THE SILENT BATTLE
 
 Books by 
 C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON 
 
 THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR 
 THE PRINCESS PASSES 
 MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR 
 LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER 
 ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER 
 MY LADY CINDERELLA 
 THE CAR OF DESTINY 
 THE CHAPERON 
 THE PRINCESS VIRGINIA 
 SET IN SILVER 
 ETC., ETC.
 
 THE 
 
 SILENT BATTLE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1909
 
 AUTHORIZED EDITION 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE INITIALS 3 
 
 II. IN WINIFRED'S DRESSING-ROOM n 
 
 III. THE CHAMPION 15 
 
 IV. SOMETHING DAZZLING 23 
 
 V. A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 30 
 
 VI. THE GRANTING OF A WISH 41 
 
 VII. IN Twos AND THREES 49 
 
 VIII. A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 53 
 
 IX. "Is THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 65 
 
 X. THE LETTERS 76 
 
 XL WINIFRED'S LUCK 88 
 
 XII. A QUESTION OF COSTUME , 99 
 
 XIII. THE SECRET OUT in 
 
 XIV. THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 122 
 
 XV. THE MASKED MINSTRELS 134 
 
 XVI. A DISCOVERY; AND A PROPOSITION 145 
 
 XVII. THE REST OF THE BARGAIN 156 
 
 XVIII. A BACKWARD GLANCE 163 
 
 XIX. A LADY IN A VEIL, AND A MAN IN A MASK . . . 169 
 
 XX. PARTNERS 181 
 
 XXI. THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 193 
 
 v
 
 vi THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXII. THE LION'S DEN 205 
 
 XXIII. HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 216 
 
 XXIV. BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 228 
 
 XXV. THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 240 
 
 XXVI. WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 251 
 
 XXVII. THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 262 
 
 XXVIII. THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 273 
 
 XXIX. THE WINNING OF THE WAGER 285 
 
 XXX. THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY 290 
 
 XXXI. NERO'S DINNER PARTY 297 
 
 XXXII. THE EYE OF THE MOONSTONE 305 
 
 XXXIII. THE MILLS OF THE GODS 311
 
 THE SILENT BATTLE
 
 The Silent Battle 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE INITIALS 
 
 IT was nearly half-past seven, and the actors and 
 actresses engaged at the Duke of Clarence's Theater 
 had begun to come in at the stage door. Those who 
 played "character" parts and had a "heavy make-up" 
 arrived first, some of them looking into the stage- 
 doorkeeper's little box of a room to see if there were 
 any letters for them in the rack, or else passing on 
 with a nod and a "good evening" to the doorkeeper 
 himself. Next came the youngest recruits, who had 
 been amateurs more lately than they would have 
 liked to admit. They were early because they took 
 the labor of making up very seriously, and were 
 longer about dressing than anybody else. But old 
 stagers or newly fledged "artistes" all found time 
 to throw a glance of curiosity at a man who stood, in 
 the attitude of one who waited, near the doorkeeper's 
 chair. 
 
 If the drama of the Wild West had been holding 
 the boards he might have "walked on" and played 
 a part, dressed exactly as he was now; for he wore 
 a wide-brimmed, soft felt hat, a flannel shirt with
 
 4 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 a turnover collar that showed a throat like a column 
 of bronze, and his other clothes had certainly not 
 been made by an English tailor. His dark hair, how- 
 ever, was cut far too short to carry out the cowboy 
 idea, and his face, aquiline and clear-cut as a cameo, 
 with an eagle keenness of eye, was clean-shaven. 
 
 He saw that he formed an object of interest for the 
 actors, but it was his metier, evidently, to appear not 
 to see. 
 
 The walls of the stage-doorkeeper's little room 
 were adorned with old playbills, old and new por- 
 traits of theatrical celebrities a few in cheap frames, 
 but more cut from the illustrated papers and on 
 these, as the people went through to their dressing- 
 rooms, the young man ostentatiously fixed his eyes. 
 
 "What time does Mr. Anderson usually come 
 in?" he asked of Hansey, the doorkeeper, when a 
 clock over the empty fireplace pointed to the quarter 
 before eight. 
 
 "He ought to be along in about fifteen minutes 
 now, for we ring up sharp at half-past," returned 
 Hansey. " But he's a quick dresser, is Mr. Anderson." 
 
 Mr. Anderson was the manager of the Duke of 
 Clarence's Theater, and the star actor as well. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Hansey. Any letters for 
 me, I wonder?" suddenly spoke a sweet, bright voice 
 at the open door, and a girl's head was thrust in a 
 pretty head, under a neat toque of dark straw. 
 
 Hansey jumped up from his chair, and hurried 
 across the room, hoping to have the pleasure of hand- 
 ing the newcomer's letters to her before she could get 
 them herself. But she was too quick for him. 
 
 "Oh, what a lot there are to-night!" she exclaimed.
 
 THE INITIALS 5 
 
 Then she looked at the stranger, who had taken off 
 his wide-brimmed hat in her honor a thing that 
 he had failed to do for the two or three other ladies 
 who had already passed in. 
 
 The look this girl gave him was different from 
 theirs, and the man felt the difference, though it 
 would have been hard to explain. She was saying 
 to herself: " I wonder who that bronze statue is ? Poor 
 fellow, he's anxious or unhappy about something. 
 Perhaps he's come to try for an engagement, though 
 it would be a funny hour for that. He looks interest- 
 ing, and I'm sorry for him if he wants something he 
 can't get." 
 
 With these thoughts in her mind naturally there 
 was an expression of sympathy on her face; and this 
 time the young man did not stare at the pictures on 
 the walls. Instead he glanced at the girl, and glanced 
 away again reluctantly as most men did when their 
 eyes had drunk the fascination of hers. 
 
 It was a very innocent, youthful sort of fascination, 
 not in the least conscious or studied or "actressy," 
 and perhaps in that fact lay part of its charm, for she 
 was different from the others. One seemed to smell 
 wallflowers and mignonette steeped in morning dew, 
 and to think of dawn in the country as she passed and 
 smiled, actress though she was. 
 
 "Yes, miss, a lot of letters," Hansey echoed. 
 "They'll be 'mash' letters, miss, half of 'em, I'll 
 bet," and he chuckled, for he was a privileged char- 
 acter at the Duke of Clarence's, and took advantage 
 of his privileges. 
 
 "How horrid of you to say such a thing," the 
 girl reproached him, and departed, closely fol-
 
 6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 lowed by a rather elderly maid who had remained, 
 in the background while her mistress gathered up 
 her correspondence. 
 
 "Who is that young lady?" inquired the "bronze 
 statue" when she had disappeared along the passage 
 which led to the stage and the dressing-rooms. 
 
 "That's Miss Winifred Gray, the most popular 
 person in this theater," answered Hansey, with the 
 air of a man conveying information worth having. 
 "Have you never been in front, then?" 
 
 "No, I'm a stranger in England," said the young 
 man. " I've never been to any theater in this country." 
 
 "Then what have you come after Mr. Anderson 
 for?" was the question on the stage-doorkeeper's 
 lips, but he did not ask it, partly because the matter 
 was not his business, and partly because at that moment 
 Mr. Anderson himself came into the theater. 
 
 He was not visible yet, but a deep voice, trained to 
 the mellowest of accents, spoke in the passage just 
 outside Hansey's room; and instantly Hansey's face 
 changed. "There's the governor now," he half 
 whispered to his companion. 
 
 The young man had come in, saying that he wished 
 to wait for Mr. Anderson, who had asked him to call 
 at the theater that evening, but Hansey whilst 
 granting standing room in his little box had hardly 
 believed the assertion. He could do no less than 
 take the stranger's word, for if he sent him away and 
 there really had been an appointment, Mr. Anderson 
 would be angry; and when Mr. Anderson was angry 
 he was very disagreeable indeed. However, the 
 stage-doorkeeper would be surprised if the gentleman 
 in the flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat were not
 
 THE INITIALS 7 
 
 sent away with a snub or passed by without any 
 notice at all. 
 
 As the actor-manager slowly approached with some 
 friend he was bringing in, Hansey threw a sharp, 
 sidelong glance at his companion. But the handsome 
 brown face showed no sign of trepidation at the com- 
 ing of the great man. 
 
 Evidently George Anderson was in a bad temper 
 to-night. "Do look out and not stumble, Macaire," 
 he was saying. "This is the worst stage-entrance in 
 London. Beastly place!" 
 
 Then two men came in sight of the other two who 
 stood in the doorkeeper's room. One was exceptionally 
 tall, exceptionally good-looking, with wavy brown 
 hair, worn rather long, dreamy dark eyes (they kept 
 their dreaminess even in bad humor), and a Greek 
 profile, unspoiled by beard or mustache. The second 
 was so hideous that the stranger had to repress an 
 exclamation of horror as his eyes first fell upon him. 
 
 He was short and stoutly built, and walked with 
 a limp. There was something about his figure, too, 
 which vaguely suggested deformity, though per- 
 haps because a clever tailor helped him keep the 
 secret it was impossible to fasten upon the exact 
 cause of the startling impression. 
 
 But it was his face which sent a creeping chill 
 through the veins of the man or woman who saw it 
 for the first time, and drove children who looked at 
 it shrieking to their mothers. 
 
