that his Sugar Man should 
 have seen him subjected to so great an indignity. 
 
 As they disappeared from sight, Smith returned to
 
 274 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the fallen tree, where he proceeded to fill his pipe, a 
 stern, uncompromising look in his usually smiling blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "Damn Alfred Warren !" he muttered. 
 
 "Is it all right?" A red head was poked out from 
 behind a hedge a few yards away. 
 
 "If I catch you," cried Smith angrily, looking about 
 him for the head that had disappeared at the first sign 
 of danger, "I'll I'll toss you into the pond," and 
 he made a dive for a clump of bushes next to the one 
 from which Eric was in rapid, but orderly retreat. 
 
 "Marjie's given him a chill on the liv," he muttered 
 philosophically a minute later, as he took a pot-shot 
 at a robin on a hawthorn-tree. "What price my bowl- 
 ing-pracnow?"
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH INSERTS AN ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 "TS this your doing, John?" Mrs. Compton-Stacey- 
 held out to her brother a copy of The Times 
 folded so as to give prominence to the agony 
 
 column, at the same time pointing to an advertisement 
 
 which read: 
 
 JAMES SMITH. Wanted news of one calling him- 
 self James Smith (known to be an alias), last seen 
 in the neighbourhood of Winchester on June 23rd, 
 with suit-case, kit-bag and rain-coat. Age 28, height 
 5 ft. 10 in., fair, blue eyes, attractive personality. 
 A reward of 25 will be paid for news that will 
 lead to the discovery of the present whereabouts 
 of the said James Smith. Apply to Truelove and 
 Murchison, Solicitors, 384, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 London, W.C. 
 
 "Well, what's the matter with it?" demanded Sir 
 John Hildreth, with the truculence of one who already 
 stands self-condemned. 
 
 "Is Mr. Murchison responsible for the literary 
 part?" enquired Mrs. Compton-Stacey, as she replaced 
 the paper on the table. 
 
 "No, he's not," was the curt reply. "I'm not a 
 fool that I have to go to my solicitor to draw ur> 
 
 an advertisement." 
 
 275
 
 276 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "You composed it yourself then?" she queried. 
 
 "Of course I did," he retorted. "I got it out of 
 a book, at least I got the idea," he added. 
 
 "A novel?" she queried, with that quiet insistence 
 which always gave her brother the feeling that he 
 was once more a schoolboy, sent up before "the Head." 
 
 "It was a story I was reading." Sir John was an 
 inveterate reader of novels of the more sensational 
 order. "Of course I altered it." 
 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey rose and walked over to her 
 brother's favourite chair, on which was lying a book. 
 Picking it up, she read aloud the title, "The Blood- 
 stained Boot." Opening it at a place where a leaf 
 was turned down, she glanced first at the page before 
 her, then at her brother, who stood with guilt stamped 
 all over him. Finally she returned to the page. 
 
 "The adaptation is admirable," she said a few 
 minutes later, as she returned to her chair, carrying 
 the book with. her; "but the advertisement in the book 
 concerns a man suspected of murder," she added as 
 she resumed her seat. "Unfortunately you have re- 
 tained the same atmosphere in your own wording." 
 
 "There's nothing about murder," he cried, unable 
 to keep out of his voice the apprehension he felt. "It 
 simply offers a reward for news of of Darrell." 
 
 "Well, we shall see," she said, with the air of one 
 who herself has no doubt whatever about the matter. 
 "An advertisement like that may make things ex- 
 tremely awkward for the boy." 
 
 "How?" he demanded, now thoroughly discon- 
 certed. 
 
 "At Scotland Yard, I believe, they are inveterate 
 readers of newspapers. The implication of the words
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH 277 
 
 'calling himself,' and 'alias,' is clearly that of fraud." 
 
 "But I didn't say so," he cried, seizing The Times, 
 reading the advertisement again, and finally tossing 
 the paper back upon the table, after which he stood 
 staring blankly at his sister. 
 
 "You had better marry Vera Truscombe, John," 
 she said, nodding her head slightly, which with her 
 always indicated disapproval. "Better a crinkled nose 
 in a wife than a crinkled brain in a bachelor." 
 
 "I won't be bullied like this, Charlotte," he blazed. 
 "You disapprove of everything I do. You " 
 
 "And who is generally right?'' she enquired calmly. 
 "You or I?" 
 
 "Confound it! I refuse to discuss the matter with 
 you," he cried angrily, putting up a barrage of wrath 
 to hide his discomfiture. "Why didn't you say all 
 this before I sent off those infernal advertisements. I 
 put it in The Morning Post and The Daily Telegraph, 
 too. You always blame me after after it's done." 
 
 "For one thing I was not aware that you intended 
 to advertise," she said, rising. Her calmness on such 
 occasions infuriated him, "And for another " 
 
 "It was you who told me to do it," he interrupted. 
 
 "And for another," she continued imperturbably, 
 "you seldom if ever take advice, John. You prefer 
 to allow me to help pick up the pieces afterwards." 
 
 "But didn't you advise me to advertise for him?" 
 he demanded, planting himself directly in her path to 
 the door. 
 
 "To the best of my recollection," she said as she 
 made a detour round him, "you remarked that you 
 would be damned if you did," and as she passed she 
 gave him a little smile which told him that they were
 
 378 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 still friends. Without that smile, he would have been 
 wretched for the rest of the day, although he did not 
 know it. 
 
 "Damn that fellow Peters!" he grumbled, as he 
 closed the door. "What the devil did he want to 
 grow that that infernal moustache for. If he'd been 
 here " He did not finish the sentence ; but threw him- 
 self into his chair, and glared at a bust of Disraeli. 
 Then suddenly he recollected that he had not told his 
 sister of his master-stroke in writing to Peters. The 
 thought of it soothed his wounded feelings and, rising, 
 he mixed himself a whisky-and-soda. 
 
 n 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 In her excitement, Miss Mary started forward and, 
 with the edge of The Morning Post, upset her coffee- 
 cup. 
 
 Miss Jell slightly lowered The Times; she always 
 read The Times at breakfast, and gazed disapprov- 
 ingly across at her sister. 
 
 "Ring the bell, Mary," she said, "and tell the maid 
 to bring a cloth." 
 
 Miss Jell prided herself upon her restraint, even 
 in moments of crisis. It annoyed her intensely for 
 any one to soil a tablecloth; but the act once com- 
 mitted, she accepted it with stoical calm, which she 
 considered was due to her self-respect as a gentle- 
 woman. 
 
 "But look, Jane!" cried Miss Mary, and she held 
 out the copy of The Morning Post, indicating the agony 
 column with a well-manicured fore-finger. "It's him !" 
 she cried ungrammatically, then, her eyes falling on the
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH 
 
 dark stain which was slowly spreading, she dashed 
 over to the bell-push and pressed it. 
 
 "Miss Mary has had an accident," said Miss Jell 
 with cold composure, as the maid entered. 
 
 Miss Jell always referred to her as "the maid," for 
 one thing it was more refined, and for another, she 
 did not approve of the nomenclature of the lower 
 orders. 
 
 "Dap it gently, and then put a dinner-mat under- 
 neath," she ordered. 
 
 Having provided for the crisis which her sister's 
 impetuosity had precipitated, Miss Jell turned to the 
 newspaper that had been thrust into her hands. 
 
 "It's in the agony column," cried Miss Mary, hardly 
 able to control her voice. "The third down. Isn't 
 it dreadful?" 
 
 Miss Jell lowered her eyes and read: 
 
 JAMES SMITH. Wanted news of one calling 
 himself James Smith (known to be an alias) last seen 
 in the neighbourhood of Winchester on June 23rd, 
 with suit-case, kit-bag, and rain-coat. Age 28, height 
 5 ft. 10 in., fair, with blue eyes, attractive person- 
 ality. A reward of 25 will be paid for news that 
 will lead to the discovery of the present whereabouts 
 of the said James Smith. Apply to Truelove and 
 Murchison, Solicitors, 384, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 London, W.C. 
 
 Having read the advertisement twice, Miss Jell re- 
 turned the paper to her sister. Composure was another 
 quality upon which she prided herself. 
 
 "What do you think, Jane?" asked Miss Mary,
 
 280 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 quivering with excitement, which she controlled with 
 difficulty, knowing her sister's prejudice against any 
 expression of emotion. 
 
 "I think it most deplorable, Mary. The man is obvi- 
 ously a bad character, whether he is Alfred Warren 
 or not." 
 
 "But but," Miss Mary paused, and looked anx- 
 iously at her sister. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Miss Jell lifted her chin slightly. Miss Mary recog- 
 nised it as a danger-signal. 
 
 "Nothing, Jane," she stuttered. 
 
 "Say what you were going to say, Mary," ordered 
 Miss Jell. 
 
 "I, I was only going to mention that there that 
 there is a reward." The last three words came out 
 with a rush, and Miss Mary held her breath. 
 
 "There is a reward for those who choose to claim 
 it," was the icy rejoinder, and the vision of the new 
 dining-room carpet that had floated before Miss 
 Mary's eyes, vanished. She sighed, realising that 
 somebody else in Little Bilstead would inevitably ac- 
 quire what she had already come to look upon as the 
 property of The Cedars. 
 
 During the rest of the meal each was unusually 
 preoccupied, Miss Mary in condoling with herself over 
 the loss of a dining-room carpet, Miss Jell in wrestling 
 with her breeding. 
 
 Just at the moment when she arrived at the con- 
 clusion that it was the duty of every British subject 
 to assist in bringing a criminal to justice, Miss Marshall 
 was engaged in slapping her father vigorously between 
 his shoulder-blades.
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH 281 
 
 It was Mr. Marshall's practice at breakfast to prop 
 The Daily Telegraph up in front of him; he generally 
 used the coffee-pot for the purpose. During the whole 
 of the meal, his eyes were seldom removed from its 
 columns. Food he conveyed to his mouth mechani- 
 cally, and he would drink, absorbing the news of the 
 world over the rim of his cup. 
 
 It was this custom that had brought about disaster. 
 The self-same advertisement that had caused Miss 
 Mary Jell to upset her coffee-cup, had met the eye 
 of Mr. Marshall just as he was swallowing, with the 
 result that a portion of the weak tea with which he 
 washed down his frugal breakfast, had, as he explained 
 later to his daughter, "gone the wrong way." 
 
 When Mr. Marshall had acquired a working supply 
 of oxygen, he pointed to the paragraph which had 
 caused all the trouble. His throat was too sore for 
 speech. 
 
 "Father!" cried Miss Marshall, having read the 
 advertisement, which she promptly translated into a 
 pair of trousers, a blouse, and a new dinner-service, 
 respectively for her father, herself, and the house, 
 with a handsome balance to be allocated later. 
 
 "A pen and ink," gasped Mr. Marshall. 
 
 The word "ink" came out like an order from a 
 drill-sergeant, as Mr. Marshall trailed off into another 
 paroxysm of coughing, and Miss Marshall went to do 
 her parent's bidding. 
 
 Four other breakfast-tables in Little Bilstead were 
 that morning rendered intensely dramatic by the an- 
 nouncement that news of James Smith was so eagerly 
 desired as to be worth the sum of 25 to the advertiser. 
 
 By ten o'clock quite a number of interested people
 
 282 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 were aware that James Smith was "wanted" and, not 
 being over-burdened with charity, they assumed the 
 worst. 
 
 Tom Bassingthwaighte heard it from Mrs. Crane's 
 maid, who had noticed that Dr. Crane's attention was 
 divided between the agony-column of The Times, and 
 removing the bones of a bloater from his mouth with 
 his fingers. She had overheard a remark he had made 
 to Mrs. Crane, in which the word "reward" had been 
 mentioned. 
 
 Having a good sight, she had managed to read the 
 advertisement over the doctor's shoulder and, having 
 no arriere-pensee, she had confided the news to Tom 
 Bassingthwaighte when he brought the letters. 
 
 That morning, very few people got their due, as the 
 post-office understood it, although many received letters 
 to which they were not entitled. Tom Bassing- 
 thwaighte was doing some deep thinking instead of 
 devoting his entire attention to His Majesty's mails. 
 
 It was not until he reached the vicarage, which lay 
 towards the end of his round, that he saw his way clear. 
 
 Inspiration came in the shape of little Bobby Greeve, 
 who was hastening towards him with the vicar's morn- 
 ing paper. 
 
 "You be late, Bobby," remarked Tom Bassing- 
 thwaighte pleasantly. 
 
 "Slep' over myself," panted the breathless Bobby. 
 
 "I'll take it up," said the postman good-naturedly, 
 relieving the lad of the vicarage copy of The Times. 
 
 With a suppressed explosion which really meant 
 thanks, Bobby darted off. 
 
 It was when he was half-way up the drive that Tom 
 Bassingthwaighte had his inspiration. He had already
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH 283 
 
 realised the danger of this fugitive from justice, as in 
 his own mind he already classified Smith, making a 
 bolt of it. If the vicarage received no paper that 
 morning, this danger would be removed, or at least 
 considerably lessened, as it was very unlikely that any 
 one would warn Smith that a price was upon his head. 
 They would prefer to make an effort to obtain the 
 reward Tom Bassingthwaighte had lived too long in 
 Little Bilstead to be in any doubt as to the characters 
 of its inhabitants. 
 
 Feeling like a detective in one of the paper-covered 
 stories upon which he fed ravenously, the postman 
 thrust the copy of The Times into his bag. 
 
 From then on everybody got their proper ration of 
 correspondence. 
 
 The postman knew that in Little Bilstead they were 
 inveterate readers of newspapers. He foresaw a num- 
 ber of applications for the reward, and it perturbed 
 him that fact had been responsible for the mistakes 
 in distribution. 
 
 By three o'clock that afternoon his worst forebod- 
 ings were realised, as there were no less than nine let- 
 ters addressed to Messrs. Truelove and Murchison, 
 his own being the tenth. 
 
 With great deliberation, he placed these nine letters 
 under the counter, letting the tenth go forward. There 
 were times, he reasoned, when postal delays were un- 
 avoidable. 
 
 That night at The Pigeons it was noticed that Tom 
 Bassingthwaighte was in a state of high good-humour. 
 He drank two ciders, three old ales and sang one song, 
 eventually returning home at an hour that augured ill 
 for the punctual delivery of the morrow's letters.
 