 Some horrible accident must have happened to 
 spoil the face in the past, and what it might have been 
 before that time was impossible to guess. For all 
 that one could tell it might have been the most perfect
 
 8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 face ever made; but it was now the most grotesque 
 since Caliban's. 
 
 The accident which wrought such havoc had 
 destroyed the skin from chin to forehead, leaving a 
 deep, purplish redness, a peculiar glaze which gave 
 the appearance of a thin coat of varnish over raw 
 flesh. No hair was left in the eyebrows, which might 
 otherwise have been prominent, and one of the eyes 
 had been injured, having a queer, ragged lower lid, 
 while the upper lid drooped, thus giving its fellow a 
 peculiar staring effect. The eyes were yellowish in 
 color, very light, appearing lighter than they were in 
 contrast to the dull red of the face with its marred 
 and shapeless features. 
 
 " I thought you were goin' to speak to Mr. Anderson," 
 said the doorkeeper, not without sarcasm, when both 
 gentlemen had passed on, followed by the actor- 
 manager's valet. " But you never made a move." 
 
 "It was the other man," answered the stranger. 
 "His awful face took my wits away for a minute. I 
 must ask you to send my name to Mr. Anderson 
 instead." 
 
 "You may well say an aw^ful face," Hansey rejoined, 
 ignoring the request in his new interest, "and yet 
 there ain't many women in England wouldn't be 
 willin' to have it for their husband's face. That's as 
 rich a man as there is in London. Where others have 
 thousands, he's got millions. His name's Macaire 
 -Lionel Macaire; but he's called another name 
 behind his back whether he knows it or not, 'Nero 
 the Second.' He's struck up a friendship with the 
 governor just lately and comes behind with him once 
 in a while."
 
 THE INITIALS 9 
 
 "He looks a monster," said the aquiline-faced 
 stranger. 
 
 "So he does. And there's those who say he's as 
 bad as he looks as bad as his nickname, though it 
 ain't only his evil ways have earned him that, I believe, 
 but something else. If he's got enemies, though, he's 
 got friends as well heaps of 'em." 
 
 "I don't think I should care to be one of them," 
 said the young man; for he had no inkling of the 
 surprises which Fate had hidden in her sleeve. "But 
 look here, will you take or send my name to Mr. 
 Anderson ?" 
 
 "Not a bit of use doing that till Mr. Macaire's 
 gone out again," pronounced Hansey, " for the governor 
 never sees anyone, no matter how important, when 
 Mr. Macaire's with him I know that. Or perhaps 
 Mr. Macaire may go in front, in which case he won't 
 pass this way. When the curtain's rung up and the 
 governor's on the stage I'll find out for you. Mr. 
 Anderson's first scene isn't a long one, and he hasn't 
 to change between that and the next. He often sees 
 people then." 
 
 "Nevertheless I should be very much obliged if 
 you'd send the card now," said the other. He had 
 an agreeable voice the voice of a gentleman but 
 it was not the voice of an English gentleman. Neither 
 was it like that of any American whom Hansey had 
 ever heard speak; and the doorkeeper's curiosity 
 grew as the persistency and the personality of the 
 stranger impressed themselves upon him. Who could 
 this queer fellow be who dressed like a cowboy, had 
 never been inside an English theater, who let the 
 "governor" go by without an attempt to catch him,
 
 io THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 yet who appeared so calmly confident of the effect 
 which his name scrawled on a card would create ? 
 
 Shrugging his shoulders in his conviction that Mr. 
 Anderson would not let himself be bothered by this 
 unknown person, Hansey nevertheless went off him- 
 self with the card. The passage was dimly lighted; 
 but when he had picked his way across the stage, 
 through a confusion of scenery that was being set and 
 carpets that were being rolled down by silent men in 
 list slippers, he came out into a more brilliant region. 
 There, before knocking at the door of the actor- 
 manager's outer room, Hansey held the card near his 
 eyes, and read what its sender had written. "Hope 
 Newcome, introduced by F. E. Z.," was scrawled 
 upon it in pencil. 
 
 Hansey, little wiser than before, tapped on the 
 panel. The door was flung open after an instant's 
 delay, the figure of Mr. Anderson's valet blocking up 
 the aperture. The card was received, and carried 
 through the anteroom to the drawing-room, while 
 the stage-doorkeeper waited outside for his answer. 
 
 George Anderson took the piece of pasteboard 
 somewhat impatiently from the hand of his servant, 
 and read the name and initials which followed, aloud. 
 But as he reached the initials his voice changed. " By 
 Jove - -'F. E. Z.!' ' he exclaimed, and turned impul- 
 sively to his friend, who sat on a sofa looking quietly 
 on at the process of making-up. 
 
 Never before had Anderson seen Lionel Macaire's 
 face pale, but to his surprise the purplish flush had 
 partly faded away. The man looked ghastly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 IN WINIFRED'S DRESSING-ROOM 
 
 MR. ANDERSON and the leading lady both dressed 
 near the stage; but Winifred Gray was not the lead- 
 ing lady, and she and her maid Jameson had to go 
 up a short flight of stairs. 
 
 Jameson opened the door, and turned on the elec- 
 tric light, while her mistress followed slowly, with a 
 friendly glance round the little room, as if she loved it. 
 
 And she did love it, dearly. It was still new to her 
 to be acting in a great London theater, and every 
 night when she came to her dressing-room she felt 
 the same thrill of excitement that had tingled through 
 her nerves when she first took possession. 
 
 She had a good salary, but there were many uses 
 for it, and she had not much money to spend on beauti- 
 fying her dressing-room with exquisite rugs and cur- 
 tains and hangings as Mrs. Peter Carlton, the leading 
 lady, did. Still, she had made it look very cozy, and 
 in her eyes it was perfect. 
 
 A small basket lounge, with two or three ruffly silk 
 cushions, stood against the rose-" distempered " wall. 
 Here Winifred sometimes lay down to rest between 
 the matinee and an evening performance, having her 
 dinner sent in from a restaurant near by, if the weather 
 were bad and she did not care to go out. Above the 
 lounge was a shelf with some of Winifred's favorite
 
 12 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 books, and there were a few framed photographs 
 and a water-color painting or two by an admirer 
 who was a "coming artist." In one corner stood 
 a long Psyche mirror, provided by the " management," 
 and another large mirror was tilted over the dressing- 
 table which held materials for making up. 
 
 One side of the wall was covered with a great sheet, 
 under which hung the various dresses which Winifred 
 wore in the play, and another sheet was suspended 
 underneath the frocks to keep them from contact with 
 the wall. The upper sheet Jameson removed from 
 the hooks to which it was fastened by rings, and from 
 the collection of pretty garments it had protected took 
 a Japanese dressing-gown which she laid over the 
 back of a chair in front of the table. 
 
 It was early still, and Winifred curled up on the 
 lounge to look through her letters, slowly drawing 
 out hairpins and pulling off gloves as she read, while 
 Jameson moved about the room preparing for the busi- 
 ness of the evening. She folded up the big clean 
 towel which had covered the neatly arranged make-up 
 things on the table, laid out other towels on the station- 
 ary washhand-stand, and lit the gas-jet surrounded 
 by a wire cage, which was needed, despite the electric 
 lighting, for heating the dark blue grease-paint which 
 Winifred used on her eyelashes for stage effect. 
 
 Meantime the girl was laughing over her letters. 
 The doorkeeper's vulgarly-worded prophecy had 
 proved correct, for her budget largely consisted of 
 declarations of admiration from silly youths, whose 
 names she had never heard, and appeals for her por- 
 trait or autograph from girls who thought it must be 
 "simply too lovely to be on the stage."
 
 IN WINIFRED'S DRESSING-ROOM 13 
 
 Presently all were finished and tossed aside, and 
 Winifred gave herself to the hands of lameson, who 
 
 O J 7 
 
 had the neat little tailor-made frock off and the Japan- 
 ese dressing-gown on in a twinkling. The pretty blue 
 enamel watch was pinned on the window curtain, 
 where Winifred could glance at it as she sat at the 
 table to make up; and then down came the great 
 coils of wavy yellow-brown hair, which the maid 
 would arrange for the part her mistress played in the 
 style of 1830. 
 
 Winifred would be quite beautiful by-and-bye, 
 when, powdered and delicately painted, her lips 
 pointed into a red Cupid's bow, her long dark lashes 
 and the penciled arch of her brows accentuated, her 
 charming figure set off by a quaint gown of pink and 
 green brocade, she made her first appearance of the 
 evening. But she was far more bewitching now as 
 she sat before the glass with her lovely hair gleaming 
 and curling round her girlish shoulders, her white 
 neck half exposed, and the roses and cream of her 
 own charming, faintly sunburnt complexion untouched 
 by stage make-up. 
 
 Perhaps some childish stirring of vanity had been 
 roused by the adoring letters; at all events, as she 
 looked in the mirror, before dipping her fingers into 
 the pot of cold cream, which smelt like violets, she 
 told herself that she really was a very, very pretty 
 girl, and she wondered if it had been only for her 
 face, or because he believed she could act, that Mr. 
 Anderson had summoned her to London, and his 
 theater, from the provincial Shakespearean touring 
 company in which she had made her debut. 
 