 284 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 When Smith walked through the village that morn- 
 ing, he was conscious that he was arousing more than 
 usual interest. The sporting element was still as cor- 
 dial in its greetings; whilst the unsporting scowled at 
 him as darkly as ever; still he was conscious of an at- 
 mosphere of suppressed excitement, and he was puz- 
 zled. 
 
 It was possible, of course, that some hitherto un- 
 suspected misdemeanour of Alfred Warren had been 
 unearthed, in which case the explosion would probably 
 take place later. 
 
 He noticed, among other things, that Postle was in 
 full uniform, with carefully blackened boots. It was 
 a tradition in Little Bilstead that for John Postle to 
 blacken his boots boded ill for somebody. It was his 
 method of emphasising the fact that dramatic events 
 were pending. 
 
 For some days past Smith had been debating upon 
 the advisability of continuing his journey. The rail- 
 way strike had ended in a compromise, as such things 
 invariably do after all the damage has been done. 
 
 There were many reasons why he would have liked 
 to stay in Little Bilstead, not the least of which was 
 the fact that it provided both comedy and drama, 
 with a special tendency towards the unexpected. 
 
 As he approached The Pigeons, he observed John 
 Nudd, who was standing at the door, suddenly turn 
 and bolt into the inn, as if undesirous of being recog- 
 nised. As a matter of fact, he had just remembered 
 leaving the newspaper on the counter and, as he had 
 already written and posted an application for the 25 
 reward, he was not taking any chances. 
 
 Reappearing as Smith came past the door, he
 
 SIR JOHN HILDRETH 285 
 
 nodded, and proceeded to watch him until he was out 
 of sight up the road. 
 
 Smith finally decided that the .secret of Thirkettle's 
 return had leaked out and was responsible for the 
 electricity in the atmosphere. 
 
 That day Smith was late for luncheon. He had 
 walked on forgetful of the time, as he pondered Mar- 
 jorie's words. Had he been cruel in staying on? 
 
 He had suggested the possibility to Miss Lipscombe 
 the night before at dinner, and she had replied, "Rub- 
 bish!" proceeding to point out that even if he had 
 gone at once the damage was already done. 
 
 "Marjorie's too young to understand," had been her 
 final comment. 
 
 He had wondered.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 
 
 "It yTR. WILLIS would like to see you, sir." 
 
 \\r \ "Willis!" repeated Smith, looking from 
 Janet across the luncheon-table to Miss Lip- 
 scombe. 
 
 At the slight inclination of her head, he rose. In 
 the hall he found Willis, his face deathly white, the 
 corners of his mouth twitching, and his hands working 
 as if he were unable to control them. 
 
 "Is anything the matter, Willis?" he enquired, has- 
 tening across to the butler. 
 
 "Bob Thirkettle's back, Mr. Alfred," he stuttered, 
 and the trembling of his hands and the twitching of his 
 mouth seemed to increase. "I've run all the way from 
 The Grange to warn you, sir." 
 
 "That was very foolish," said Smith gravely. "Why 
 should you want to warn me?" 
 
 "You mustn't go out, sir," he quavered huskily. 
 "He'll kill you, sir." He swayed slightly, and ap- 
 peared to be on the point of collapse. 
 
 "Sit down, Willis," said Smith gently, forcing him 
 into a chair. "You look thoroughly ill." 
 
 "I'm I'm all right, Mr. Alfred, thank you," he stut- 
 tered, giving the lie to his words by the greyness of 
 his features, and the beads of perspiration on his brow. 
 
 "Ask Miss Lipscombe if she will come here," said 
 
 286
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 287 
 
 Smith, turning to Janet, who stood an open-mouthed 
 spectator, "and bring some brandy." 
 
 A minute later, Miss Lipscombe had taken the mat- 
 ter in hand, and was holding a glass of brandy-and- 
 water to Willis' grey lips. Slowly he drank, with the 
 obedience of a child. Presently he sighed and the 
 colour returned to his cheeks. He strove to rise; but 
 Miss Lipscombe restrained him. 
 
 "Now, sit still, Willis," she said gently, "and do 
 as you are told. I will send Janet for Dr. Crane." 
 
 "No, miss; please don't, miss," he expostulated. 
 "It's only a passing faintness, I've been hurrying," he 
 gasped, his gaze all the time fixed fearfully upon Smith. 
 
 "Dear me, dear me !" murmured the vicar, appear- 
 ing at the dining-room door, his vague eyes resting 
 upon Willis, sitting limply in the chair. "It must be 
 the hot weather." 
 
 "Rubbish!" was Miss Lipscombe's comment. 
 "When a man of Willis' age will run about the country- 
 side as he says he has been doing, what do you ex- 
 pect?" 
 
 The vicar continued to gaze at the inert form of 
 the butler, mild reproach in his eye. 
 
 "Very wrong," he murmured. "Very dangerous, 
 too. I was once excellent at the sprint myself; but 
 not now," he murmured sadly, "not now." 
 
 "If you go trotting about like a two-year-old, 
 Willis," said Smith, "we shall have you taking to your 
 bed, and then what will everybody do at The Grange?" 
 
 "It was Mrs. Higgs sent me," murmured Willis. 
 "She's having hysterics," he added, with the air of 
 one who announces that another is taking a bath. 
 "Mrs. Death had a vision last night," he added gravely,
 
 288 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "so we were " He stopped suddenly, his eyes fixed 
 appealingly upon Smith. 
 
 The corners of Miss Lipscombe's mouth twitched, as 
 she made a motion to her brother to return to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 For a moment the vicar stood regarding her un- 
 certainly, then, having looked behind him, and on either 
 side to see if there were any one to whom she was 
 signalling, he realised her sign was for him, and turned 
 obediently into the dining-room, followed by his sister 
 and Janet. 
 
 "Mr. Alfred," whispered Willis, having assured him- 
 self by a hasty glance that the dining-room door was 
 closed. "Don't go into the village to-day, sir. If you 
 do, Bob Thirkettle will, will Oh! it's terrible," he 
 broke off, moaning. 
 
 "Don't you worry your foolish old head about me, 
 Willis," said Smith, with a reassuring smile, "and tell 
 Mrs. Higgs I'll bring her the redoubtable Thirkettle's 
 head on a salver." 
 
 "You won't go, Mr. Alfred, will you?" he begged. 
 "He he threatened to kill you, sir." 
 
 "So I understand." 
 
 "And he's so strong, sir." 
 
 "Is he? By the way, Willis, has it ever struck you 
 that two can play at the killing game?" 
 
 "But, Mr. Alfred, you wouldn't have a chance with* 
 him," he quavered. "He he may have his gun." 
 
 "So you expect me to stay in the grounds and never 
 go out, Willis," Smith queried, smiling down at him. 
 "Is that it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, it would be safer," counselled Willis.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 289 
 
 "It would certainly be safer," he agreed, "but would 
 it be altogether dignified, do you think?" 
 
 Willis' eyes dropped beneath Smith's gaze. There 
 was about him nothing of the paladin. 
 
 "You won't go out, Mr. Alfred, will you?" he im- 
 plored, rising shakily from his chair. "I must get back 
 to Mrs. Higgs, sir. Miss Marjorie's out and Mrs. 
 Death may have another vision, sir, and there's no 
 one to look after things." He tottered towards the 
 hall-door. 
 
 "I'll come part of the way with you," said Smith, 
 taking the old man gently by the arm. A vision- 
 seeing cook was a bit of a responsibility, he decided. 
 
 At the vicarage gate, Willis insisted that he was 
 quite well again, and as he seemed able to get on 
 alone, Smith retraced his steps to the vicarage. 
 
 He was not feeling so easy in his own mind as his 
 words implied. It was a beastly awkward situation, 
 he decided. If he did not appear in the village, or 
 go about the neighbourhood as usual, people would 
 inevitably say that he was afraid. If, on the other 
 hand, he did appear, there would undoubtedly be a 
 row, Thirkettle might even attempt to shoot him. 
 Quite apart from that, however, the fellow appeared 
 to have a big reputation as a fighter. 
 
 The worst of it was Smith found his sympathies 
 entirely with his self-constituted enemy. The man was 
 acting only as a man should act under such provoca- 
 tion as he had received. The unfortunate thing was 
 that the real Alfred was not there to receive the chas- 
 tisement he so richly deserved. 
 
 It was obvious that he must go down to the village
 
 290 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 and show himself, otherwise he would be branded as a 
 craven, and he felt he should be making a poor return 
 for the hospitality he had received at The Grange, 
 if he allowed such a stigma to rest upon Lady Warren's 
 reputed son. 
 
 As he re-entered the dining-room, he heard the vicar 
 say: "They must shake hands, Hannah." 
 
 "Shake fiddlesticks! You " She stopped suddenly 
 at the sight of Smith. 
 
 "You know?" he queried, as he resumed his seat at 
 the table. 
 
 She nodded. "Janet told us," she said. 
 
 In her eyes there was a strange expression that puz- 
 zled him. It suggested both anxiety and expectation. 
 He was conscious that she was watching him keenly. 
 
 As for Janet, each time she had occasion to enter 
 the room, she fixed on Smith a pair of round, terrified 
 eyes, and her gaze did not leave his face until inter- 
 rupted by the closing of the door behind her. 
 
 "I think," said Miss Lipscombe, after an almost 
 embarrassing silence, "that it would be better to let 
 the vicar see Postle before you go into the village." 
 
 "I am going into the village this afternoon, Miss 
 Lipscombe," he said quietly, replacing his coffee-cup 
 in the saucer. 
 
 He could have sworn that the look which sprang 
 into Miss Lipscombe's eyes was one of relief. For 
 nearly a minute she continued to regard him steadily. 
 
 "This Thirkettle is a big man, Mr. Smith," she said 
 at length, "and he has reason " She hesitated. 
 
 "So I understand," was his calm retort. "I have 
 made some excellent friends owing to my likeness to
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 291 
 
 Alfred Warren, and I must not refuse to encounter one 
 of his enemies. It wouldn't be quite cricket," he 
 smiled. "Would it now?" 
 
 "And you really mean to go?" 
 
 "Even with you and the vicar hanging on to my 
 coat-tails," he smiled. 
 
 This time there was no doubt about the look in Miss 
 Lipscombe's eyes it was relief. She had dreaded find- 
 ing the feet of clay she expected to be there. 
 
 "It is very difficult to know what to do," she mur- 
 mured, looking across at the vicar, who was dreamily 
 gazing out of the window. "Very difficult," she re- 
 peated, shaking her head slightly as she rose from the 
 table. 
 
 "I think I'll finish training that rather self-willed 
 Dorothy Perkins," said Smith as he, too, rose. "An- 
 other hour ought to bring her to reason," he added. 
 He had no intention of placing himself at a disadvan- 
 tage by joining issue with the local Dempsey immedi- 
 ately after a meal. A little relaxation with Dorothy 
 Perkins would make all the difference in his speed, and 
 from what he -had heard, it was in speed alone that 
 his chance lay, provided, of course, it came to blows. 
 
 Dorothy Perkins took rather longer than the hour 
 he had allotted to her; moreover she was spiteful and 
 pricked his fingers. It was not until three o'clock 
 that he went to his room to change into an easy jacket, 
 and a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes. There was 
 nothing like being prepared. 
 
 Slipping out oj the back way, he made a detour 
 round the house, and struck the drive half-way towards 
 the gate.
 
 292 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Marjorie dis- 
 appearing round the bend in the direction of the 
 vicarage. 
 
 Had she too come to warn him against the danger 
 that threatened? 
 
 His jaw set in a grim line. To inherit another man's 
 sins was bad enough; but to be credited with his 
 cowardice was intolerable. 
 
 As he strode along the road towards the village, he 
 almost hoped that Bob Thirkettle would show fight. 
 It was his intention to take a stroll through the village 
 for half-a-mile, and return the same way. This would 
 give his man time to appear. 
 
 Of course Thirkettle might prefer a the infinitely surer 
 way of potting him from behind a friendly hedge; but 
 he must take his chance of that. Still, it was not a 
 pleasant sensation walking along a highway with the 
 knowledge that, somewhere in the near vicinity, was a 
 man thirsting for your blood, a man, who, at any 
 moment, might be gazing along the barrel of a gun 
 preparatory to letting fly. 
 
 As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to his Ox- 
 ford days when Old Plum, an ex-prize fighter, would 
 "mix it" with any one who made it worth his while. 
 
 "Give and take, gentlemen, if you please," had been 
 the burden of his exhortation, "and don't be afraid o' 
 the ginger." 
 
 As Old Plum himself gave considerably more ginger 
 than he took, his clientele was recruited exclusively 
 from the hardiest and the heaviest of the year's boxing 
 men. 
 
 Suddenly Smith was startled by a small boy darting 
 out from the hedge some fifty yards or so ahead, and 
 scuttling off for all he was worth along the road.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 293 
 
 "A jackal!" he murmured. "Thank the Lord for 
 Old Plum!" 
 
 II 
 
 The news of Bob Thirkettle's return had spread 
 through Little Bilstead with almost incredible rapidity. 
 
 It had found Mr. Marshall going over the leg-bone 
 of a rabbit with his back-teeth, Miss Marshall watch- 
 ing him anxiously, lest it should slip from his grasp. 
 She was always anxious when her father got to the 
 bones, especially fish-bones. 
 
 Mr. Marshall hurried over the boiled suet-pudding 
 in a way that convinced his daughter he would have 
 indigestion. This would mean a sleepless night for 
 her, for with Mr. Marshall indigestion was a vocal 
 affair of agonised octaves. After a final look-round 
 to see that there was nothing further to devour, he 
 hastened down to the village to buy a stamp. 
 
 To Little Bilstead, Tom Bassingthwaighte was what 
 a tape-machine is to a London club, the centre of in- 
 terest in times of crisis. 
 
 By a strange coincidence, Miss Mary Jell, on hearing 
 the news, also found herself out of stamps, and was 
 promptly forbidden to go near the village until "the 
 danger was over." Never had she felt more like rebel- 
 lion. For the first time in her placid and docile exist- 
 ence, she realised the disadvantages of a sheltered life. 
 
 She knew that her sister would go into the village 
 to see that everything was as it should be. Miss Jell 
 was like that. She would eat plums when they first 
 came in "to see if they were ripe," and then forbid her 
 sister to touch one for fear of cholera. 
 
 How wonderful it must be to be wicked, was Miss
 
 29* THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Mary's half-expressed thought, as she picked up her 
 knitting-needles and proceeded with what Miss Jell 
 always referred to as "a garment." To Miss Jell, 
 all such things were garments, without amplification, 
 except when absolutely necessary. 
 
 The news caught Colonel Enderby bolting curry, his 
 bald head dotted with moisture he both took and 
 gave things that were hot. 
 
 Of social Little Bilstead he was first upon the scene; 
 for, being a Anglo-Indian, he ate curry with spoon and 
 fork, which considerably increased the rate of intake. 
 
 "What's the meaning of this, Postle?" he barked, 
 as he overtook the constable, with his newly-polished 
 boots, just outside the village. 
 
 Postle halted, turned, and gaped in one and the same 
 movement. The "cunnel," as he called him, always 
 had the same effect upon the Little Bilstead policeman, 
 seeming to petrify him. 
 
 "Well, confound you! Can't you answer?" he 
 shouted. The curry had not settled down as it should. 
 
 "I see Tom Simmons, I did," Postle sp'uttered, "and 
 he say to me, 'John, that there Bob Thirkettle be back,' 
 so I" 
 
 "Be damned to you !" shouted the Colonel, as he 
 strode angrily on, leaving the gaping Postle to follow at 
 his own pace. He had never been able to settle down 
 to the detailed narrative style of the Norfolk rustic. 
 
 At the sight of his natural enemy stalking towards 
 the post-office, Tom Bassingthwaighte scuttled to cover 
 like a frightened rabbit, leaving his sister to bear the 
 brunt of the explosion he knew was coming. The 
 Colonel might threaten to "report" her; but, even if 
 she heard, she would take no notice.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 295 
 
 The demand for stamps that day, in small numbers 
 and of small denominations, constituted a record, beat- 
 ing by three-halfpence the previous highest total, 
 achieved on the morning following the sudden and un- 
 expected appearance of Smith. 
 
 The fact that Tom Bassingthwaighte had "gone to 
 earth" was as great a disappointment to Little Bil- 
 stead as it was to him; but the Colonel might return 
 at any moment, and the village postman was frankly 
 afraid of his bark. 
 
 Once in the village, social Little Bilstead was rather 
 at a loss what to do. It could not go on buying stamps, 
 for which it had ostensibly come. Miss Jell alone 
 showed any originality. She bought some matches, 
 which she did not want, and a periodical she had no 
 intention of reading. 
 
 Mrs. Truspitt-Greene and Mrs. Crane arrived to- 
 gether; but from different ends of the village. Five 
 minutes later, Mrs. Spelman, with a very red face and 
 no breath, was seen making for the post-office at what 
 was practically the double. She had been the last 
 to hear the news; but she had got off with a flying 
 start and odd shoes. She alone of all her set made no 
 pretence of wanting stamps. She came for scandal; 
 bloodshed if possible, but certainly scandal. 
 
 "What do you think of it?" she panted, as she 
 rushed up to Miss Jell, who had adopted the tactics 
 of walking slowly through the village and back, as if 
 she had been a seaside flapper, and Little Bilstead "the 
 front." 
 
 Miss Jell gazed coldly at Mrs. Spelman's flushed 
 features. Without waiting for a reply, or a further 
 supply of breath, Mrs. Spelman plunged on.
 
 296 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I only heard ten minutes ago! Have you seen 
 them? Isn't it dreadful? I shall scream if he brings 
 a gun! Where's Postle? It will be in all the papers! 
 What a scandal! Have they warned him?" 
 
 She looked about her at the little groups of villagers, 
 and at the larger group in front of The Pigeons. The 
 air was electrical. People talked in hushed voices, and 
 glanced continually in the direction which any one com- 
 ing from the vicarage must take. 
 
 Within five minutes, Mrs. Spelman had proved a 
 rallying point. Throwing overboard the postage-stamp 
 camouflage, social Little Bilstead gathered about her 
 and talked. Colonel Enderby threw out denunciations 
 like squibs, Mr. Marshall, who had now been joined by 
 his daughter, listened with his mouth, Mrs. Truspitt- 
 Greene ascribed the tragedy they all foresaw to the 
 will of the Almighty. Miss Jell was restrained almost 
 to the point of screaming. Mrs. Crane looked on and, 
 in consequence, saw most of the game; whilst from 
 behind a tree in the distance, Miss Mary Jell gazed 
 longingly towards what was to her a land of promise. 
 
 Everybody wondered what had become of Postle. 
 Colonel Enderby announced his intention of reporting 
 him by telephone to the Chief Commissioner at Scot- 
 land Yard. 
 
 In the meantime, the village constable was drinking 
 a mug of ale in the private parlour of The Pigeons. 
 Opposite him sat a big black-bearded man, with lower- 
 ing brow and sullen, smouldering eye. 
 
 "Now, Bob, I can't have no shooting, bor," Postle 
 remarked, as he replaced his empty mug upon the table. 
 
 "There 'oant be no shootin'," growled the bearded 
 man; "but there may be bloody murder for all that," 
 and he picked up his mug and drained it at a draught.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 297 
 
 III 
 
 "Here 'e be! Here 'e be!" 
 
 A small boy was running down the hill at breakneck 
 speed towards the village, shouting as he ran. 
 
 A thrill passed through the little groups. Every 
 head was turned in the direction from which the boy 
 was running. 
 
 There was a movement among the crowd outside 
 The Pigeons. A silence fell upon every one, only the 
 shuffling of feet upon the gritty road was to be heard. 
 
 Suddenly there was a murmur, a sort of moan of 
 expectancy, such as preludes the cheers with which a 
 Boat Race is acclaimed. 
 
 All eyes were directed towards the top of the hill, 
 down which the boy was running. 
 
 There was a gasp, a catching of many breaths, as 
 Smith appeared round the bend smoking a cigarette 
 and walking as if nothing had happened, or was likely 
 to happen. 
 
 Why he had lighted the cigarette, he did not know; 
 probably for the same reason that the hero in a melo- 
 drama falls back upon tobacco when the villain has 
 him at a disadvantage. It emphasised the indifference 
 he was far from feeling. 
 
 In spite of his apparent unconcern, Smith was a 
 little staggered at the sight the village street presented. 
 It seemed as if the whole population had turned out in 
 his honour. It removed from his mind the last vestige 
 of doubt that he was on the eve of dramatic develop- 
 ments. 
 
 As he approached, he noticed a movement among 
 those gathered outside The Pigeons. A moment later 
 a heavily-built, dark-whiskered man came out. For a
 
 298 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 moment he stood looking about him. Then with a 
 curious shambling gait like the lope of a bear, he pro- 
 ceeded to walk in the direction from which Smith was 
 approaching. 
 
 Immediately behind him came Nudd, with Tom Sim- 
 mons in attendance. The crowd also got in motion. 
 
 As Smith regarded the huge proportions of the man 
 approaching him, he was thankful that he had taken 
 the precaution of changing his boots for shoes. With 
 such an antagonist, he argued, his feet would be of 
 far more use than his hands. Only by nimble foot- 
 work could he hope to avoid the onslaught of some 
 fourteen or fifteen stone of muscle and flesh. 
 
 If the man were a scientific boxer, then his number 
 was up, he decided. 
 
 Whatever happened it would have to be short and 
 sharp, as far as he was concerned. 
 
 With outward calm and unconcern, he approached 
 the black-bearded man, who walked some four or five 
 yards in front of the crowd. In the excitement of the 
 moment caste was forgotten. Miss Jell found herself 
 clinging to the coat-sleeve of Tom Bassingthwaighte, 
 whose teeth were chattering like castanets. Colonel 
 Enderby was craning forward over the head of Millie 
 Marjoram, whilst Mrs. Truspitt-Greene, Mrs. Crane 
 and the Marshalls were wedged in among a group of 
 farm-hands. 
 
 Miss Mary Jell was actually running down the hill 
 towards the scene of the drama. Human frailty had 
 triumphed over her fear of what Jane would say. 
 
 P.C. Postle was nowhere to be seen. Several inti- 
 mates had made it clear to him that if he interfered 
 there would be trouble, and he would inevitably be 
 the centre of it. He had therefore wisely decided to
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 299 
 
 leave The Pigeons by the back-entrance, and at that 
 moment was making a wide detour, in the hope of 
 being in at the death. He hated missing the fight; 
 but it was difficult to see how he could stand by and 
 watch what he was paid to prevent from taking place. 
 
 Smith edged a little to the right, in order to give the 
 man an opportunity of passing him, if he were so in- 
 clined. Thirkettle, on the other hand, left no doubt 
 in anybody's mind as to his intentions. At the sight 
 of Smith edging away, he evidently thought that he 
 meditated flight. 
 
 "Look out, together," he cried over his shoulder, 
 obviously to friends in the crowd behind. 
 
 When within a few yards of Thirkettle, Smith 
 stopped, as to continue would have meant running up 
 against him. 
 
 "So you've returned, bor," said Thirkettle insolently. 
 
 Smith eyed him with calm deliberation. 
 
 "I think you have made a mistake," he remarked 
 quietly. 
 
 Thirkettle laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 "So that's your lay, is it?" he cried; "but that can't 
 save you. I suppose you aren't Alfred Warren." 
 Then, with a sudden access of rage he broke out, "You 
 mucky slink. You know what you done to my poor 
 mawther." 
 
 Smith flushed slightly at the insolence of the man's 
 tone. Seeing that an encounter was inevitable, he 
 kept a wary eye for a sudden onslaught. 
 
 "As a matter of fact I am not Mr. Alfred Warren." 
 He laid a slight stress upon the "Mr." "I have never 
 seen you before, and I know nothing about your daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 Thirkettle hesitated a moment, he seemed non-
 
 300 
 
 plussed by Smith's quiet and deliberate manner. He 
 had expected fear, protestations, abjectness. He was 
 puzzled. 
 
 "You hear him, together," he cried over his shoulder. 
 
 There was an ominous murmur from some of those 
 grouped behind him. 
 
 Turning to Smith once more, he said: "I was going 
 to shoot you, as I should ha' done seven year ago; 
 but now I'm just goin' to break every bone in your 
 stinkin' body." 
 
 With that he proceeded to take off his coat, with the 
 studied deliberation of a man who knows that his 
 quarry cannot escape him. This he threw on the 
 ground, his hat following. He then began turning up 
 his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 "One moment," said Smith quietly. "I call these 
 people to witness that this dispute has been thrust 
 upon me. Whatever the consequences, the responsibil- 
 ity will lie entirely with you." He looked straight into 
 Thirkettle's blazing eyes. 
 
 He had scarcely finished speaking before the fellow 
 made a wild rush at him, head down and arms swing- 
 ing. Although Smith had been speaking to those be- 
 hind Thirkettle, his eyes had been fixed upon him. 
 Swiftly side-stepping, he let him blunder past. 
 
 With a feeling of relief, Smith realised that he was 
 opposed to nothing more than brute strength. 
 
 Stumbling on for three or four paces before he could 
 stop himself, Thirkettle turned. He appeared sur- 
 prised that he had not overwhelmed his opponent. Ad- 
 vancing again, more cautiously, he paused for a sec- 
 ond. Then, making a sudden dive forward, he swung 
 his right arm with a force that would have stunned
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA 301 
 
 an ox had it landed. Smith ducked and, before his 
 man could recover, had got home with his left be- 
 tween the eyes. Thirkettle staggered and up went his 
 guard, letting in a half-armed right full in the mouth. 
 
 With a grunt Thirkettle sat down in the road, gaz- 
 ing about him with eyes that blinked their astonish- 
 ment. Murmurs rose from the crowd, murmurs of 
 surprise and encouragement, coupled with urgings to 
 Bob Thirkettle to give him the u cosh" he seemed un- 
 able to administer, whilst a shrill voice was heard cry- 
 ing, "Do it again! Oh! do it again!" It was Miss 
 Mary Jell; but no one appeared to take any notice, 
 they were too stunned at what had taken place. 
 
 "Go it, Mist' Alfred!" roared one. 
 
 "Remember Dick Marsh!" 
 
 "Don't you be afraid, bor." 
 
 Miss Jell was now clasping Tom Bassingthwaighte's 
 arm with both hands. Millie Marjoram was gripping 
 Colonel Enderby's hand with moist and trembling 
 fingers. Mrs. Truspitt-Greene was making curious 
 little noises at the back of her throat; whilst Mrs. Spel- 
 man had just heard herself shout quite loudly, "Kill 
 him! Kill him!" 
 
 Slowly Thirkettle picked himself up and spat the 
 blood from his mouth. From the look in his eyes it 
 was obvious he had received a severe shock, both physi- 
 cal and mental. For the next few minutes he was 
 caution personified. He seemed dazed. 
 
 Smith early realised two things. First that it would 
 be useless to attempt body-blows on a man with the 
 physique of a bear; second that, unless the whole affair 
 were over quickly, the man's superior strength would 
 wear him down. He therefore decided to force the
 
 302 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 pace, trusting to his science to make up for the physical 
 disparity. Thirkettle's obvious object was to clinch, 
 and then Smith knew that Queensberry rules would 
 avail him nothing. 
 
 The man was clearly afraid for his face, his whole 
 scheme of defence being to protect it from another 
 double blow such as he had received. 
 
 The crowd began to get excited. 
 
 "Go it, Bob, give him cosh." 
 
 "He's afraid. Remember what he did to your 
 mawther," and similar remarks were shouted. 
 
 For more than a minute the two men moved slowly 
 round, each watching for an opportunity. 
 
 Thirkettle was endeavouring to manoeuvre Smith into 
 a position where with a mighty rush he could force 
 him into the hedge that bordered the road. 
 
 Smith recognised that his principal danger lay in the 
 onlookers, who were pressing close upon them. Were 
 he to trip over their friendly, or unfriendly limbs, Thir- 
 kettle would be upon him in a moment. 
 
 Suddenly he became aware that the pressure of the 
 crowd had lessened. He heard voices, urging the peo- 
 ple to stand back. One was shrill and excited, crack- 
 ing frequently upon the high notes; but he saw nothing. 
 His eyes never left those two smouldering agates of 
 hate, glowering out at him from what looked like a 
 mass of black hair. 
 