 " I do hope it was because I could act," she thought,
 
 i 4 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "for anyone can be pretty." Then down went her 
 ringers into the cold cream, and in another second it 
 would have been on her face had not her bedaubed 
 hand been arrested by a sharp tap at the door. 
 
 Jameson answered the knock at once, and Winifred 
 heard the voice of the "governor's" valet. "Mr. 
 Anderson's compliments, and will Miss Gray go as 
 soon as she is dressed to the boudoir ? It is something 
 important."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE CHAMPION 
 
 "F. E. Z.!" repeated George Anderson. "What 
 memories those initials bring back to me! When I 
 hear them when I see them, I am a boy again. I 
 suppose, Macaire, as you have lived so much of your 
 life out of England, they suggest nothing to you ?" 
 
 He asked this question with his dreamy eyes fixed 
 on his friend's face, for he was still wondering at the 
 sudden ashy pallor which had overspread it, and ask- 
 ing himself if it could possibly have a connection with 
 the initials that had caused his own emotion. 
 
 Lionel Macaire sat forward with elbows on knees, 
 and hands hanging listlessly; but a slight quiver went 
 through the gloved fingers, though his marred features 
 remained passive. "I once knew an actress who 
 made those initials rather celebrated," he answered 
 in the thick, yet harsh voice which sounded as if he 
 had some chronic affection of the throat. "It was a 
 long time ago." 
 
 "For my sake, don't count the years," laughed 
 Anderson, who was nearly fifty and looked thirty- 
 three at most. He turned to his valet. "Send word 
 to Mr. Newcome that I'll see him - 
 
 "One minute!" interrupted the millionaire. "Does 
 this Mr. Newcome come from the lady with those 
 initials ? " 
 
 15
 
 1 6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "That's what I want to find out," Anderson replied. 
 "I had a letter from him this morning saying that she 
 had recommended him to see me when he came to 
 England he didn't mention from where and ask- 
 ing for an appointment. I was in a great hurry 
 just had time to meet you for our business talk and 
 I sent a verbal message by the boy who brought the 
 note telling Newcome to call to-night about half-past 
 seven. Then our conversation of to-day and every- 
 thing connected with it put the man's existence out of 
 my head, though I was really curious to see and question 
 him, or I wouldn't have said he might come." 
 
 " Don't you think he'd prefer to talk with you alone ?" 
 asked Macaire. 
 
 "I don't see why he should. He probably wants 
 an engagement it can't be anything more private 
 than that. If you ever knew her you must have 
 wondered over the mystery of her disappearance, as we 
 all did; and now that there seems a chance of its being 
 cleared up, wouldn't you like to be on the spot " 
 
 " It isn't a question of what I might like or dislike," 
 broke in the millionaire. "I think it would be rather 
 hard on the young man. I'll be gone in a few minutes 
 if Miss Gray 
 
 "All right, old man; it's very considerate of you. 
 Wallis" to his valet "say that I'll see Mr. New- 
 come during my first wait. Let him be brought to 
 me at ten minutes to nine, precisely." 
 
 "In the boudoir, or here, sir?" 
 
 Mr. Anderson frowned slightly. The boudoir was 
 an exceedingly pretty room on the other side of the 
 stage, fitted up luxuriously by him for his own use 
 in receiving certain favored friends. It was par-
 
 THE CHAMPION 17 
 
 ticularly engaged for the early part of this evening, and 
 a great deal hung upon the scene which would take 
 place there. " I will see the gentleman here/' returned 
 the actor-manager. 
 
 The faithful and discreet Wallis went out into the 
 ante-room to pass on the information to Hansey, who 
 stood patiently waiting outside the door. As soon as 
 his back was turned Lionel Macaire spoke again, in 
 a lowered voice. 
 
 "If this young man asks you for an engagement, 
 don't give him one. I'll explain why afterwards 
 when you've told me what he has to say about the 
 lady." 
 
 "It will be rather hard to refuse a favor to an 
 applicant sent by her," murmured Anderson regret- 
 fully. But there was no rebellion in his mind. On 
 this night, and in this theater, Lionel Macaire's wishes 
 must be law; he only hoped that a certain person 
 whom his thoughts named would see this necessity, 
 this duty, as clearly as he did. 
 
 "You can keep his address, and hint at something 
 for him later on, perhaps," suggested the millionaire. 
 "Have you sent word to Miss Gray yet that she will 
 be wanted ? " 
 
 "No. There's been no time. But Wallis shall 
 go at once." 
 
 " It will be better to let the message come from you, 
 and keep me out of it." 
 
 "Oh, certainly. I quite understand." 
 
 By this time Wallis had come back again. 
 
 "Just put me into these riding-boots," commanded 
 his master, "and then take a message from me to 
 Miss Gray's dressing-room. She's wanted on a
 
 i8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 matter ot great importance in the boudoir at the end 
 of the first act." 
 
 But Mr. Macaire, though he had caused Mr. Ander- 
 son's unknown visitor to be delayed, did not intend 
 to take up any more of Mr. Anderson's time for the 
 present. He rose and limped to the portiere which 
 divided the dressing-room from the ante-room. His 
 left foot was an artificial one, and though he never 
 helped himself even with a stick, and very few people 
 knew the cause of his lameness he had a peculiar 
 hobbling walk which added to the grotesqueness 
 of his appearance. 
 
 "Well, I think I'll stroll out in front till the first 
 act's off," he remarked. "See you later. Ta-ta!" 
 
 And so he was off. He had stopped just long enough 
 to prevent the young man waiting in the doorkeeper's 
 room from seeing the "governor" before the curtain 
 went up, for already the orchestra was "rung in," and 
 Mr. Anderson's first entrance as the hero was "worked 
 up to" a few moments after the beginning of the act. 
 
 Anderson had many things to worry about that 
 night, but despite the crowding anxieties he thought 
 a great deal about "F. E. Z.," and wondered, not so 
 much what sort of man she had sent him, as what 
 that man would have to tell about her. He generally 
 spent his "wait" during the first act either in the 
 green-room or the boudoir, but this evening he did 
 not delay a moment in getting back to his dressing- 
 room. He had left word that Mr. Hope Newcome 
 should be there at precisely ten minutes to nine, and 
 as it was now almost on the hour the young man was 
 already in the ante-room, observed somewhat sus- 
 piciously by Wallis, when the actor-manager arrived.
 
 For the fraction of a second the two men looked at 
 each other without speaking. "An extraordinarily 
 handsome fellow, but where on earth did he spring 
 from with that get-up?" Anderson was saying to 
 himself. 
 
 "He's as attractive as she said," the younger man 
 was thinking. 
 
 Then the manager smiled agreeably and held out 
 his hand, for he wished to be conciliatory. "Mr. 
 Newcome," he said, in his deep, rich voice, "you 
 have been sent to me by the most beautiful woman 
 in the world. Tell me of her." 
 
 "She is no longer in this world," answered the 
 other, a shadow passing over his face. 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 "Dead only four months ago." 
 
 "But I understood she sent you to me ?" 
 
 "She advised me before she died to try and see you 
 if I ever went to England. I started as soon as possible 
 after her death." 
 
 "Ah! But she why, she gave me my first engage- 
 ment. I was only seventeen years old. When I 
 recall her glorious face, it seems yesterday." 
 
 " She told me. It is thirty years ago." 
 
 George Anderson's dreamy eyes darkened, as they 
 did when he was annoyed. He did not like being 
 reminded of his age, especially when he was floating 
 in romantic visions. 
 
 "You have not told me what she was to you?" 
 he said in a changed tone. 
 
 " She was a dear friend of my father's, and 
 through him, of mine." 
 
 "England and the English stage have been the
 
 20 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 poorer without her for as you remind me a good 
 many years. I hope she spent them happily?" 
 
 "Only in some ways, I am afraid. She was very 
 poor and she died almost in want. Still, she was 
 loved. That is something to be loved." 
 
 " It could not have been otherwise with her. There 
 were many here who would have been only too glad 
 to help her had they known. But her disappearance 
 was a mystery which was never cleared up. I was 
 hoping you might throw some light upon it." 
 
 "I know nothing of that," said the younger man, 
 turning away his face, so that George Anderson could 
 see the strong, aquiline profile. "She sent a mes- 
 sage to you, though, in case I should ever meet you. 
 It was her 'kindest remembrance'; and she thought 
 of the past with which you were connected, very often, 
 with great pleasure. She hoped you, too, sometimes 
 recalled it." 
 
 "No one could ever forget her who had seen her 
 even once!" exclaimed the actor with genuine emo- 
 tion. " She er thought I might be of use to you, 
 as her friend ? " 
 
 "She knew I would need friends," the other amended. 
 "And as a matter of fact, Mr. Anderson, I have come 
 to-night to ask if you will give me an engagement when 
 you put on As Ton Like It, as I hear you intend to do 
 very soon." 
 
 " I'm exceedingly sorry, but my cast is all made 
 up," the manager replied. 
 
 " I read in the paper yesterday that the man you were 
 to have had for the wrestler had disappointed you." 
 
 "That's true though it was in the paper! but 
 I must have the real thing, you know "
 
 THE CHAMPION 21 
 
 "I think I may call myself the real thing. I was 
 champion of the amateurs in America." 
 
 "Indeed!" Anderson's eyes travelled from the 
 handsome, dark face over the shapely, vigorous body 
 in the queer clothes. 
 
 " Then you are an American ? I didn't pardon 
 me recognize the accent. From what part of the 
 States do you come ? I know them a little." 
 
 The young man dropped his eyes. "I have lived 
 in many parts of America," he said. 
 
 "And you came to England because but no, of 
 course you did not come here merely with an eye to 
 finding such an engagement as this?" 
 
 Hope Newcome looked straight into the actor's 
 inquiring eyes with rather a strange and baffling 
 expression. "I came to find something," he replied. 
 And perhaps Anderson was mistaken in fancying that 
 the words really meant more than they seemed to 
 mean. 
 
 "I'm extremely sorry," said the actor, "but when 
 you come to think of it, you will see for yourself that 
 it's impossible for me to give you an engagement 
 as the wrestler, much as I should like to please you 
 for the sake of one who is gone. You are a tall man, 
 but you are not so tall as I by an inch or two, and, 
 besides, as fits the difference in our years, I am of 
 stouter build than you. Orlando would get little 
 sympathy from the audience out of a match with a 
 wrestler smaller than himself. I must remember 
 the interests of the play; and it would never do; don't 
 you see that ? " 
 
 "Perhaps," admitted Hope Newcome. "I had 
 not thought of that point of view. At all events,
 
 22 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 thank you for seeing me. I'm afraid I've taken up 
 a good deal of your time." 
 
 "Lord Arthur, pie ase!" shouted the call-boy, 
 outside the half-open door of the ante-room. 
 
 "Lord Arthur" was the name of the character 
 played by Mr. Anderson; and this call told him that 
 in five minutes at latest he must be at his entrance 
 to take up his cue. 
 
 "Not at all too much time," hepolitely answered 
 his guest. "But I'm called. Is there something else 
 I could do for you ? " 
 
 His eyes added, "If you are hard up, I might be 
 equal to a few pounds"; and Newcome read the eyes, 
 and flushed. "Nothing else, thank you," he said 
 hastily. "Good-night." 
 
 "If you'll leave your address with me, something 
 might turn up," the actor went on, not forgetful of 
 Lionel Macaire's instructions. But he had spoken 
 too late. Already the young man sent him by "F. 
 E. Z." was gone.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SOMETHING DAZZLING 
 
 WINIFRED was rather awe-struck by the man- 
 agerial command to proceed to the boudoir. She 
 had been in Mr. Anderson's company since March, 
 when they had put on the new play, the run of which 
 would soon be over; and it was now close upon October. 
 She knew that she was popular in the company (al- 
 though she had made a phenomenal hit in the part 
 for which she had been specially engaged), and she 
 thought that Mr. Anderson liked her personally, but 
 she had never so much as been inside the boudoir. 
 She had passed by, and glanced in; but the boudoir 
 was usually sacred to the entertainment of Royal- 
 ties or other important personages who "came behind" 
 during a performance to see Mr. Anderson. Wini- 
 fred was afraid that she must inadvertently have 
 done something wrong, and that she was to be scolded 
 by the "governor," who could say very nasty things 
 when he chose (so she had heard) despite his delight- 
 ful voice and dreamy eyes. 
 
 She wore the same dress in the second act as in the 
 first, therefore when the curtain had gone down she 
 had nothing to do until her next entrance, which fact 
 no doubt Mr. Anderson had remembered in sending 
 for her at that time. Her heart was beating fast as 
 she knocked at the door of the boudoir. 
 
 23
 
 24 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Instantly it was opened by Mr. Lionel Macaire, 
 and though Winifred glanced quickly about the rose, 
 white, and gold interior she did not see anyone else. 
 
 "How are you this evening, Miss Gray?" said 
 the millionaire. "I've just this minute come round 
 from the front. I sat in the Royal box watching your 
 big scene. It never went better which is saying a 
 great deal. Why do you stand outside the door ? 
 Aren't you coming in ?" 
 
 "Mr. Anderson sent for me," explained Winifred, 
 still lingering on the threshold. "I thought he would 
 be here but perhaps he's been detained, or has 
 forgotten." 
 
 "He hasn't forgotten, I know, for I heard him 
 mention the appointment," answered Macaire. "But 
 the fact is, he asked me to speak to you. I hope you 
 don't mind ?" 
 
 "Oh no; of course not," said the girl, in a puz- 
 zled way. She walked slowly into the pretty room, 
 her quaint brocade rustling. She knew that Mr. 
 Macaire had been coming to the theater a good deal 
 lately, and for the last few weeks he had often stood 
 chatting with her outside an entrance where she was 
 obliged to wait for nearly ten minutes in the third 
 act a privilege which the stage manager would not 
 have granted to anyone save an intimate friend of 
 Mr. Anderson. "He has seen some fault in my act- 
 ing," she said to herself, "and has been speaking to 
 Mr. Anderson about it." 
 
 "You've plenty of time for a little talk now, haven't 
 you?" asked the millionaire, bringing forward the 
 most important-looking chair for the girl. 
 
 "I've five-and-twenty minutes before my next
 
 SOMETHING DAZZLING 25 
 
 entrance in the second act," she replied before she 
 stopped to think, and then was sorry that she had 
 spoken. Mr. Macaire might fancy that she wanted 
 to spend the whole five-and-twenty minutes in talking 
 to him, which she did not at all. She had noticed 
 that the leading lady and two or three others rather 
 toadied to the rich, hideous man, but that made her 
 all the more anxious not to do so. There was no 
 real reason for disliking him, as he had invariably 
 almost gone out of his way to be nice to her since she 
 had first met him at the theater; yet his reputation 
 was against him, and he was so ugly that she could 
 not bear to look at him, and was uneasy in his pres- 
 ence. She was even a little afraid of him, though she 
 did not know why. 
 
 As she replied to him, Macaire touched the bell 
 and spoke for a moment to the person who answered. 
 
 "You seem to think twenty-five minutes a long 
 time," he went on, turning again to her. "But it 
 won't be half long enough for me I have so many 
 things to say to you. Have you heard any gossip, 
 Miss Gray, about my connection with this theater ? " 
 
 "No," returned Winifred, showing her surprise. 
 " I didn't know you were connected with it. I thought 
 you were just a friend of Mr. Anderson's." 
 
 "You thought I came here three or four times a 
 week merely for the pleasure of seeing him ? " 
 
 Winifred smiled and when she smiled, showing 
 a deep dimple in either cheek, she was divinely sweet. 
 "I hadn't thought much about it," she said. "It 
 wasn't my business, you know." 
 
 "You mean you didn't know it was your business. 
 But "
 
 26 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Some one knocked at the door, and Macaire, who 
 had continued to stand near by, opened it. A man 
 appeared carrying a silver tray with a bottle of cham- 
 pagne and two glasses. There was also a tiny silver 
 and porcelain chocolate pot and a little Sevres cup. 
 
 The tray, at a gesture from Macaire, was placed 
 on a small table, and as soon as the door had softly 
 closed after the servant, the millionaire sat down on 
 a sofa close to which he had placed the chair now 
 tenanted by Winifred. 
 
 "Some new arrangements are under negotiation 
 for this theater," he said, "and they intimately con- 
 cern you. But don't look so startled. It is nothing 
 to be frightened about on the contrary, indeed. I 
 sent for some champagne in the hope you'd join me 
 in drinking to their success." 
 
 "I seldom drink champagne, thank you," said 
 Winifred, with a slight stiffness of manner. She 
 liked the man less than ever to-night, and wished 
 that if he had any criticism to make, he would make 
 and have done with it. Anyway, she would certainly 
 not drink champagne with him, alone here in the 
 boudoir. 
 
 "Won't you make an exception this once, and 
 please me ? Mr. Anderson always offers his friends 
 something when they visit him in this room," pleaded 
 the millionaire. 
 
 "But I'm here on business." And Winifred's smile 
 salved the abruptness of her speech. 
 
 "This chocolate, then. I asked for it in case you 
 didn't like champagne. It's cold this evening. I 
 shall think it unfriendly of you if you won't; and it 
 would be a grief to me if you were unfriendly. I
 
 SOMETHING DAZZLING 27 
 
 know what a Caliban I am, Miss Gray; and I'm very 
 sensitive where women I admire are concerned." 
 
 He poured out the chocolate, and, because she was 
 sorry for the hideous man, although he had millions, 
 Winifred took the little cup from him. As she did 
 so, his fingers touched hers. Something made her 
 look up at the same instant. She met his eyes, and 
 shivered faintly. 
 
 For a moment he did not speak. Then he went 
 on quietly: "I am going to talk to you in confidence. 
 I know, and Mr. Anderson knows, that you are to 
 be trusted. Mr. Anderson has had some bad luck." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Winifred, "I'm sorry! I thought 
 this piece had done so well." 
 
 "So it has, or it wouldn't have run all through 
 the hot summer, with only the short holiday you all 
 had in August. The bad luck was before the present 
 play, and the receipts from it have only been enough 
 to pay old debts. A dead secret is that the man who 
 has acted as business-manager for the last year was 
 put in by Mr. Anderson's creditors to look after their 
 interests. A superior 'man in possession,' so to speak. 
 Of course a very embarrassing position for Mr. Ander- 
 son, who has got precious little for himself out of his 
 present success." 
 