 For nearly two minutes Thirkettle continued his 
 cautious tactics. It was obvious that his slow brain was 
 working to find some explanation of what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Smith realised that his opponent would not be able 
 to continue indefinitely such unaccustomed methods, and 
 he watched him narrowly.
 
 LITTLE BILSTEAD ACHES WITH DRAMA SOS 
 
 Several times Thirkettle made clumsy feints; but as 
 Smith was watching his eyes and not his hands, he 
 appeared to take no notice. 
 
 Emboldened by this fact, he made another sudden 
 dash, this time with his right forearm held high to 
 shield his face. 
 
 Smith swiftly side-stepped to the left; but by some 
 uncanny instinct Thirkettle seemed to anticipate the 
 move, and the next Smith knew was that what ap- 
 peared to be a thunderbolt had caught him on the 
 right shoulder, flooring him as if he had been a skittle. 
 
 Fortunately he had been moving from the blow, 
 the force of which swung Thirkettle round in a half 
 turn; but he was round again in a second. 
 
 Seeing Smith on the ground, he gave vent to a roar. 
 To him the fight seemed over. Miss Mary screamed, 
 the crowd roared, a shrill voice yelled to Smith to 
 get up. 
 
 Before Thirkettle realised what was happening, how- 
 ever, Smith was on his feet again and had got home 
 a stinging blow on the side of the enemy's head. 
 
 The crowd yelled. Never had Little Bilstead known 
 such drama. 
 
 Smith decided that in forcing the pace with a heavier 
 man, it was desirable to be cautious as well as enter- 
 prising. Had he been moving towards, instead of 
 away from the blow, he would, in all probability, have 
 lain long enough on the ground to give Thirkettle the 
 chance he sought. 
 
 Amid a babel of shouts and exhortations, the men 
 fought on, Smith landing blow after blow until he be- 
 gan to wonder if it were possible to knock out the 
 mountain of flesh and muscle before him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered Old Plum's recipe for
 
 304 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 knocking out an unscientific fighter of a heavier weight. 
 "Tap at the front door, he would say, then down you 
 goes to the basement, and ruddy 'ard," had been his 
 dictum. 
 
 Leading for the head, Smith got his man on the 
 nose. Up went Thirkettle's guard. It was what Smith 
 was waiting for, the ring at the basement! With a 
 mighty effort he swung his right full at Thirkettle's 
 solar plexus, with all his weight behind the blow. 
 
 With a sobbing grunt, Thirkettle's guard dropped. 
 The first blow had arrested a rush; the second seemed 
 to daze him. Before he had time to recover, Smith 
 landed his left between the eyes, and Thirkettle's guard 
 dropped still lower. With a terrific right hook, Smith 
 got his man on the point of the jaw, and Bob Thirkettle 
 went down like a log. 
 
 And Little Bilstead went mad for the second time 
 that month.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "A/ITARJIE! Marjie! Where are you?" 
 
 IVj -^ r ^ c Cashed across the lawn of The 
 Grange as if the Seven Deadly Sins were 
 pursuing him. 
 
 Marjorie appeared at the French windows of the 
 morning-room, of which she had taken possession since 
 Lady Warren's departure. 
 
 Eric made towards her at full tilt. She turned back 
 into the grey room out of the sun's glare, Eric fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 "Such a fight!" he gasped, as he threw himself down 
 into Lady Warren's favourite chair. "It " 
 
 "A fight!" She turned suddenly. "Who? What?" 
 
 The colour had left her cheeks. She was conscious 
 that she was trembling. 
 
 "Smith and Thirk," he panted. "I've run all the 
 way. I've " He paused from sheer lack of oxygen. 
 
 "Tell me, Eric." She dropped into the nearest chair, 
 conscious of a curious sensation of weakness in her 
 knees. "Tell me, Eric," she repeated, a note of sharp- 
 ness in her voice. 
 
 "All right," he panted. "Let a fellow get his wind 
 first. I've run all the way to tell you, and Mrs. Higgs 
 gave me treacle pudding for lunch." 
 
 "Is is he hurt?" she interrupted, conscious that even 
 to herself her voice sounded strange. 
 
 305
 
 306 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Hurt!" cried Eric. "You should have seen him, 
 all blood and grunts," and his eyes sparkled at the 
 recollection of the Homeric encounter he had been 
 privileged to witness. "A lot of 'em thought he was 
 dead at first." 
 
 "Ooooooh!" she cried faintly. "Where is he? 
 Have they taken him to the vicarage? Oh, Eric!" she 
 added, conscious that he was looking at her curiously. 
 
 Suddenly he grinned. Having realised her mistake, 
 he decided to delay the dramatic revelation. Like a 
 good wine, it would improve with keeping. 
 
 "Knocked him clean out. Like old Carp. Oh ! Mar- 
 jie, you've missed the " 
 
 "Don't, Eric, please !" She turned her head aside 
 with a shudder. 
 
 "They were trying to bring him to with a bucket 
 of water when I left," he added. 
 
 "Is he much hurt?" In her mind's eye she saw 
 a bruised and bleeding face, out of which gazed a 
 pair of reproachful blue eyes. He had remained to 
 show her he was not afraid. If she had urged him to 
 go away, he would have gone. Perhaps he would have 
 gone if she had not said anything at all. It was all 
 her fault. Of course he couldn't hope to 
 
 "Old End wanted Postle to run him in." 
 
 The words seemed to break through the curtain of 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "You should have seen the vicar," he continued, 
 gloating over the episodes of the afternoon in retro- 
 spect. "Rare old sport. He and I kept the ring. If 
 we hadn't he'd have lost. Crowding him like a " 
 
 "Whatever are you talking about?" cried Marjorie, 
 totally at sea as a result of Eric's scare-headline form 
 of conversation.
 
 MARJORIE HEARS THE NEWS 307 
 
 "The vicar told Old End that he was the, what 
 d'you call it, and " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Thirk, of course. You want your brain spring- 
 cleaned, Marjie. I'm telling you and you keep on say- 
 ing 'who' and 'what.' I'm jolly well going to get him 
 to teach me." 
 
 "Who? Teach you what?" she stammered. 
 
 "There you go again. 'Who What?' " he mim- 
 icked. "We're not playing 'How, When and Where.' 
 I tell you it was the biggest thing that ever was. 
 Knocked Carp and Demp into a tea-fight. My hat! 
 You should have seen old Thirk go down. It " 
 
 "Eric, tell" 
 
 "There you" 
 
 Marjorie jumped up and, gripping his arm, shook 
 him impatiently. 
 
 "Who went down?" she demanded, almost fiercely. 
 
 "Thirk Leggo, you're hurting," he yelled. 
 
 She released his arm; but continued to stand over 
 him. 
 
 "He hadn't a chance. Smith got him on the point, 
 and he went down like a sack. It was spif." 
 
 Marjorie felt the blood flood to her face, then drain 
 away again. She sank on to the arm of Eric's chair, 
 clutching at the back for support. 
 
 In a vague way she was conscious that Eric was 
 adding details to what he had already told her. He 
 was filling in the lacunae in his previous story. She 
 seemed able to visualise the village street, as if from 
 a height, with its dark crowd of pressing, peering hu- 
 manity. In the centre two men were gasping, pant- 
 ing, moving. One was dark, his face threatening and 
 blood-stained. The other was fair, a determined light
 
 308 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 in his blue eyes. She even heard the thud of blows. 
 She saw the dark man stagger she clutched 
 
 "Leggo my hair!" 
 
 In a flash the picture was gone, and she found her- 
 self clutching a handful of Eric's fiery-coloured hair. 
 
 "What's the matter with you to-day, Marjie?" he 
 demanded, as he rubbed his sore scalp. "You off your 
 crump?" 
 
 Suddenly she put an arm round his neck and drew 
 his head towards her. He wriggled loose and, jumping 
 up from the chair, made for the door, announcing his 
 intention of conveying the good news to Willis and 
 Mrs. Higgs. He had suddenly realised 'that some one 
 might anticipate him, and it was almost like another 
 fight, hurling these dramatic bombs about and watching 
 them explode. 
 
 Marjorie did not tell him that she had just sent 
 Willis down to the village for news. 
 
 II 
 
 The remainder of the afternoon was spent by Little 
 Bilstead in soul-searching and mutual recrimination. 
 
 When Postle had arrived upon the scene, it was to 
 find the biggest crowd he ever remembered to have seen 
 in Little Bilstead. In the centre of it were the vicar 
 and Smith on their knees beside the prostrate form of 
 Bob Thirkettle, bringing him to by chafing his limbs 
 and sponging his face with cold water from a bucket. 
 
 The sight of Postle seemed to bring to Colonel 
 Enderby a realisation of his responsibilities. He 
 promptly demanded to know the meaning of the police- 
 man's absence at the very hour that Little Bilstead had 
 been most in need of his professional services.
 
 MARJORIE HEARS THE NEWS 309 
 
 Postle tilted his helmet on to the back of his head, 
 and proceeded to rub his chin with the pad of his right 
 thumb, as he gazed at the business-like ministrations of 
 the vicar and Smith upon the inert figure of the re- 
 doubtable Thirkettle. 
 
 "He's copped it a rum un," was his thought, his 
 sporting instincts triumphing over his official discretion. 
 
 It soon became manifest, however, that "the cunnel 
 had his rag out," as Postle was wont to express it to 
 himself, sometimes, in his more expansive moments, 
 even to his intimates. 
 
 Colonel Enderby let himself go, the curry had 
 digested indifferently well, and he was conscious that he 
 had been shouting encouragements to the vanquished 
 champion. As a result, when Bob Thirkettle at length 
 opened his eyes, it was to find that another battle was 
 being waged over his recumbent form. 
 
 Colonel Enderby had demanded the arrest of Smith, 
 had threatened to report Postle, and promised Little 
 Bilstead dire penalties for its lapse into Bolshevism, 
 as he regarded this open flouting of his views and 
 opinions. 
 
 Murmurs of "Give over," "The duzzy fule," and 
 "Hold your nose" were to be heard on all sides. 
 
 Colonel Enderby looked about him in astonishment. 
 
 He was an autocrat getting his first whiff of revo- 
 lution. 
 
 That afternoon Little Bilstead made it abundantly 
 clear to him that any man who desired the presence of 
 a policeman to spoil the most enjoyable fight of their 
 lives was worthy neither of his position as an officer 
 nor the respect accorded to a gentleman. 
 
 At length he fled, or, as he regarded it, withdrew 
 with flags flying and drums beating. He even returned
 
 310 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the enemy's fire; but his aim was bad, and his ammu- 
 nition defective, as the frequent laughs at his expense 
 testified. 
 
 As Mrs. Spelman remarked the next day to Mrs. 
 Pelham, who had "missed everything," "It was really 
 most embarrassing. Fortunately I didn't know the 
 meaning of a lot of the words the Colonel used; but 
 I'm sure they were dreadful." 
 
 When Smith saw that there was no longer any doubt 
 about Thirkettle coming round, he rose and, with a 
 word to Nudd about what to do, linked his arm through 
 that of the vicar, and led him in the direction of the 
 vicarage. 
 
 He was anxious to get a hot bath, conscious that his 
 shoulder was already manifesting an unpleasant tend- 
 ency to stiffen. 
 
 It was not until Thirkettle had dropped with a thud 
 in the roadway that he realised that the taller of the 
 two figures that had been so active in keeping the ring, 
 was no other than the vicar. He realised that, but for 
 the old man's presence, coupled with his obvious knowl- 
 edge of the requirements of a quick-footed fighter, it 
 would, in all probability, have been he and not Thir- 
 kettle who would have taken the count. 
 
 Several times the vicar murmured something that to 
 Smith was unintelligible. At length, however, he distin- 
 guished that it was a repetition of his unvarying re- 
 frain, when dissatisfied with his own conduct, "I must 
 really see the bishop." 
 
 He realised that the old man was passing through 
 the fire of self-reproach for his part in the afternoon's 
 happenings. 
 
 As they came opposite the gate of The Grange,
 
 MARJORIE HEARS THE NEWS 311 
 
 lis was standing just inside by the lodge. Smith paused, 
 the vicar continuing his way, as if unconscious that he 
 were not alone. 
 
 "Did you see him, Mr. Alfred?" Willis asked in a 
 hoarse whisper, looking anxiously about lest some one 
 should overhear. 
 
 "Did I see whom?" asked Smith, as he lighted a 
 cigarette. 
 
 "Bob Thirkettle, sir." 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Did he " He paused in his eagerness. 
 
 "He did, my good Willis, and instead of killing the 
 fatted calf, he strove to slay the prodigal instead." 
 
 "What did he do, Mr. Alfred? Did he did he 
 threaten to " He hesitated. 
 
 "I'm afraid I loosened most of his teeth, Willis." 
 
 "You didn't fight him, sir." His eyes travelled over 
 Smith's face and figure, as if for the signs of defeat he 
 felt must be there. 
 
 "I'm afraid I did," said Smith with a smile. 
 
 "And you beat him, sir?" 
 
 "That I think was the general impression." He 
 was amused at the old man's eagerness. 
 
 "You beat Bob Thirkettle, Mr. Alfred?" There 
 was incredulity in his tone. 
 
 "When I left him he was lying on his back, just com- 
 ing to and trying to puzzle out how it had all hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "Mr. Alfred! Mr. Alfred!" was all Willis could 
 say. "When I heard you had gone, I thought, I thought 
 he would kill you." 
 
 "And were you coming to save me, Willis?" 
 
 "I was just going down to the village, sir," he said
 
 312 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 simply. "I couldn't stay in the house." Willis was a 
 bad liar; but he realised that he could not say that Miss 
 Marjorie had sent him. 
 
 "Well, I'm all right, you see," Smith smiled. "Now 
 I must try and catch up with the vicar," and he passed 
 on up the road, leaving Willis gazing after him, a look 
 in his eyes that plainly spoke the hero-worship in his 
 heart. 
 
 As he entered the vicarage, he heard the vicar saying : 
 "But, Hannah, I have a distinct recollection of feel- 
 ing satisfaction when he was knocked out. I even think 
 I said 'Splendid !' I must see the bishop, Hannah. I 
 fear I am not worthy to be the shepherd of a flock." 
 
 "Well?" she demanded, as Smith approached, the 
 vicar seizing the opportunity to escape to his study. 
 "What is this I hear?" 
 
 There was something almost like a twinkle in her 
 eyes, he thought. 
 
 "I've been carrying the sweetening process to its 
 logical conclusion," he replied gravely, "at least, I hope 
 it's the conclusion." 
 
 "I hope you realise that you have involved the vicar 
 in a parish scandal. I understand he acted as a sort of 
 master of the ceremonies." She had heard the story 
 from Janet, who learned everything almost as soon as 
 it happened; for Janet was comely, possessed of many 
 admirers, and loved scandal. 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, Miss Lipscombe turned 
 and led the way into the drawing-room, where she 
 seated herself in the most upright chair it contained, 
 folded her hands before her, and waited. 
 
 In a few words Smith outlined what had taken place, 
 and how he had been involved in the fight in spite of 
 himself.
 
 313 
 
 "And that is what you call sweetening a man's mem- 
 ory, is it?" she demanded, when he had finished. 
 
 "It was part of the process," he admitted. 
 
 "Your methods savour of the Mohammedan," was 
 the retort. "May I enquire what is the next step you 
 propose?" she enquired drily. 
 
 "To pursue the analogy," he said, "my Hegira. I 
 am leaving Little Bilstead in a day or two." 
 
 "Leaving!" There was surprise in her tone. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "The sweetening process is almost concluded." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks !" she cried. "Just because you've 
 thrashed a bully, you think " She paused. "What 
 will Lady Warren say when she returns?" 
 
 "I hope to be able to give her news of her son." 
 
 Miss Lipscombe's rigid figure seemed to become even 
 more rigid; she continued to regard him, keen enquiry 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "I believe Alfred Warren to be dead and " He 
 paused. 
 
 "And ?" She stopped suddenly, her hand raised 
 to her heart. 
 
 "I think I shall be able to prove it," he added quietly, 
 "but I would rather say nothing more at present." 
 
 For some time neither spoke. It was Smith who 
 finally broke the silence. 
 
 "We only know the Alfred Warren of up to 1914," 
 he said, as if~to himself. "Perhaps " He left the 
 sentence unfinished. 
 
 "I have often wondered," she said, an unusual note 
 of softness in her voice. "I was fond of him, Mr. 
 Smith," she added a little huskily. "You see, I was 
 his godmother."
 
 314 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Is that why you wanted to see his memory sweet- 
 ened?" he enquired. 
 
 "Perhaps it was," she admitted. "I'm a selfish old 
 woman. But it's done you no harm?" Her tone was 
 that of enquiry rather than assertion. 
 
 He shook his head. It was difficult to express ex- 
 actly what Alfred Warren had done for him. He now 
 seemed to see quite a lot of things in detail that hitherto 
 had been either outlines or mere blurs. He could 
 no longer contemplate a life such as he had led before 
 the war. There must be action, progression. He 
 must 
 
 "He was to have married Marjorie." 
 
 The words seemed to scatter his thoughts like a dog 
 a lot of hens. 
 
 "He! Who?" he asked vaguely, although conscious 
 of who it was she meant. 
 
 "Alfred," she said. "At least, that was Lady War- 
 ren's wish." 
 
 "And Marjorie?" He could not restrain the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "She was too young at the time to know," was the 
 reply. "Perhaps she was being reserved for some one 
 else," she added; "and now go and get changed out of 
 your fighting clothes; there are soda-scones for tea." 
 
 As he walked slowly upstairs, it was of Marjorie he 
 was thinking, not of Miss Lipscombe's soda-scones, 
 although they had been made specially for him as his 
 favourite tea-table dainty. 
 
 "Married to Marjorie !" he muttered, as he closed 
 his door. "Perhaps that was why."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 
 
 "T TE shall hear what I have to say," exploded 
 Sir John Hildreth angrily. Then, without 
 waiting for a reply, he continued, "Here am 
 I dashing all over the country, inserting advertise- 
 ments, thinking of notifying the police even, whilst that 
 infernal young " 
 
 "The police must have been a recent idea, John," put 
 in Mrs. Compton-Stacey, quietly. "This is the first I 
 have heard of it." 
 
 "Don't interrupt me, Charlotte," he cried, ,jicking 
 up the thread of his discourse. "I have every reason 
 to be annoyed, being led this wild-goose chase about the 
 country, when I might have been, er " He paused, 
 blinking uncertainly. It was annoying not to be able to 
 think of anything else he might have been doing. 
 
 "There was nothing you could have been doing, 
 John," said Mrs. Compton-Stacey placidly, "except 
 reading trashy novels, or bullying poor " 
 
 "They're not trashy, and I don't bully," he retorted 
 lamely. "I I expostulate occasionally. If it hadn't 
 been for the idea I got out of a novel, we shouldn't 
 have found Darrell," he added with inspiration. 
 
 "And if you hadn't bullied him because his taste in 
 women was not your own, we should not have lost 
 him," she replied calmly. "Besides, we haven't found 
 him yet," she added. 
 
 There was silence for several minutes. Sir John 
 was grappling with his sister's logic. 
 
 315
 
 316 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "What should we do without the robin," she said 
 presently, as a burst of song broke through the mo- 
 notonous hum of the car. 
 
 "Damn the robin!" he exploded. He disliked 
 irrelevancies. 
 
 "When you get in this mood, John, you condemn 
 everybody and everything except the one person you 
 would like to condemn most, myself," she remarked 
 presently, turning to get a better view of his frowning 
 face. 
 
 "Don't talk a lot of confounded nonsense!" he 
 snapped; but the tint of his neck belied the irascibility 
 of his words. With Sir John anger always flew to his 
 neck. Mrs. Compton-Stacey could read the signs with 
 ease puce meant ungovernable fury. 
 
 The ghost of a smile fluttered about the corners of 
 her mouth, and her hand fell lightly upon his. No 
 one else had ever discovered the secret of how to handle 
 John Hildreth. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Charlotte!" he cried; but he did 
 not withdraw his hand. These occasional touches of 
 sentiment meant more to him than he would allow, 
 even to himself. "It's all your fault." 
 
 "What is my fault?" she enquired calmly. 
 
 "You've always spoiled him, ever since he was a 
 baby"; but the tone in which the accusation was made 
 seemed to lack conviction. 
 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey smiled behind her motoring- 
 veil. The few really serious disagreements they had 
 ever had were the outcome of her having been, as her 
 brother expressed it, "too hard on the boy." 
 
 The next mile was covered in silence, Sir John being 
 occupied in going feverishly through his pockets, with 
 the air of a man who has lost something of value.
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 317 
 
 "What are you looking for, John?" she enquired, at 
 length. 
 
 "That infernal letter!" he muttered. "I know I 
 brought it with me." 
 
 "You gave it to me to mind," she said, opening her 
 hand-bag and producing an envelope. 
 
 "Then why couldn't you say so?" he cried. "In- 
 stead of letting me search every pocket I've got half-a- 
 dozen times over." 
 
 Snatching the envelope from her, he tore out the 
 contents, a single sheet of cheap notepaper, with a 
 grease-spot in the right-hand bottom corner, and for 
 the twentieth time that day he read: 
 
 Dear Sirs 
 
 I am the post man at Little Bilstead and seeing 
 your advert for James Smith I hasten to aply. 
 He is here and being wached. Come at once and 
 bring money with you. 
 
 Ask for Mr. Bassingthwaighte at the post 
 Office and tell noone it is seerious and we have a 
 poliseman here your respectfull servant 
 
 T. Bassingthwaighte. 
 
 "Confound the fellow!" was his comment, as he 
 folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, which 
 he handed to his sister; but whether it was the postman 
 or his own nephew he desired confounded was not 
 clear. 
 
 "Bassingthwaighte," he muttered. "Absurd name." 
 That morning he was prepared to disagree with every- 
 body and criticise everything. 
 
 It was characteristic of Sir John Hildreth that, when 
 anxious, or if sentiment showed any tendency to obtrude 
 itself, he invariably manifested irritation. He would
 
 318 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 give a beggar half-a-crown and tell him to go to the 
 devil, whereas another man would make it twopence 
 and a suggestion that he should get work. His ideal 
 of an Englishman was even more austere than that of 
 the public schoolboy. No display of emotion, a soft 
 emotion that is, was permissible, even in thought. He 
 was a Spartan, destitute of the cloak of philosophy. 
 
 That morning, as Mrs. Compton-Stacey was having 
 breakfast on the lawn, she had been interrupted by the 
 sound of a car being driven furiously up the drive, its 
 Klaxon horn in continuous action. She had recognised 
 both the horn and her brother's impetuosity behind. If 
 ever he were excited and came over to seek her advice, 
 he invariably arrived with the Klaxon horn in full blast, 
 so that she might be ready to receive him; but never 
 had she known anything quite so violent. 
 
 Rising from her meal, she had gone to the edge of 
 the lawn bordering the drive; a moment later the car 
 came into view, and amidst sparking tyres, Chivers, the 
 chauffeur, had brought it to a standstill opposite her, a 
 sheepish look upon his good-humoured face. He 
 always looked sheepish when arriving "with the band," 
 as he called it in the servants' hall, that is when Sir 
 John told him to keep up a continuous blast upon the 
 horn. 
 
 "I've found him!" Sir John had shouted at the sight 
 of his sister, then he had bounced out of the car, shout- 
 ing to Chivers to tune it up for a long run. 
 
 He had displayed the letter from the Little Bilstead 
 postman, with the air of one who has reason to feel 
 pleased with himself. He informed her that he was 
 motoring over to Norfolk at once, and that she was 
 going with him.
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 319 
 
 Having nothing else particularly to occupy her, she 
 had consented, and within half-an-hour they were hum- 
 ming along due east, a look of quiet content upon 
 Chivers' face. He had been told to "let her out and 
 damn the fines," and that, to Sir John Hildreth's chauf- 
 feur meant bliss, although to the roadside fauna it 
 meant syncope, or death sometimes both. 
 
 With characteristic impulsiveness, Sir John had for- 
 gotten that even the best of cars can scarcely go from 
 Wiltshire to Norfolk and back in a day, and he had 
 made no provision for the night. Chivers, however, in 
 collusion with Sir John's man, had corrected the 
 omission. At that moment there reposed on the seat 
 beside the chauffeur a suit-case with all the necessary 
 equipment by which a gentleman can go to sleep at 
 night and perform his toilet in the morning. 
 
 In spite of his explosive nature, Sir John Hildreth 
 was worshipped by his servants. He was just, generous 
 and "white," and although he damned them all with 
 the utmost impartiality, they knew that their troubles, 
 when they came, would be his troubles, and his purse 
 theirs. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock when Chivers put his foot 
 to the brake at the top of the hill that dipped into Little 
 Bilstead. 
 
 As they approached, Sir John began to bob about 
 excitedly in his seat. Repose of manner was as foreign 
 to his nature as the manifestation of sentiment. 
 
 "Something the matter," he murmured, at the sight 
 of the krtots of people with which the roadway was 
 dotted. 
 
 "Perhaps it's a populous district," suggested Mrs. 
 Compton-Stacey drily.
 
 320 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 He grunted something unintelligible, as Chivers 
 slowed down. 
 
 "Where's the post-office?" he enquired of a tall, 
 ramrod-like figure of a man to whom Chivers had 
 taken an instinctive dislike, and was endeavouring to 
 force into the hedge. It was Colonel Enderby trying 
 to work off the combined effects of undigested curry 
 and sudden unpopularity. 
 
 "Be damned to you !" he shouted, meaning Chivers. 
 
 "Be damned to you, too !" yelled Sir John over the 
 back of the car, not to be out-done in the amenities of 
 the road. "Here, slow up, Chivers," he called, as they 
 approached a group in the road. 
 
 "Where's the post-office?" he demanded again. 
 
 Several proceeded to answer the question in unison. 
 Even had they replied separately, it is doubtful if Sir 
 John would have been any the wiser the Norfolk dia- 
 lect being a bar to intimate communion with strangers. 
 
 The sudden grind of brakes, however, together with 
 Chivers' dexter fore-finger, which performed an arc 
 from the steering-wheel to a spot on the right-hand side 
 of the road and then to his cap, showed that he had dis- 
 covered the post-office for himself. 
 
 At the sight of the car stopping outside his establish- 
 ment, Tom Bassingthwaighte's heart gave a great 
 bound. With a shout of "Wanted, mor," to his sister, 
 he left old Mrs. Moggridge, who always bought a 
 stamp as if it were a "Triangular Cape," about the 
 genuineness of which she were doubtful, and darted 
 round the little counter, upset a pile of firewood tied in 
 bundles, jumped a box containing hearthstone, and was 
 beside the car a moment later.
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 321 
 
 "Are you Maister Truelove?" he stammered 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "You Bassingthwaighte?" barked Sir John, equally 
 excited. 
 
 The postman nodded. Words seemed to refuse to 
 come at his brain's bidding. 
 
 "Jump in then," cried Sir John. "No, beside, 
 the chauffeur," he added hastily, as Tom Bassing- 
 thwaighte's trembling hand fumbled with the handle of 
 the door. 
 
 In a flash he had dodged round the bonnet and was 
 beside Chivers, almost before the chauffeur had time 
 to remove the suit-case from the seat to the floor. 
 
 "Straight on !" almost sobbed Bassingthwaighte, who 
 seemed instinctively to realise what was required of 
 him. "I'll show you, bor," and before any one had 
 properly realised what was happening, Little Bilstead 
 saw its postman whisked away in a high-power touring- 
 car, apparently with the postman's full acquiescence. 
 
 "Well, I'll be danged!" muttered Tom Simmons, "if 
 that ain't a rum un." 
 
 Once clear of the village, Mrs. Compton-Stacey sig- 
 nalled to Chivers to stop. 
 
 "What the devil are you doing?" demanded Sir John 
 excitedly. 
 
 "I want to know why all those people were about, for 
 one thing," she replied calmly, "and for another it is 
 as well that we should know what has happened. Is 
 anything the matter?" she enquired of Bassing- 
 thwaighte. 
 
 From the broad Norfolk of the postman, after he 
 had been urged by Sir John not to go "so damn quick,"
 
 322 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey and her brother pieced together 
 sufficient to acquaint them with the fact that there had 
 been a fight, and that Mist' Alfred had come off victor. 
 Furthermore they gathered that Mist' Alfred appeared 
 to be a sort of trinity, the other component parts being 
 "James Smith," and their errant nephew, and that there 
 had been "rare goings on together." 
 