 "I'm so sorry," said Winifred again, wondering 
 very much why she a comparatively insignificant 
 member of the company should be told these things, 
 unless Mr. Macaire had for some queer reason been 
 deputed to suggest that everybody should take half 
 salaries. 
 
 "It is in your power to help Mr. Anderson place 
 things on a far better footing," went on the millionaire.
 
 28 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "Fd be glad to do anything," stammered the girl. 
 
 "Would you really?" The hideous face drew 
 nearer; the marred eyes looked closely into hers. 
 Involuntarily she shrank back. 
 
 "Mrs. Peter Carlton and Mr. Anderson have not 
 been getting on very well together of late," he an- 
 nounced. "I don't care for her acting, and she's 
 getting too passee to be much of a 'draw/ I have 
 told my friend Anderson that, if he had a different 
 leading lady, I would act as his backer. He might 
 call on me for anything he liked, up to half a million. 
 Naturally, Anderson is much taken with the idea. 
 It would be a new lease of life for him. He could 
 do things very differently in the theater. His pro- 
 ductions would be on a finer scale; the salaries paid 
 would be better. I asked his permission to speak to 
 you on the subject." 
 
 "To me?" Winifred hardly dared to think that 
 she understood. The blood surged to her forehead; 
 but her make-up hid the sudden change of color, and 
 she was thankful that it did. 
 
 "You would be my choice as leading lady; and 
 Mr. Anderson agrees with me in thinking that it is 
 good." 
 
 His face was very close to her shoulder, as he bent 
 forward from his sofa, and Winifred sprang up. 
 "Oh, Mr. Macaire," she exclaimed. "I can't think 
 that you mean it." 
 
 "I never meant anything more in my life except 
 once, perhaps." (His face changed and darkened 
 with some memory, which seemed to pass across his 
 light eyes like a storm-cloud.) "No on second 
 thoughts, not more, even then. You have begun to
 
 SOMETHING DAZZLING 29 
 
 rehearse Celia, in As You Like It, I believe, Miss 
 Gray. How would you like to play Rosalind instead ? 
 You would be an ideal Rosalind, to my thinking." 
 
 The girl's brain was in a whirl. She had been 
 Rosalind in the country touring company from which 
 Mr. Anderson had transplanted her. To play the 
 part here in London would be too glorious to be 
 true. She was very young only just twenty; and 
 for a moment she could hardly breathe, confronted 
 with such a magnificent thought. Then, behind that 
 thought, a dark Shadow seemed to steal, and hover.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 
 
 "MRS. CARLTON surely won't leave Mr. Anderson 
 so soon so suddenly," Winifred said. 
 
 "She is leaving at once. You may take it from 
 me, Miss Gray," answered Macaire, "that the place 
 of leading lady will be vacant for you to fill." 
 
 The girl felt curiously giddy. "And and if I 
 should have to refuse ?" she faltered. 
 
 "I'm afraid, in that case, there'd be trouble for 
 everyone. Mr. Anderson is in a peculiar position. 
 He has been careless. He must have money at once. 
 Some enemies of his have been at work. Certain 
 firms have hesitated to trust him. The new produc- 
 tion is imperiled. If I should not see my way to 
 backing him, Mr. Anderson would be at his wits' end." 
 
 "But you have promised him, haven't you ?" 
 
 "Only conditionally." 
 
 "You mean but no, you can't mean that - 
 
 "I do mean that, and nothing else. With you 
 for his leading lady, matters are to go smoothly with 
 my friend George Anderson." 
 
 Lionel Macaire had not risen when Winifred rose. 
 He had sat still, watching her. But now he got up, 
 with his peculiar limp, like the sideways gait of a 
 crab, and stood in front of the girl. She was obliged 
 to look him in the face, unless she turned abruptly 
 
 30
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 31 
 
 from him, and in her confusion she stammered out 
 the first words that came into her mind. 
 
 " It's the strangest thing I ever heard ! Why 
 should you do all that for me ? You scarcely know 
 me. We are not friends. It's you and Mr. Anderson 
 who- 
 
 "But I wish that we should be friends. Don't 
 you really understand ? Winnie, don't you see that 
 I'm in love with you ?" 
 
 As he spoke, he caught her hands, but she snatched 
 them away, panting, her eyes dilated. It made her 
 sick to hear him call her "Winnie." She was that 
 to no one save her mother and brother. 
 
 "You must be making fun of me!" she cried. 
 " You are almost old, and you are very rich horri- 
 bly rich while I am only a young girl, and nobody 
 at all. I I thought you were married. Anyway, 
 you can't really want to marry me. I - 
 
 "My darling child, I can give you anything on 
 earth," pleaded the millionaire. "But I can't marry 
 you. You can have a theater of your own, if you like, 
 when you're tired of being leading lady here " 
 
 "Stop!" cut in Winifred, in a low, changed voice. 
 "I do understand you now at last. I was very 
 stupid at first. Mr. Macaire, we needn't talk about 
 this any more. I've quite decided." 
 
 "You're going to let me lay the world at your 
 feet?" 
 
 "I'm going to do nothing of the kind!" the girl 
 broke out irritably, almost childishly, for she was 
 keeping back hysterical tears. "Oh, it doesn't seem 
 a bit real, but it's horrid, perfectly horrid, that such 
 a thing should happen to me. I must go now and
 
 32 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 please, Mr. Macaire, never speak to me again 
 about anything." 
 
 He caught her dress and held it tightly. "You 
 shan't go!" he ejaculated. "As you said, I am old 
 and I'm the ugliest man on earth I know that. 
 But I can give you things that queens might wish for 
 in vain. And I can love more than other men. I've 
 made love to many women, but I've only loved one 
 woman in my life before I saw you. You've got hair 
 and eyes like hers. That's why I thought of you at 
 first. Now I love you for yourself. I love you with 
 all the love I gave her, and as much again besides. 
 I will have you." 
 
 "No, you won't, Mr. Macaire." The girl's voice 
 trembled between anger and tears. "Let my dress 
 go. You will tear it to pieces." 
 
 "I will do more. I'll tear you to pieces if you try to 
 resist me," said Macaire. " I have done that with every- 
 one who went against me, all my life. I never failed." 
 
 "I I'm not afraid of you!" (She was beginning 
 to be horribly afraid of him. But she would have 
 died in this moment rather than let him see that.) 
 "It's cowardly of you to threaten me." 
 
 "I don't threaten, I warn. You are ambitious. I 
 can more than satisfy your highest ambitions on the 
 stage and in society, too, if you have them. If you 
 mean to be foolish, my little Winifred, you will never 
 get on you will never get on." 
 
 "Some ways of getting on cost too much," said 
 
 Winifred, "and this is one of them. If you don't let 
 
 me go on, I shall cry out for help. You don't think 
 
 I'd dare to but I will I will ! Oh, I loathe you 
 
 -you are horrible!"
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 33 
 
 "Go, then!" he released his hold upon her dress 
 so suddenly that, straining to be free, she staggered 
 forward, only saving herself from falling by catching 
 at the handle of the door. "Go, then; but I tell you 
 this, you'll come back to me on your knees." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "We shall see!" 
 
 Blindly she was fumbling with the door-knob. He 
 caught away her hand, and held the door open for 
 her to pass out, bowing and smiling a hateful smile. 
 
 "You loathe me. I am horrible. I shall not for- 
 get that. But we shall see." 
 
 Winifred was only just in time to take up her cue. 
 Her head was throbbing, her heart beating so thickly 
 that she could not think. She forgot the lines that 
 were so familiar to her, and twice (in stage parlance) 
 "dried up," having to be prompted in a whisper by 
 Mr. Anderson, with whom she was playing the scene. 
 
 If it had been with anyone else, she thought des- 
 perately that she might have done better; but it was 
 sickening to feel that he must have known, or at 
 least shrewdly guessed, what sort of things the mil- 
 lionaire meant to say, and that now, every moment, 
 he was watching her to seize anxiously upon the 
 secrets of her mind. Perhaps the matter was not 
 really of as great importance to him as Mr. Macaire 
 had said that it was; but certainly there was some 
 understanding between the two men in which she 
 was concerned. 
 
 Winifred hardly knew how she got through the
 
 34 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 rest of her part that night. She was conscious dur- 
 ing the last act that Macaire was sitting in the Royal 
 box again, his eyes fixed upon her. The giddiness 
 came over her once more, and it was only by a severe 
 effort that she continued the scene. 
 
 A good deal of fun generally went on behind the 
 scenes at the Duke of Clarence's, for the members 
 of the company were almost all ladies and gentlemen, 
 and they knew each other very well. Between acts 
 and between scenes much talking and laughing and 
 some flirting was the order of the day in the green- 
 room, but to-night Winifred Gray was missing. She 
 kept closely to her dressing-room, and her maid won- 
 dered what had happened to make her so silent. 
 
 "After all, I don't quite see what he can do," she 
 assured herself over and over again. "He can't 
 expect Mr. Anderson to discharge me just because 
 I refused to accept insults from him." 
 
 Still, she was vaguely afraid and depressed. Some- 
 thing indefinite, yet terrible, seemed to be hanging 
 over her so indefinite that she did not know in what 
 form to look for it, or in what direction to attempt 
 escape. 
 