 "And you'll gi'e me the twenty-five pound?" Tom 
 Bassingthwaighte had enquired eagerly in conclusion. 
 
 "Of course," was Sir John's curt answer. 
 
 "If you conduct us to the Mr. James Smith we 
 want," added his sister, whereat the little postman 
 flopped down upon the seat again, as the car jerked 
 forward to the realisation of what he hoped would be 
 fortune. 
 
 The car turned into the drive leading up to the vicar- 
 age, and the vicar himself was seen walking from them, 
 his hands clasped behind his back, apparently deep in 
 thought. 
 
 As the car slid up beside him, he started violently, as 
 if suddenly snatched back to life from another world. 
 
 "The gentleman be lookin' for Mist' Alfred, sir," 
 called out Tom Bassingthwaighte, almost apoplectic 
 with excitement now that the reward seemed within his 
 grasp. 
 
 "Smith, you fool, not Alfred," burst out Sir John. 
 
 "Tha's all right" began the postman. "Ouch !" 
 he broke off with a yelp, as Chivers dug him in the ribs 
 with a vigorous elbow. 
 
 By this time the vicar, hat in hand, had approached 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey's side of the car. 
 
 "We are looking for Mr. James Smith," she said in 
 her quiet, level tones, "and "
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 323 
 
 This fellow says he is staying with you," broke in 
 Sir John, unable to tolerate a walking-on part. "I 
 advertised for him. He's my nephew, Darrell Hil- 
 dreth. Confounded young puppy !" Sir John was off 
 like a back-firing motor-lorry. 
 
 The vicar gazed at him in bewilderment, then at 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey, and back again to Sir John. 
 
 "Smith," he murmured, as if exploring the inner re- 
 cesses of his memory. "James Smith, I seem to remem- 
 ber the name. Ah ! yes. A wonderful left." 
 
 Sir John gazed at the vicar with the air of a man 
 who, although he sympathises with the insane, dislikes 
 intensely to encounter them. 
 
 "Is he here?" enquired Mrs. Compton-Stacey gently. 
 
 "You must have tea," said the vicar, as if he had not 
 heard the query. "Hannah would wish it. I don't 
 think we've had tea yet." He paused thoughtfully. 
 "It was to be soda-scones, I believe, or was that yester- 
 day? I am very absent-minded," he said, turning to 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey with a wraith of a smile that had 
 the effect of dissipating even the explosive gases that 
 had been accumulating in Sir John. "If the soda-scones 
 were for to-day, then I am sure we haven't had tea yet. 
 I couldn't have forgotten Hannah's soda-scones so 
 
 soon." 
 
 ^ Having thus expressed himself, as if the interroga- 
 tion had been exclusively concerned with tea and soda- 
 scones, the vicar turned and, his hands behind him 
 clasping his hat, he proceeded to walk up the drive in 
 the direction of the vicarage. Apparently he had for- 
 gotten all about the car and its occupants. 
 
 Blowing out his cheeks, Sir John glared after the 
 retreating black-coated figure. There was something
 
 324 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 about the scholarly dignity of the old man that seemed 
 to forbid calling after him. 
 
 "What the devil are we to do now, Charlotte?" he 
 cried irritably. 
 
 "Go and see if there really are soda-scones for tea," 
 was the placid rejoinder, as Chivers, always the man 
 for a crisis, started the car. 
 
 "There he is !" cried Sir John suddenly, as they came 
 within sight of the vicarage. Smith, who was in the 
 act of raising a soda-scone to his mouth, seemed sud- 
 denly to become petrified, the scone poised in mid-air, 
 his mouth slightly parted to receive it. 
 
 "Great Gulliver !" he cried. "My uncle !" 
 
 "You young scamp !" roared Sir John, as he fumbled 
 feverishly with the door of the car. "What's the mean- 
 ing of " He stopped as if shot. He had just caught 
 sight of Miss Lipscombe, as she rose into prominence 
 from a low chair on the further side of the table. 
 
 Covering the few yards to the car in half-a-dozen 
 strides, Smith had Sir John's hand firmly gripped in his 
 own. There was a genuine light of gladness in his eyes, 
 as he gazed upon the apoplectic features of his relative. 
 
 "This is splendid of you, sir, and you, too, Aunt 
 Charlotte," he cried, looking into the smiling eyes of 
 his aunt. 
 
 "You you " began Sir John; but his voice seemed 
 suddenly to have become husky, and with his disengaged 
 hand he tugged a handkerchief from his pocket. 
 
 The vicar stood watching the scene, a vague, be- 
 mused look in his eyes, whilst Tom Bassingthwaighte, 
 a silly grin upon his face, stood up in the car, a sort of 
 self-constituted master-of-the-ceremonies.
 
 THE UNMASKING OF SMITH 325 
 
 "Here he be, you see. Didn't I tell you?" he cried. 
 "There's twenty-five pound Ouch!" 
 
 Once more the sphinx-like Chivers had intervened, 
 this time by bringing down his foot upon the postman's 
 corn-infested toes, as if they had been a brake-pedal 
 and danger threatened. 
 
 Slowly and in little exclamatory sentences, like bursts 
 from a machine-gun, a great dramatic moment was 
 smoothed into a pleasant social gathering. Mrs. 
 Compton-Stacey and Sir John alighted from the car, 
 which Chivers started in the direction of the stables, 
 holding the excited postman to the seat with his disen- 
 gaged hand. 
 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey and Miss Lipscombe between 
 them gradually got the situation in hand. Sir John 
 was sprayed with soothing small-talk, the vicar was 
 given a soda-scone, and Smith gazed from his aunt to 
 his uncle and back again in a way that told Miss Lip- 
 scombe that all was well, or at least would be. 
 
 Only once was there an echo of the drama that had 
 so recently threatened to shatter the peace of the vicar- 
 age lawn a yell from the direction of the stables. It 
 was Chivers indicating to the mercenary Bassing- 
 thwaighte that enough for the day is the evil thereof, 
 and that a Hildreth paid at his own time in his own 
 way. 
 
 That afternoon the Little Bilstead mail-bags carried 
 to Messrs. Truelove and Murchison nine communica- 
 tions, each telling that the writers knew sufficient about 
 the whereabouts of one James Smith to ensure the earn- 
 ing of the twenty-five pounds' reward offered.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 
 
 I 
 
 "XT was absolutely spif, sir," cried Eric ecstatically. 
 "He simply hit Marsh all over the field." 
 
 He was describing to Sir John for the third 
 time how his nephew had won for Little Bilstead the 
 annual cricket match against Upper Saxton. 
 
 Sir John had slept well, Janet's coffee had been 
 "devilishly good," as he had told Smith, and he was 
 feeling intensely eupeptic. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast Eric had arrived across 
 the "birds' breakfast-table," and he had arrived unre- 
 buked. His frank hero-worship of Smith, he persisted 
 in the name, coupled with the fact that he appeared to 
 find nothing in Sir John of which to be afraid, had 
 rendered them "friends from the kick-off," as Eric later 
 expressed it to Marjorie. To appear afraid of Sir John 
 was to ensure his dislike. 
 
 "Then," continued Eric, switching on to the previous 
 day's encounter, "you should have seen old Thirk 
 go " He stopped suddenly. A moment later there 
 was a flash of orange, and Eric had disappeared behind 
 the holly-bush into which Smith had threatened to 
 throw Mr. Bluggs. 
 
 Sir John looked about him in bewilderment, search- 
 ing for something to account for the inexplicable disap- 
 pearance of his companion. 
 
 Suddenly his gaze became fixed, the veins in his fore- 
 head began to swell, and the tint of his complexion 
 
 328
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 327 
 
 deepened to puce. Coming up the vicarage drive was 
 a policeman, accompanied by a portly man in a brown- 
 and-white check suit. 
 
 At the sight of the luxuriant auburn moustache 
 adorning the newcomer's upper lip, Sir John's eyes 
 seemed in danger of starting from their sockets. He 
 blew out his cheeks angrily. 
 
 "What what the devil is the meaning of this, 
 Peters?" he exploded. 
 
 "I am taking a holiday, Sir John," was the self- 
 possessed reply, as Peters removed his cap. "I didn't 
 expect to see you, sir." 
 
 "Taking a holiday!" gasped Sir John. "Didn't ex- 
 pect to see me! Are are you with Mr. Darrell?" he 
 demanded, a sudden thought striking him. 
 
 "No, Sir John, I am alone." 
 
 "Alone!" 
 
 He turned his fierce gaze upon Postle, who had 
 tipped his helmet on to the back of his head, and was 
 meditatively rubbing a bristly chin with the pad of his 
 right thumb. 
 
 "And what the deuce do you want?" he demanded. 
 
 "This gentleman say he have been assaulted while 
 in a stoopin' position," came the sing-song reply, "and 
 I fare to think that I " He paused, quelled by the 
 irate baronet's eye. 
 
 "What the devil does all this mean?" he demanded 
 of Peters. 
 
 "I think, sir, that there has perhaps been a little mis- 
 take," said Peters suavely. "Some days back I was " 
 
 "Assaulted when in a stooping position," broke in 
 Postle. 
 
 "I was not then aware that the young gentleman with
 
 328 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the catapult was a friend of Mr. Darrell's. The police- 
 man has just told me." 
 
 Sir John looked from one to the other, his tongue 
 unable to keep pace with the tint of his neck. 
 
 "Look here, Peters," he cried with sudden inspira- 
 tion, "if it hadn't been for your tomfoolery about grow- 
 ing hair on your face, all this wouldn't have happened. 
 I don't wonder the boy shot at you. Who wouldn't?" 
 he added. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Sir John " began Peters with dignity 
 when, like a tornado, his late master was down upon 
 him. 
 
 "Don't be sorry!" he snorted. "Get shaved! Re- 
 move that disgusting mess from your upper lip." 
 
 "When I found that you objected to my hirsute " 
 
 "Objected to your what?" 
 
 "My moustache, Sir John, I resigned," said Peters 
 with dignity. 
 
 "And what is the result? Mr. Darrell lost, me run- 
 ning wild-goose chases all over the country, Mr. Darrell 
 nearly killed by some low ruffian " 
 
 "I understand, Sir John," said Peters, reassuming 
 his cap and endeavouring to adjust it to what he con- 
 ceived to be the correct angle, "that it was the, er 
 ruffian who was hurt." 
 
 Sir John opened his mouth to retort and then, as if 
 thinking better of it, turned suddenly upon Postle, who 
 had been listening intently with his mouth. 
 
 "What the devil are you waiting for?" he demanded. 
 
 "This gentleman say he have been assaulted, he 
 say" 
 
 "He's not a gentleman, he's my butler," was the 
 retort, "and be damned to you !" he added.
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 329 
 
 Postle turned to Peters. Drama was none too com- 
 mon in Little Bilstead, and he wanted to see this one 
 out. 
 
 "You " he began, when Peters interrupted him with 
 a lordly wave of his hand, with which he was accus- 
 tomed to dismiss hawkers and other itinerants. 
 
 "I've already told you that the charge is withdrawn," 
 he said, "constable," he added, as a sop to the Cerberus 
 of Postle's vanity. 
 
 Realising that as far as he was concerned, the drama 
 was ended, Postle turned on a reluctant heel, casting a 
 longing look over his shoulder as he reached the point 
 when another step would blot out what he had hoped 
 would be the most dramatic scene of his career. 
 
 As Postle's heavy-footed form disappeared from 
 view, Eric's red head reappeared round the corner of 
 the harness-room. 
 
 "I say, I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said to Peters, 
 still keeping at what he regarded as a tactful distance. 
 "You know, sir," he added, turning to Sir John, "I 
 pinked this gentleman " 
 
 "Gentleman !" repeated Sir John irritably, "he's my 
 butler." 
 
 "I was your butler, Sir John," said Peters, "un- 
 til I" 
 
 "Turned yourself into a caricature," cried Sir John, 
 "after fifteen years' service," he added with self-pity. 
 
 "I think it's topping," said Eric, restraining a grin 
 with difficulty, as he gazed at Peters' auburn wonder 
 with great intentness. "Puts me in mind of old Kitch," 
 he added. 
 
 "There !" cried Sir John. "You see?" and there was 
 triumph in his voice.
 
 SSO THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I think, Sir John, with your permission, I will with- 
 draw," said Peters with great dignity. 
 
 "Withdraw and be dam " Sir John finished the 
 sentence with a cough. He had suddenly realised Eric's 
 youth. 
 
 "Very good, sir," said Peters, bowing with the im- 
 perturbability of the well-trained servant and, turning, 
 he walked away with the stiffness of deportment he 
 usually assumed when announcing, U A person to see 
 you, Sir John!" 
 
 "Where's that young scamp?" demanded Sir John, 
 "and the others?" he added, the tint of his neck rapidly 
 approaching normal. 
 
 In the pair of grey-green eyes Eric turned upon him 
 there was mystery, the "Hussssssh !" of the villain of 
 melodrama. 
 
 "He's gone to see Marjie, I think," he announced 
 mysteriously. 
 
 "Marjie!" cried Sir John. "Who's he?" 
 
 "She's my sister, sir," said Eric, a look on his face 
 that seemed to require only a surplice. "You know 
 we saw her just now when we came back from the 
 church, on her horse, sir," he added anxiously. He did 
 not want that there should be any mistake, as they had 
 also encountered Miss Marshall. 
 
 "She's frightfully dece in other ways, too," an- 
 nounced Eric. 
 
 "Frightfully what?" 
 
 "Decent, sir," said Eric, with a self-conscious grin. 
 "I'm sorry " He paused. Sir John had blown 
 through his lips, as if "dece" had been a piece of thistle- 
 down to be sent to the four winds of heaven. 
 
 "Of course it's frightfully sud sudden, I mean,"
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 331 
 
 Eric added quickly, as he saw Sir John's lips forming 
 an enquiry; "but I saw it from the first." 
 
 "Saw what from the first?" Sir John stopped dead, 
 as if he felt he had a better chance of understanding 
 Eric's mysterious talk if in a stationary position. 
 
 "That they were in love and all that silly rot," he 
 paused for the fraction of a second; but remembering 
 that his cricket was at stake, added, "and would 
 marry." Then he held his breath and waited. 
 