 The play came to an end at eleven, and every night 
 at a quarter past the hour a four-wheeled cab, engaged 
 by the month, called for Miss Gray at the stage door. 
 She was generally ready by that time, but once in a 
 while the driver had to wait. 
 
 This evening as usual a little crowd began to gather 
 near the stage entrance five minutes after the curtain 
 went down a crowd of boys and young men who 
 thought lingering no waste of time if they could see 
 the actresses come out; for there were several at the
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 35 
 
 Duke of Clarence's who were "the fashion" for 
 reason of their good looks or some other attraction. 
 
 Most of the men were of the invertebrate type 
 known as "Johnnies," and therefore a tall, roughly 
 dressed young fellow with a wide-brimmed soft felt hat 
 was conspicuous among them. He was ashamed of 
 himself for being there, nevertheless he had not resisted 
 the temptation to try and see Winifred Gray once 
 again. 
 
 When he left Mr. Anderson, Newcome had walked 
 out of the theater with a nod and a "thank you!" 
 to Hansey at the stage door. For some time he had 
 wandered aimlessly through the streets, with a great 
 loneliness, among the crowds who cared nothing for 
 him; then, suddenly, he had turned and gone back to 
 the Duke of Clarence's. At the pit entrance he had 
 paid half-a-crown (an extravagance in his circum- 
 stances), luckily finding a seat, late as it was, and see- 
 ing the play through to the end. 
 
 When it was over he could hardly have told what 
 it was all about; but one thing he was sure of. Miss 
 Gray was the prettiest and the sweetest girl he had 
 ever seen in his life. He would have liked to do some 
 great service for her, not to win her notice, but because 
 of the warmth there would be in his heart only to feel 
 that he had done it. Something about her per- 
 haps the expression of her eyes, or the way that her 
 bright hair waved back from her forehead reminded 
 him of a woman who had once been supreme in beauty; 
 a dead woman whose words had sent him tramping, 
 almost penniless and through bitter hardships, hun- 
 dreds of miles on the way to England. 
 
 A girl and a man sitting directly in front of him
 
 3 6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 were talking of Winifred Gray, and Hope Newcome 
 listened with interest. If they had spoken evil of 
 her he would certainly have inflicted summary punish- 
 ment upon the man, but they had only good things 
 to say. The girl told the man what a surprising 
 "hit" Miss Gray had made last spring, and how she 
 had been "made" after her first night at the Duke 
 of Clarence's by the extravagant praise of one famous 
 dramatic critic. She had only been in London for a 
 few months, but already her photographs were in 
 greater demand than those of any other actress (Hope 
 resolved to get one), while there was a new style of 
 shoe and a new rose named after her. 
 
 Newcome went out with the crowd when it was 
 all over, but almost involuntarily he turned towards 
 the stage entrance for one more look at his divinity, 
 whom perhaps he should never have a chance to see 
 again. 
 
 The "Johnnies" stared superciliously at him, and 
 looked at each other with raised, questioning eye- 
 brows. Perhaps they would have laughed; but Hope 
 Newcome was not exactly the sort of man one laughed 
 at unless one were over six feet in height and broad 
 in proportion. Still, he was ashamed of himself for 
 forming one of such a group, and was half-inclined 
 to go away again without waiting for a glimpse of 
 Miss Gray, when a smart brougham drove up, and 
 close behind it a four-wheeled cab. 
 
 "That's Mrs. Peter Carlton's little turnout," one 
 youth said to another, nodding at the brougham; 
 and at the same moment a big man, who appeared 
 to be without companions, stepped to the curb-stone 
 and spoke in a low voice to the driver of the cab.
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 37 
 
 "That's our Winnie's chariot. Comes for her 
 every night. Not so grand as the other, eh ?" remarked 
 the youth. 
 
 "Give her time," said his friend; and they both 
 laughed. 
 
 Hope Newcome clenched his hands, and breathed 
 hard. He would have liked nothing better than to 
 teach the pair a lesson in discretion, but he realized 
 that for Miss Gray's sake he had better let them 
 alone. He looked with great interest at the plain 
 vehicle which had the honor of taking Winifred Gray 
 home, and he wondered what the well-dressed man 
 on the pavement was saying in such a low, earnest 
 tone to the cabman. He could not hear the words, 
 but, as he listened, he caught the driver's answer. 
 "That's all right, sir, but I couldn't do it. It's as 
 much as my place would be worth." 
 
 Newcome's ears seemed suddenly to be sharp- 
 ened. "Look here," the other urged, "there's no 
 reason - ' again his voice dropped so low that the 
 rest was lost. 
 
 For three or four minutes the conversation went 
 on, Newcome the only one in the crowd who con- 
 tinued to give it attention, for meanwhile Mrs. Peter 
 Carlton and her maid had come out from the stage 
 door, the actress in a magnificent evening wrap over 
 a ball-gown. She was evidently "going on" some- 
 where. Then appeared two or three pretty girls, whose 
 small parts and salaries to match did not prevent 
 their being beautifully dressed. 
 
 But Newcome did not even see them. The man 
 who had been talking with the cabdriver had now 
 climbed up on the seat beside him, where, having
 
 38 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 turned up the collar of his light overcoat and pulled 
 his round, black hat somewhat down over his eyes, 
 he sat silently with arms folded. 
 
 At any moment now Miss Gray was likely to come 
 out. The blood was beating in Hope Newcome's 
 temples. He had only landed in Liverpool a week 
 ago from the ship in which he had been a steerage 
 passenger. From Liverpool he had walked much 
 of the way to London, to economize the little money 
 he had left. 
 
 In that part of America whence he came men did 
 not take very long to make up their minds or to act 
 after they were made up, and Newcome had not 
 spent time enough in a slower country to change his 
 ways. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, because he hated mak- 
 ing himself more conspicuous than he was already, 
 and prudence whispered that he might be stumbling 
 into a mare's nest. But it was only for a moment. 
 Then he took one stride across the pavement and 
 addressed the driver of Miss Gray's cab. 
 
 "If I were you," said he, "I wouldn't have any- 
 one with me on that box-seat." 
 
 Cabby stared, flushed and frowned, each phase 
 of his emotion being visible in the light over the 
 -stage door. 
 
 "Of all the cheek I ever 'card," he observed in 
 return, "if that ain't about the wust! What business 
 is it o* yours, anyhow, Mr. Buffalo Bill?" 
 
 Hope Newcome's handsome face was red, and his 
 eyes flashed; but he was not going to spoil everything 
 by a vulgar brawl with a cabman. He had spoken 
 in a low voice, but cabby had purposely replied in a
 
 A FOUR-WHEELED CAB 39 
 
 loud, clear tone, so that everyone near turned to see 
 what might be going on. 
 
 "I overheard your conversation a few minutes 
 ago with the man you've got beside you,'* Newcome 
 answered as quietly as before. This was an exagger- 
 ation of the truth; but it had the effect he intended. 
 The driver wriggled on his seat and flashed a look 
 at his companion as if demanding to be got out of 
 the difficulty. 
 
 "I'm a friend of his," said the other quickly. "If 
 you heard anything, you must have heard that. I'd 
 like to know what affair it is of yours, though ?" 
 
 "Well, I just thought I'd mention it, that's all," 
 drawled Newcome, speaking for the first time with a 
 pronounced Yankee accent. "And see here, I haven't 
 got much time to spare for you. How long are you 
 going to take about getting down ? " 
 
 "Do you want me to call the police, and recom- 
 mend them to pack you off to Bedlam?" demanded 
 the man by the driver. 
 
 "You can do as you like about that," said New- 
 come, through his nose, "after you've come down 
 off your perch." 
 
 Mrs. Peter Carlton had driven away, and the 
 pretty girls had gone, and the crowd that was left 
 threw itself heart and soul into the scene. Nobody 
 had interfered as yet; for it appeared to all that under 
 the badinage there was more than met the eye or ear. 
 
 "Come now, you clear out of this," advised the 
 driver's companion, "or you'll get something you 
 won't like." 
 
 "I'll go when you've got down." 
 
 The man, who had kept his temper, and kept his
 
 40 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 voice under control as well, grew suddenly reckless. 
 It was twenty minutes past eleven, and he was anxious 
 to be rid of this persistent Paul Pry, whose inter- 
 ference was likely to prove inconvenient. He had 
 been employed to do a certain thing, and though 
 his bargain with cabby was far from complete, he had 
 found the man amenable to reason, and was morally 
 sure he would be open to further, more dazzling offers. 
 Already he had paid five pounds down for the mere 
 privilege of sitting on the box-seat of Miss Gray's 
 cab, the driver so far suspecting nothing more ser- 
 ious than lovesick romance; and there were other 
 instructions which must be carried out. 
 
 He leaned across the cabman and snatched the 
 whip from its socket. "Now!" he exclaimed. "Will 
 you stop this drunken game?" He glared down at 
 the young man on the pavement, chuckling over the 
 secret of his own great strength the strength by 
 which he partly got his living. 
 
 Hope Newcome gave him back stare for stare. 
 With a quick movement he caught the threatening 
 whip in the middle a few inches higher up than the 
 spot where the other grasped it. The man on the 
 box gave a wrench. Newcome twisted the other 
 way, and the whip broke off short with a snap. 
 
 It was at this instant that Winifred Gray appeared 
 in the doorway.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE GRANTING OF A WISH 
 
 THE snap of the breaking whip was sharp in the 
 girl's ears. She did not know what to make of the 
 thing that she saw, though it was clear that some- 
 thing extraordinary was happening something in 
 which her own cab and cabman were intimately con- 
 cerned. 
 
 What she saw was a strange, silent struggle between 
 a man on the box-seat beside the driver and a man 
 below, who had pressed himself close to the wheel. 
 That man she had seen before. It was the "bronze 
 statue" she had wondered about, and pitied and 
 admired all in a breath as she went into the theater 
 a few hours or was it years ? ago. 
 
 She saw the man on the seat raise the broken stock 
 of the whip as if to strike. She saw the other seize 
 his arm, and she saw the struggle that followed; the 
 big fellow on the box, whose right arm was held fast, 
 getting in one fierce, sudden blow with his clenched 
 left fist, but no more. The man on the pavement 
 dodged his head like a practiced boxer, and the vicious 
 blow glanced along his forehead. Winifred's lips had 
 parted to cry out "What has happened?" yet the 
 words were not uttered. Nobody spoke; but the crowd 
 of idlers and loafers surged forward toward the com- 
 batants, 
 
 41
 
 42 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 The driver would have started his horse and got 
 away if he could; but in a fraction of a second the 
 tall, lithe fellow on the pavement realized his inten- 
 tion, snatched the reins and twisted them round his 
 own wrist. Next instant the big man on the box gave 
 a yelp of agony. The hand that clutched the whip- 
 stock dropped limply; the left was thrown out blindly 
 again in a mechanical attempt at retaliation that 
 missed its mark, and seeing his opportunity the " bronze 
 statue's" tactics changed. In a flash the hand that 
 had grasped the other's limp right arm sprang to his 
 neck, and twisting in his coat-collar, wrenched the stout 
 figure from its high seat, bringing it in a heap to the 
 ground. Then it was jerked up again, tottering and 
 staggering, pale lips cursing. 
 
 "You shall pay for this I'll have you up for 
 assault!" the man sputtered, his face yellow- white. 
 "D n you, you've broken my arm." 
 
 "Have me up by all means," returned Newcome 
 politely, though his breath was coming and going 
 quickly; "if you don't mind the circumstances get- 
 ting out, I'm sure I don't. I've nothing to conceal." 
 
 "What's up here?" demanded George Ander- 
 son's voice; and, turning with a start, Winifred saw 
 not only the manager but his friend Lionel Macaire. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Mr. Newcome!" the actor went on. 
 "Have you been getting into a row?" 
 
 Hope Newcome faced him frankly. If he had 
 glanced at the millionaire instead, he would have 
 seen a thing Winifred saw or thought that she saw 
 with surprise and bewilderment. 
 
 Lionel Macaire's eyes were not even for her. They 
 had darted straight as a hawk darts upon its prey,
 
 THE GRANTING OF A WISH 43 
 
 to the face of the man whom Newcome had so for- 
 cibly unseated. The look was brief as a lightning 
 flash, but full of concentrated passion. 
 
 Then the eyes traveled to the man with the wide- 
 brimmed hat, rested upon him for an instant with an 
 extraordinary, an .unreadable expression. And both 
 looks passed so quickly that a second later Winifred 
 was hardly sure she had not magnified or altogether 
 imagined their meaning. 
 
 "I think, Mr. Anderson, it won't amount to a 
 'row/" Hope Newcome answered, wiping a trickle 
 of blood from his forehead, where a sledge-hammer 
 fist had struck, aiming for his temple. "I merely 
 objected, on principle, to persons getting a drive on 
 other people's cabs, that's all." 
 
 "The gent was a friend of mine," grumbled the 
 frightened cabman, flinging his crumb of explanation 
 to Winifred Gray, who was his employer. "I guv 
 'im permission to get up beside me, not thinkin' the 
 lydy would object, when blow me if this 'ere bloke 
 didn't come interferin'." 
 
 "The 'gent,' as you call him, paid for your friend- 
 ship. I saw that for it was clumsily done," said 
 Newcome. "And if I might presume to advise the 
 lady who has hired you, I would suggest that she 
 asks for another driver to-morrow night." 
 
 Once the man who stood nursing his broken arm 
 looked at Mr. Macaire. In his bloodshot eyes there 
 was a question or an appeal, but it was unanswered. 
 The millionaire stared through the great lumbering 
 form as if it had been of thinnest air, his discolored 
 face expressionless now as a mask. 
 
 With the mien of one shamed and defeated yet
 
 44 
 
 defiant still, the big fellow went lumbering off, mut- 
 tering to himself as he walked. And with him the 
 crowd of onlookers began melting away. The fun 
 was over for them, though it had been prime while it 
 lasted. They had seen what they came for, and a good 
 deal more besides. Of the principal actors in the 
 scene, only Winifred looked after the departing one, 
 noting with a glance of shuddering fascination the 
 bull-neck and the formidable though slouching shoul- 
 ders. Then her eyes came back to the " bronze statue/' 
 
 "Thank you for your advice," she said quite sim- 
 ply. "I shall take it. And thank you for what you 
 have done though I scarcely understand even now 
 what it was/' 
 
 "There is nothing to thank me for," answered 
 Hope Newcome. " But may I call you another 
 cab?" 
 
 "It is not necessary to trouble you further," said 
 Mr. Macaire, speaking for the first time since his 
 appearance. "Mr. Anderson and I will see that 
 Miss Gray is taken care of." 
 
 To save her life Winifred could not help looking 
 straight into Hope Newcome's eyes. Perhaps she 
 was not wholly responsible for the message they 
 conveyed, but to him they seemed to say: "I don't 
 want them to do anything for me. I want you to 
 do it." 
 
 Accepting the message, his hat in his hand, the 
 young pauper replied to the millionaire like an equal. 
 "I assure you it is no trouble, but a pleasure. If 
 the lady will allow me, I should like to get her a cab." 
 Near by a footman was touching his tall hat. Mr. 
 Macaire's carriage had arrived.
 
 THE GRANTING OF A WISH 45 
 
 "Come along, Anderson," he said, shrugging his 
 shoulders. Both men bowed low to Winifred; Ander- 
 son nodded to Newcome, Macaire gave him another 
 curiously contemplative look, and then the two were 
 shut up by the footman in the millionaire's carriage. 
 
 "Ain't you goin' to have me, miss?" whined the 
 driver. "None of this business ain't my fault." 
 
 "You can send in your bill to-morrow morning, 
 and I'll pay you what is due," said Winifred. "But 
 - 1 shan't want you again. I'm afraid I can't trust 
 you after this." 
 
 Mumbling, he drove away, the five pounds he had 
 earned so easily partly consoling him for the business 
 he had lost. 
 
 Not far away was the corner of the street, crossed 
 by a wider thoroughfare; and there cabs plied for 
 hire. As the vehicle just discharged vanished in one 
 direction a wave of Hope Newcome' s hand he 
 standing in the middle of the street brought a han- 
 som round the corner and up to the stage door. 
 
 "Do you mind it's not being a four-wheeled one?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No," replied Winifred, "I like it better for 
 to-night; it's quicker. But won't you tell me, now 
 the other cabman's gone, exactly what he did that 
 was wrong, and how you happened to notice it 
 at all?" 
 
 "I overheard that big fellow trying to bribe him, 
 and though I couldn't catch much that they said it 
 was easy after the first to put two and two together," 
 answered Newcome. "For some reason, the man 
 wanted to drive on your cab, and well, I thought 
 you wouldn't wish him to if you understood. So I
 
 46 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 suggested that he should get off, and when he wouldn't 
 I took him off, that's all." 
 
 "I should think you did!" Winifred's mood was 
 far enough from merriment, but she broke into a 
 little laugh over his quiet way of explaining the thing 
 that he had done also at the expression of mingled 
 bewilderment and alarm on the withered-apple face 
 of her maid. 
 
 She let Newcome help her into the hansom, but it 
 was the maid who told the new cabman where to 
 drive. Then, with a smile and a last murmur of 
 thanks, she was gone out of his sight. 
 
 "I'd give a good deal to know what that brute's 
 real game was," the young man said to himself, as 
 wistfully he watched the hansom drive round the 
 corner and disappear. "Did he only want to find 
 out where she lived, or was there something more ? 
 Was he doing it on 'his own/ or was there some one 
 else behind him ? Well, anyhow, whatever it was, 
 it didn't come off. And he'll give a job to a surgeon 
 before he gets into any more mischief. I was in 
 luck to have done it, out of training as I am; but I 
 felt the small bone of his arm snap and serve him 
 right." 
 
 Hope Newcome walked away, turning his face 
 southward, for his lodgings were beyond the bounds 
 of polite civilization, on the wrong side of the river. 
 As he crossed Waterloo Bridge, the moon honey- 
 yellow in a hyacinth sky hung over the water, its 
 broken reflection like a fallen cup of gold that drifted 
 down the river with the tide. The young man stood 
 still, and looked back with a strange, new ache in his 
 heart, at the London that he had left, its buildings
 
 47 
 
 stately, almost repellently splendid, silhouetted against 
 the sky in the moon-paled darkness. He was thrust 
 out of that splendor, not wanted. He was poor, and 
 alone, and the mission on which he had come seemed 
 as far from him in its accomplishment as the moon 
 was from the black water. Yet the water was swift, 
 and it caught and held the moon's image. 
 