 "Marry!" 
 
 Eric had not underestimated the power of the ex- 
 plosion. For a moment Sir John seemed in danger of 
 apoplexy. He blinked like a cinematograph film, 
 glanced about him in a dazed sort of manner, blew out 
 his cheeks and finally fixed his eyes on Eric. 
 
 "But he doesn't want to marry," he cried. "That's 
 why he " He stopped suddenly, realising that Eric 
 was but a child. 
 
 "Well, he's all over Marjie," was the rejoinder. 
 Eric had decided that it was no time for half-measures. 
 "Everybody wants to marry Marjie," he added, with 
 the inspiration of the house-agent who assures a client 
 that a number of people are after "these desirable 
 premises." 
 
 Sir John recalled the vision of a girl careering over 
 the countryside on "a splendid animal," as he had re- 
 marked at the time. If there was one thing more than 
 another he loved, it was a good piece of horse-flesh. 
 The only complaint he had against Vera Truscombe 
 was that she rode a horse as if it were "a damned 
 bicycle." 
 
 Eric's announcement had sobered him considerably. 
 The insubordination of Peters in growing a moustache,
 
 332 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 the fact that his man had packed him only two collars, 
 and the memory of Tom Bassingthwaighte having 
 dunned him before breakfast for the twenty-five 
 pounds; all were absorbed in this startling piece of in- 
 formation. 
 
 If he interfered further in his nephew's matrimonial 
 affairs, he would in all probability disappear again, 
 "the headstrong young puppy," and Sir John had 
 missed him more than he cared to admit, even to him- 
 self. 
 
 "The confounded sly young puppy!" he muttered 
 under his breath. "He said it was the railway strike"; 
 but there was no anger in his tone. 
 
 Eric expanded his lungs to their normal extent. An- 
 other obstacle to his mastery of fast-bowling had been 
 removed. 
 
 II 
 
 After breakfast that morning, Smith had gone down 
 to the village to enquire after Thirkettle and, if pos- 
 sible, to see him. From John Nudd, however, he 
 learned that his late antagonist had left Little Bilstead 
 the previous night. 
 
 Before doing so, however, he seemed to have ex- 
 pressed himself with some heat upon the subject of the 
 trick that had been played him. He appeared to re- 
 gard the whole affair as "a put-up job," and that the 
 services of a prize-fighter, bearing a strong resemblance 
 to Alfred Warren had been secured; "but I 'oan't for- 
 get it, together," he had assured them malevolently. 
 
 He had threatened to set about the whole village, 
 hinted at wrecking the public-bar of The Pigeons, and 
 even gone to the extent of telling Postle that he wasn't
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 333 
 
 going to stand any of his "squit," whereat Postle had 
 withdrawn to his cottage, and was seen later with his 
 boots in a high state of polish. 
 
 Such of the men of Little Bilstead as Smith en- 
 countered that morning showed a marked change in 
 their demeanour, particularly those who, like Jack 
 Bean, had been loudest in their denunciations of Mist' 
 Alfred. They realised that a man who could give Bob 
 Thirkettle "cosh" was one to be treated with respect. 
 
 The women seemed to have gone over to him to a 
 petticoat, judging from the nods and smiles he en- 
 countered, whilst the children gazed up at him in awe 
 and large-eyed wonder. 
 
 Social Little Bilstead also was moving, and Smith 
 escaped Colonel Enderby by ten seconds, and Mrs. 
 Spelman by barely fifteen. The object of the one was 
 "to tender apologies," as he afterwards expressed it to 
 Miss Jell, and of the other to invite the only lion Little 
 Bilstead had ever known to take tea with her that after- 
 noon. 
 
 Unaware of his providential escape, Smith strolled 
 back to the vicarage, his thoughts busy with the hap- 
 penings of the past twenty-four hours. 
 
 What was Marjorie doing? What was she think- 
 ing? He was determined to see her again. When Sir 
 John had enquired of him the previous evening what 
 were his plans, he had avoided giving a definite answer. 
 He had no plans until he knew. Knew what? 
 
 As he turned into the vicarage drive, he became con- 
 scious of a little group standing just within the gate. 
 
 "Ah ! here he is," he heard from beneath Miss Lip- 
 scombe's faded blue sunbonnet. With her were his 
 aunt and Peters.
 
 334 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "This seems to be a place of happy rencontres," 
 smiled Mrs. Compton-Stacey, as he joined them. She 
 was glad to see Peters again. She had missed him 
 almost as much as her brother had. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," said Peters, removing his cap 
 once more. He disliked removing his cap when there 
 was no looking-glass handy, and that was the third 
 time he had been called upon to do it that morning. He 
 had discovered that the effectiveness of a cap was in 
 direct ratio to the angle at which it is worn. 
 
 "Well, what's the news?" enquired Smith. 
 
 Peters hesitated. 
 
 "I got Peters to make some enquiries about Alfred 
 Warren," he explained to Miss Lipscombe. "You re- 
 member a man named Gadgett calling?" 
 
 She nodded, and turned to Peters, an eager look in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Warren was killed at Neuve Chapelle," said 
 Peters. 
 
 With a quick indrawing of breath, Miss Lipscombe's 
 hand went up to her left side. In swift understanding, 
 Mrs. Compton-Stacey linked her arm through that of 
 the older woman. 
 
 "Go on," said Miss Lipscombe almost fiercely. "I'm 
 not going to faint, although I am a fool." 
 
 "Tell us what happened, Peters," said Smith, his 
 eyes upon Miss Lipscombe's face, which had gone very 
 white. 
 
 "I saw Mr. Gadgett, sir," Peters continued, "as you 
 instructed, and he told me that Mr. Warren enlisted in 
 August, 1914, under the name of Smith." 
 
 "Smith!" 
 
 "Yes, sir, James Smith."
 
 MR. GADGETT TELLS THE TRUTH 335 
 
 "Great Gulliver!" murmured Smith under his 
 breath. 
 
 "What a strange coincidence," murmured Mrs. 
 Compton-Stacey, who was clasping Miss Lipscombe's 
 right hand in both her own. 
 
 "He was defending a wounded officer and " 
 
 With a choking sob Miss Lipscombe turned and, 
 leaning heavily on Mrs. Compton-Stacey's arm, walked 
 slowly up the drive. 
 
 "Go on, Peters," said Smith, his eyes following the 
 retreating figures of the two women. 
 
 And Peters proceeded to tell how, by what he re- 
 ferred to as "diplomacy," he had extracted from Mr. 
 Gadgett the news of Alfred Warren's death, and a 
 promise to furnish Lady Warren's solicitors with all 
 the information he possessed. 
 
 "But how did you manage it?" cried Smith, puzzled 
 at what appeared to be the entire capitulation of the 
 crafty Mr. Gadgett. 
 
 Peters hesitated; but only for the fraction of a 
 second. 
 
 "I'm afraid, I had to to depend on diplomacy, sir." 
 
 "Not violence?" 
 
 "No, sir," and there was regret in Peters' voice, 
 "there were clerks in the outer office, and Mr. Gadgett 
 was near the bell." 
 
 "And what form did your diplomacy take?" 
 
 "I happened to mention, sir, that there was to be a 
 dinner of the non-commissioned officers of the battalion 
 next week, and that his address " He paused. 
 
 "Peters," said Smith gravely, "do you realise that 
 was pure Prussianism, the very thing we fought 
 against?"
 
 336 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "It was the only way, sir." 
 
 Having arranged with Peters to send up to the vicar- 
 age the clothes he had brought, and remain on at The 
 Pigeons until he received further orders, Smith dis- 
 missed him. 
 
 As he entered the vicarage, Miss Lipscombe came 
 to the door of the drawing-room and beckoned to him. 
 There was a strange softness in her eyes as he closed 
 the door and turned to her. 
 
 "Mr. Hildreth," she said huskily, as she extended a 
 none too steady hand to him, "I want to thank you for 
 what you have done." 
 
 He took the hand extended to him. He could not 
 trust his voice. 
 
 "I think," she continued a moment later, "I think I 
 see the hand of God in this," and there were tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "He made good," was all Smith could think of to 
 say.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 
 
 "\\ TELL, Willis, you see you were wrong and I 
 
 Y V was right." 
 
 Willis had just thrown open the hall- 
 door of The Grange with that smile he seemed to keep 
 specially for Smith. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Willis, as he stood aside to allow 
 Smith to enter. "It's all very wonderful, sir. You'll 
 be going away now, I suppose, Mr. Al sir," he cor- 
 rected himself. Smith noted the mournful inflection of 
 his voice. 
 
 "Yes, Willis, I'm sorry to say. Is Miss Mar- 
 jorie in?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," and the old man's voice was noticeably 
 husky. "She's in the morning-room, sir." 
 
 "I shall always regard you as my good Samaritan," 
 said Smith, smiling in spite of himself at the recollection 
 of their first meeting. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Willis, fumbling at the rails 
 of his coat, a moment later producing a large coloured 
 handkerchief, with which he proceeded to blow his nose 
 and surreptitiously mop his eyes. 
 
 "It'll be like losing Mr. Alfred all over again, sir," 
 he mumbled through the folds of the handkerchief, 
 "and, and " He trailed off into something between a 
 sniff and a sob. 
 
 "Cheer up, Willis," said Smith, touched by the old 
 
 337
 
 338 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 man's obvious regret that he was going. "It's not so 
 bad as all that." 
 
 "It it's terrible for us, sir," was the melancholy 
 response, as he continued to mop his eyes. "Mrs. 
 Higgs has had two goes of hysterics, and I'm sure 
 she'll have another before the day's out." 
 
 "I'm dreadfully sorry," said Smith, conscious of the 
 feebleness of the remark. 
 
 "Then there's Mrs. Death, sir," Willis continued, as 
 if determined to squeeze every drop of misery from the 
 catastrophe. "She had visions last night, sir, and she 
 says she feels another coming on, and she can't cook 
 when she has visions, sir, and " He broke off huskily. 
 
 "I'm afraid my coming has upset everybody." 
 
 "It isn't your coming, sir, it's your going. It it " 
 Again his voice failed him. 
 
 Deeply touched though he was by the old man's grief, 
 Smith found himself at a loss how to comfort him. 
 
 "If if you were only coming back again, sir, if just 
 for an hour, it would be something to look forward to. 
 I'm sure Mrs. Death will be ill if. she has another 
 vision, sir. She says it reminds her of when her baby 
 had pneumonia. It's terrible, sir." The tears were 
 now streaming down his cheeks, without any attempt on 
 his part to arrest their flow. 
 
 "Now, Willis, you mustn't give way," said Smith 
 soothingly, as if speaking to a child. "Perhaps Mr. 
 Alfred will come back and " 
 
 "He won't, sir," sobbed Willis. "I seem to know 
 now that he's dead, and if he did, Bob Thirkettle would 
 kill him, he isn't as strong as you are, sir." 
 
 "What makes you think Mr. Alfred is dead?" en- 
 quired Smith curiously.
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 339 
 
 "We feel it, sir, me and Mrs. Death, sir," he 
 quavered, "and I don't know who's to prepare Miss 
 Marjorie's luncheon. We can't give her sardines again, 
 she had them for breakfast." 
 
 Smith turned aside to hide a smile. 
 "Now, Willis, cheer up, and tell Mrs. Higgs that I 
 will come back soon, just to see my good friends at 
 The Grange, and we'll have tea in her pretty little sit- 
 ting-room and " 
 
 "You will, sir? You mean it?" cried Willis, sun- 
 light shining through his tears. In his eagerness he 
 had clutched Smith by the coat-sleeve. 
 
 "I promise," said Smith gravely, more touched by 
 the old man's gratitude than he cared to confess, even 
 to himself. "Now I'll go and find Miss Marjorie. 
 No, don't come," he added, as Willis made a movement 
 to lead the way to the morning-room. "You go and 
 tell Mrs. Higgs and Mrs. Death." 
 
 "I hope it won't give Mrs. Higgs hysterics again," 
 he murmured, shaking his head dubiously. "She has 
 them very easy, sir." 
 
 Leaving Willis to his lugubrious forebodings, Smith 
 crossed the hall to the morning-room. Opening the 
 door softly, he entered. 
 
 "May I come in?" he enquired. 
 Marjorie, who was standing looking out from the 
 French-windows, turned with a start. She felt herself 
 flushing; for at that very moment she was wondering 
 if he had already left Little Bilstead, or if he would go 
 without calling. 
 
 From Eric she had received a full, true, and particu- 
 lar account of the dramrtic arrival of Sir John Hil- 
 dreth and his sister, with "Old Bass."
 
 340 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I've come to say good-bye," continued Smith. 
 
 "Mr. Hildreth," she said gravely, as she extended 
 her hand, "how does one apologise when one is almost 
 too humiliated to think of of " 
 
 "One doesn't," he smiled. 
 
 "Please don't be magnanimous," she begged, as she 
 dropped into a chair, motioning him to another. "I 
 thought I shouldn't have the courage to meet you 
 again," she said. 
 
 "And you have?" 
 
 "Yes; but" She paused. 
 
 "I gave you no option," he suggested. 
 
 "I could scarcely run away, could I?" she inter- 
 rogated. 
 
 "You might have tried," he suggested with a smile, 
 "although I warn you I should have given chase." 
 
 "Please don't," she said, gazing at the point of a 
 dainty bronze shoe with the air of one who finds it 
 difficult to explain. "I I'm very much ashamed of 
 myself. I ought to have known." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh ! there were a lot of things." Her voice was 
 now quite friendly, he decided. It seemed to have lost 
 that quality of well-bred indifference that had always 
 so piqued him in the past. "You must think me a hor- 
 rible prig." She looked up suddenly, and gazed straight 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "Shall we agree to let bygones be bygones," he sug- 
 gested, "and begin afresh?" 
 
 She shook her head with a slow but decided air. 
 
 "That is impossible, I'm afraid," she said. 
 
 "Why impossible?" 
 
 "When I was quite a tiny thing " there was the
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 341 
 
 ghost of a smile as her eyes remained fixed upon her 
 shoe-tip, "I remember if ever I had been naughty, I 
 would never allow myself to be forgiven until I had 
 done " She paused. 
 
 "Penance?" he suggested. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Well, why not do penance now?" he suggested 
 eagerly. 
 
 Again she shook her head, with the same air of de- 
 cision. 
 
 "It had to be something that satisfied me, something 
 I hated doing and which hurt." 
 
 "But surely if I say it doesn't matter " he began, 
 when she interrupted him. 
 
 "That wouldn't make any difference," she insisted. 
 "I suppose it's conscience, and I require absolution." 
 
 "But I give it full measure and brimming over," he 
 said quickly. "Surely that ends it." 
 
 "None but a priest can grant absolution," she said 
 gravely. 
 
 Her eyes reproached him. 
 
 "Let's send for one," he smiled. 
 
 "I know I must seem ridiculous," she said, a slight 
 flush colouring her cheeks, which seemed to him un- 
 usually pale; "but I can't explain." 
 
 "Will you answer me one question quite frankly and 
 honestly?" he asked, watching her delicately tapered 
 fingers as they trifled with the jade ornament hung by a 
 black ribbon from her neck. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, then looked straight into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 "If it hadn't been for for what you thought, do
 
 342 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 you think we should have been friends?" He was con- 
 scious that his heart was pumping with a quite unneces- 
 sary amount of vigour. 
 
 "Yes, I think we should," her eyes fell again, and 
 her flush deepened. "Nero liked you, and Eric," she 
 continued with an obvious effort, "and I always like the 
 people they like." 
 
 "After all, you had to go upon the evidence you 
 possessed," he suggested, "and everybody recognised 
 me as Alfred Warren." 
 
 "But I should have known." There was in her tone 
 the persistence of a child who refuses to be comforted. 
 
 There was a prolonged silence. Smith was cudgelling 
 his brains for something that would help her to modify 
 the harsh judgment into which she had entered against 
 herself. 
 
 "I think I owe you an explanation also," he said at 
 length, noting her distress. "I think it is I who am 
 really to blame. If I hadn't descended upon you all 
 in the way I did, there would have been no misunder- 
 standing." 
 
 She shook her head for the third time. 
 
 "It all came about in a very curious way," he con- 
 tinued. "My uncle, who is a splendid old fellow but a 
 bit volcanic, and I had a difference of opinion upon 
 the subject of noses." 
 
 He noticed the suggestion of a furrow between her 
 brows, as she continued to gaze at the point of her shoe. 
 
 "He had selected a wife for me, and somehow we 
 didn't seem to see quite eye to eye, or perhaps I should 
 say nez a nez you see it crinkled when she laughed." 
 
 She looked up suddenly, a startled expression in her 
 eyes, then, at the quizzical expression on his face, she 
 smiled involuntarily.
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 343 
 
 "My uncle and I had an argument, which developed 
 into something more serious. He practically ordered 
 me to marry her. I expostulated that I could never 
 live down those crinkles. I'm afraid I behaved rather 
 badly by treating the whole matter with unnecessary 
 flippancy. You see, her estates bordered on ours, and 
 my uncle was anxious to link them together." 
 
 He paused for a second; but at a little nod from her 
 he continued. 
 
 "The upshot of it was that he cut me off with a 
 shilling, and told me to go to the devil, so " 
 
 "You came to Little Bilstead," she interrupted de- 
 murely, without raising her eyes. 
 
 At that moment, he decided, she was prettier than 
 he had ever remembered to have seen her. 
 
 "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that fate 
 and the railway-strike landed me here," he continued, 
 "and" 
 
 "But was it necessary to change your name?" she 
 queried, leaning forward slightly. 
 
 "My uncle rather rubbed it in about going to the 
 dogs and dragging the family name with me, and I'm 
 afraid I must have got a little short-tempered. I told 
 him that I would never use the name of Hildreth again 
 until I had his permission, and the next morning in the 
 bath I christened myself James Smith. You see I en- 
 listed under that name. Private Darrell Hildreth 
 didn't seem to sound quite right somehow, and I wanted 
 to stay in the ranks. And that's all there is to tell," he 
 concluded. 
 
 For nearly a minute there was silence. Her gaze 
 was concentrated upon the point of her shoe. 
 
 "I came to say good-bye," he said, finding the silence 
 embarrassing.
 
 344 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 She continued to play with the jade ornament she had 
 worn the first time he saw her. 
 
 "You must be glad." She did not look up. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said. "I have rather enjoyed it all." 
 
 "And, and " she began, then paused. 
 
 "I was sorry about yesterday," he said gravely, in- 
 terpreting her thoughts; "but it was unavoidable. I 
 ran down to see him this morning," he added, "but he 
 had gone. He realises that I am not Alfred Warren." 
 
 Again there was a period of silence. There seemed 
 nothing more to be said. She refused to be forgiven, 
 and it now remained for him only to make his adieux, 
 return to the vicarage and prepare for the journey west. 
 
 Suddenly he had an inspiration. 
 
 "Will you take me to say good-bye to Nero?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She rose immediately, then paused half-way towards 
 the window. 
 
 "Only four lumps at the outside," she warned. 
 
 "But this is a parting," he pleaded. "We may never 
 meet again and, because you won't be friends, you 
 surely won't come between Nero and me." 
 
 Without a word she passed out through the French 
 windows, and across the lawn in the direction of the 
 stables. From behind a clump of holly, Eric watched 
 the scene, speculating as to his chances of bowling- 
 practice. 
 
 At the sight of Marjorie and his Sugar Man ap- 
 proaching, Nero became almost frantic with excite- 
 ment. He blew through his lips in an ecstasy of antici- 
 pation, Marjorie called it "purring," stretching his 
 shapely neck over the half-door of his loose-box to its 
 utmost limit.
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 345 
 
 The sight of Smith thrusting his hand into his pocket 
 caused Nero to add to the "purr" a soft whinny of 
 joy. His Sugar Man had not only come to see him; 
 but had brought with him those white cubes of joy, 
 without which life would lose much of its attractiveness. 
 
 "Nero, you must be good," admonished Marjorie, as 
 she fondled his silky neck, whilst Smith extended a hand 
 on which lay four of the largest lumps of sugar he had 
 been able to steal from Janet's store at the vicarage. 
 
 As he munched the crisp morsels, there was an ex- 
 pression in Nero's eyes which told of perfect content. 
 Was he not in the presence of his beloved mistress, with 
 whom he had such glorious gallops, stopping at nothing 
 and caring for nobody? Was there not with her his 
 Sugar Man, in whose pockets the white cubes grew as 
 he had never known them to grow elsewhere? 
 
 As the last morsel disappeared, Nero stretched out 
 a peremptory head towards Smith. He was ready for 
 more. 
 
 "Don't you think it's a little unfair to Nero?" Smith 
 was saying. 
 
 "Unfair to Nero I" she repeated, not following the 
 line of his thoughts. 
 
 "Not to allow yourself to be forgiven," he smiled. 
 "I mustn't give you any more, old fellow," he said, as 
 Nero manifested impatience at the neglect of so obvious 
 a hint. 
 
 "I didn't mean to say I wouldn't be forgiven," she 
 said, conscious that once more she was colouring be- 
 neath his steady gaze. "What I meant was, I cannot 
 forgive myself." 
 
 "In the meantime Nero must go without sugar," he 
 suggested.
 
 346 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "I don't see Nerol" she broke off. "You wicked 
 person." 
 
 Impatient at the lack of response to his clearly ex- 
 pressed wishes for more sugar, Nero had caught 
 Smith's coat-sleeve between his teeth, and was shaking 
 it as a dog shakes a rat. 
 
 At the smart pat on the side of his head which Mar- 
 jorie administered, he dropped the coat-sleeve and 
 turned upon her a pair of reproachful eyes he hated 
 being corrected at any time; but before his Sugar Man ! 
 
 "You shouldn't be naughty," she said, then, drawing 
 his head towards her and rubbing her face against it, 
 she added, "You must behave, Nero, dear." 
 
 For a second he allowed himself to be caressed. 
 Suddenly he started from the gently restraining hand' 
 of his mistress. There, piled up in the Sugar Man's 
 hand was more white bliss than he ever remembered to 
 have seen before. 
 
 He craned forward; but the tempting pile was just 
 out of reach. The Sugar Man was looking at his 
 mistress. Why didn't he come nearer? The top of the 
 door hurt; still, he must get that snowy mound. 
 
 Suddenly the mound came within his reach. The in- 
 terrogation in the Sugar Man's eyes, which Nero had 
 not observed, had been answered with a little nod, and 
 he was crunching more sugar at once than he had ever 
 crunched before in his life. 
 
 "Can't you see Nero asking you what has become of 
 me?" Smith enquired, as he watched the obvious enjoy- 
 ment with which his largesse was being eaten. 
 
 "Nero cannot always have his own way," she re- 
 torted, with a lightness she was not feeling. 
 
 "Think of Willis unhappy and Mrs. Higgs having 
 hysterics and Mrs. Death indulging in visions."
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 347 
 
 "Whatever do you mean?" she cried, with puckered 
 brows. 
 
 He explained the allusion. 
 
 "But my not being able to forgive myself will not 
 produce all those catastrophes," she protested. 
 
 "It will," he replied solemnly. "Then there's Eric's 
 bowling-practice." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, startled, her face dyed suddenly 
 crimson. She turned aside and her eyes dropped. 
 
 "Don't you think we might be friends?" he said 
 gently, bending towards her. 
 
 She did not reply, still keeping her head turned from 
 him. 
 
 "I stayed on because I " he paused, "wanted to 
 get to know you better," he added. 
 
 Nero watched the pair with speculative eye. Mirac- 
 ulously a second mound of white sweetness had taken 
 the place of the first. Here indeed was a king among 
 men. 
 
 "You will try and forgive yourself?" he persisted. 
 
 UT 
 
 "You mustn't give Nero another piece," she cried, 
 "so please come away." 
 
 "On condition that it is to the pinewood," he said, 
 as he produced two more lumps of sugar for Nero. "I 
 must talk to you, and I think the pines will help." 
 
 She turned and he followed, leaving Nero in the en- 
 joyment of the last of Janet's sugar. 
 
 In silence they recrossed the lawn, Eric dodging to 
 cover just in time. A few minutes later, with a little 
 sigh of content, Marjorie sank down upon the carpet 
 of pine-needles, Smith dropping beside her. He made 
 no effort to break the silence; but continued to gaze 
 steadily at the profile she turned towards him, as she
 
 348 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 allowed the pine-needles to sift through her fingers. 
 
 His silence puzzled her. Why had she come to the 
 pinewood? What was he thinking? Was he going 
 that day, or would he remain on until the morrow? 
 
 "I want to tell you something," he said at length. 
 
 She looked up quickly, a startled look in her eyes. 
 
 "I have just heard that Alfred Warren was killed at 
 Neuve Chapelle." 
 
 For several minutes there was silence. Instinctively 
 her thoughts had flown to South Africa, where a widow 
 would weep for an only son. 
 
 "He made good," said Smith presently. 
 
 "I'm glad," she said simply. "Poor Grey Lady," 
 she added. 
 
 "Grey Lady?" he queried. 
 
 "I always call Lady Warren 'Grey Lady,' " she said, 
 with a sad little smile. 
 
 "Tell me about her." 
 
 When nearly half-an-hour later she concluded with 
 the words, "She's the most beautiful old lady I have 
 ever known," Smith felt something more than a pass- 
 ing compassion for the mother who had suffered so 
 much because of an erring son. 
 
 "And now I want to tell you something," she said, 
 after another long silence, taking up another handful 
 of needles and allowing them to cascade back to their 
 mother carpet. 
 
 She paused, then as he made no response she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "I I tried to dislike you," she paused again, the 
 pine-needles slipping silently through her fingers. 
 
 "I think," she continued, as she took another hand-
 
 ERIC PRONOUNCES IT SPIF 349 
 
 ful, "I think I always knew in my really, that you 
 were not Mr. Warren; but I, I forced myself to dis- 
 like you." 
 
 "Yes," he said gently, as she hesitated, giving him a 
 swift look from under her lashes. 
 
 "Mr. Warren always frightened me and, and you I 
 wasn't frightened of you." The words came with a 
 rush, as if they had forced themselves out against her 
 will. 
 
 "Marjorie," he said gently, taking the hand from 
 which the last pine-needle had fallen. 
 
 "Pleeeeeeeeeeease !" There was genuine distress in 
 her voice, and in the eyes she turned on him there were 
 tears, pendulous upon the lower lids. 
 
 "Are you going to punish us all ?" 
 
 "Oh, please don't!" she murmured, as one tear lost 
 its balance and tumbled down her cheek. 
 
 "Don't you think you might try and learn to like me 
 a little for myself? I'd try frightfully hard to deserve 
 it, and I don't mind how long I wait." His voice shook 
 slightly. 
 
 There was a pause. His instinct was to take her in 
 his arms, she looked so pathetic, so distressed. 
 
 "You you don't understand," she murmured. 
 "You would always remember." 
 
 "I should remember only one thing, Marjorie," he 
 said, "I want you and and " 
 
 She had not withdrawn her hand. Gently he drew 
 her towards him, and a moment later all danger to 
 Eric's cricket-practice was over. 
 
 "You'll never think of it," she whispered, a few 
 minutes later.
 
 350 THE RETURN OF ALFRED 
 
 "Never," he vowed. 
 
 "I, I just wouldn't let myself," she continued, "and 
 once I hit Nero because he oh !" 
 
 A soft muzzle had been thrust between their heads. 
 
 "Nero!" she cried, sitting up straight, her hands 
 flying to her disordered hair. "You wicked person ! 
 Who let you out?" but Nero was too busy nuzzling 
 Smith's pockets to explain that he represented Eric's 
 master-stroke of diplomacy. 
 
 Suddenly there came a whoop from behind them. 
 
 "I say, isn't it spif ?" cried an ecstatic voice, and a 
 red head appeared from behind a tree. 
 
 "It'll be murder if I catch you," laughed Smith, 
 making a movement in the direction of the red blob, 
 whereat it disappeared, and once more the pinewood 
 resumed its sombre colouring of greys and greens and 
 browns. 
 
 THE END
 
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 1990 

 
 A 000 040 555 5 
 
 RECEIVED 
 
 ocr 
 
 34 
 IQOQ 
 
 DUE 
 
 |- 
 
 Ife-^O 
 
 RETURNED 
 
 NOV 
 
 81989