 He was young, and poverty even the knowledge 
 of hunger unsatisfied had not silenced the high 
 song of his blood, or chilled its warmth. He did not 
 despair. And though he had met disappointment to- 
 night, in seeking the first round of the ladder, still, he 
 had seen a face fair enough to brighten darkness, and he 
 had had his wish. He had asked of Fate that he might 
 serve Winifred Gray; and he had served her. Though 
 they never met again, she would not quite forget. 
 
 The thought of home was like a balm on a wound 
 to Winifred that night. She and her mother had 
 taken a small flat near Bryanston square, and when 
 the hansom stopped before the door of Bryancourt 
 mansions, the girl looked up to the lighted windows 
 as she might have looked for a star. 
 
 Her mother knew the time when she was to be 
 expected back from the theater to the moment, and 
 never missed hearing the roll of the cab-wheels, the 
 clatter of the horse's feet in stopping at the pavement. 
 By the time that Winifred was half-way up the third 
 and last flight of stairs, the door of the flat was open, 
 and the little mother smiling in the light that streamed 
 out to gladden "Winnie's" eyes.
 
 48 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 To-night it seemed a bad omen to the girl that 
 the drawing-room windows with their red silk shades 
 should glow but faintly, and the door be shut. The 
 maid had the latch-key in the tiny black bag which 
 contained her mistress's few bits of jewelry, and used 
 it for almost the first time since the flat had been 
 home to the young actress.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN TWOS AND THREES 
 
 WINIFRED ran quickly in, leaving her maid to fasten 
 the door of the flat, and it was a great relief to see 
 her mother's small thin figure appear at the drawing- 
 room door. 
 
 "Winnie, darling, I didn't know you'd come. I'm 
 so sorry," cried the voice that had always been to 
 Winifred the sweetest in the world. "I heard a cab, 
 but it was like a jingling hansom. I was sure it 
 wasn't yours." 
 
 This explanation was enough; but the girl's sensi- 
 tive ears detected something unusual in the tone 
 a kind of deadness, as if the joy-notes had been struck 
 out of it. 
 
 "I came in a hansom to-night." If Winifred's 
 heart had not been heavy she would have added a 
 curiosity-piquing word about her adventure, but (except 
 for her knight-errant, whose dark face she had not 
 been able to put out of her mind on the way home) 
 the affair appeared pitifully trivial beside the other 
 overwhelming occurrence of the evening. Of this 
 she had meant to speak, telling her mother all that 
 Macaire had said and all that she had said in answer; 
 but the change in the dear voice frightened her. First, 
 before talking of herself, she must know what had been 
 happening at home. 
 
 49
 
 50 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 She put her arm round the little woman's frail 
 shoulders and drew her into the drawing-room. "Are 
 you feeling worse, dearest ? " she asked tenderly, 
 her eyes on the face, which was so pure and trans- 
 parent a pallor that it often reminded the girl of alabas- 
 ter through which light shone clearly. 
 
 "Not quite so well as sometimes, perhaps, but 
 nothing for you to worry about," the answer came 
 soothingly. "What do you think is in that chafing- 
 dish for you to-night, pet ? Only guess ! " 
 
 Winifred's eyes turned to the wide doorway which 
 opened between the small drawing-room and still 
 smaller dining-room. There, on the table, stood the 
 smart silver chafing-dish in which some dainty was 
 always prepared by her mother's own hands for her 
 home-coming. The one servant was sent to bed 
 early, and it was Mrs. Gray's pride and pleasure to 
 devise something which might tempt the appetite of 
 the tired little actress after the theater. 
 
 The lace-edged tray-cloth, spread with a few pretty 
 plates and bits of glass and silver, looked oddly pathetic 
 to Winifred to-night, and a sensation of choking 
 contracted her throat. 
 
 "I can't guess, and I can't eat, motherkin," she 
 said, "until you tell me what is wrong. There's 
 something, I know." 
 
 "I couldn't you wait for all that until you've 
 had your supper, dear?" pleaded Mrs. Gray. "I've 
 taken such pains with it. It's sweetbreads, done in a 
 new way. And there's a steaming hot cup of choco- 
 late for the night seemed so chilly." 
 
 Winifred shivered slightly, but not with cold. 
 Lionel Macaire had made her drink chocolate. She
 
 IN TWOS AND THREES 51 
 
 thought that she could never bear to touch it again, 
 but still less could she grieve her mother. So she 
 took off her hat and gloves and sat down at the table, 
 trying to smile, praising the sweetbreads, and reluct- 
 antly sipping the chocolate, while the weight of pre- 
 sentiment was coldly-heavy on her breast. The worst 
 of this night was not over yet, something seemed to 
 whisper in her ear. She must at least make a pretence 
 of eating now, if she would show appreciation of the 
 little mother's thought for her. By-and-bye even that 
 pretence would be impossible. 
 
 The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow, 
 and a mist of tears dimmed her eyes, but she would 
 not let them fall. She and her best loved one had 
 been so happy, so merry, in this little place. Why 
 need she feel that it was all going to end to-night ? 
 It was stupid to feel that yet the impression would 
 not pass. 
 
 When she could make an end of the feast without 
 seeming ungrateful she sprang up and pushed away 
 her chair. Mrs. Gray had sat watching the girl with 
 great love and a tireless, yearning admiration in her 
 eyes as her frail body leaned against the cushions in 
 a grandfather chair by the fireplace. Though October 
 had not come yet, there was a glow of dying fire in the 
 grate just enough to give an excuse for drawing 
 near it, and Winifred knelt down on the rug, with 
 her arms across her mother's knees. 
 
 "Now, what is it, dear?" she asked, bravely. 
 
 " I wish I needn't tell you," the elder woman answered, 
 a quiver in her voice. 
 
 "You and I have always borne everything together, 
 haven't we ? And so we always will."
 
 52 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "Oh, darling, there* ve been troubles enough in 
 your young life. I did hope they were over. But 
 God knows best." 
 
 " Aren't you going to tell me ? " 
 
 "Since I must yes. It couldn't be kept from 
 you. Strange, isn't it, love, how troubles come so 
 often in twos and threes, not singly?" 
 
 Winifred looked up into her mother's eyes. On 
 the surface of her thoughts swam the consciousness 
 of what had happened at the theater, and the vague 
 fear of what it might mean in the future. This was 
 to be a night to remember. She longed, yet dreaded 
 to have the knowledge that lay behind those loving 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 
 
 " IRISH LIFE* has stopped," said Mrs. Gray, "and 
 all the money you put into it for poor Dick is lost. 
 Nearly two hundred pounds, dear." 
 
 "Dick" was Winifred's only brother, a year older 
 than she; and Irish Life was a paper started in Dublin 
 early in the summer, of which Dick Gray had been made 
 sub-editor because of the money his sister had optimis- 
 tically lent him for the purchase of certain shares. 
 It had been put in by degrees, as it could be spared 
 from her salary of twelve pounds a week which had 
 begun about the first of March, and the full amount 
 required had been sent off only a month ago. Mean- 
 while, for Dick's sake, the girl and her mother had been 
 living with the utmost economy, and making sacrifices 
 with unflagging cheerfulness, for the prospects of the 
 new paper had been represented as marvelously bright, 
 and it had certainly seemed a wonderful chance for 
 Dick, whose gifts, if any, were for a journalistic career. 
 
 Now the money was gone, and poor Dick would 
 be "out of a berth," as he had dolefully reminded 
 his mother in the letter which told the bad news. 
 There had been trickery somewhere, for if the paper 
 was in danger of dissolution the last payments ought 
 not to have been accepted; but the excuses were very 
 plausible, and Dick did not think that he should be 
 able to get a penny back again. 
 
 53
 
 54 THE SILEXT BATTLE 
 
 On any other night this blow would have fallen 
 with comparative lightness upon Winifred, who had 
 all the buoyant hopefulness of her twenty years; but 
 bravely as she had flung back Lionel Macaire's insults, 
 his threats had frightened her. His money and his 
 well-known interest in theatrical affairs gave him 
 infinite power in die world in which she moved, and 
 though she did not exactly see how he could use it 
 to hurt her, at all events in the present, there might 
 be ways; and the solid foundation which a good 
 engagement gave her seemed trembling under her 
 feet as she reassured her mother. "What's two hun- 
 dred pounds, after all ?" she laughed brightly. " With 
 twelve pounds coming in every week, money soon 
 counts up; and I'm getting to know a lot of newspaper 
 men now, who are very kind to me; and perhaps 
 through them something will be found for Dick in 
 London, which would be better than Ireland. And 
 even though this money's gone, it's not all wasted, 
 for Dick's bought his experience. Oh, while there's 
 nothing worse than this, dear, you mustn't look so 
 pale and heart-broken!" 
 
 "There is something else, Winnie," faltered Mrs. 
 Gray. " Not worse oh, not worse ! Still, I'm a f r a i d 
 it will grieve you to hear it." 
 
 For a moment Winifred had forgotten her mother's 
 hint that "trouble came in twos and threes." Her 
 heart grew cold again. 
 
 "It's only about me," went on the elder woman, 
 almost apologetically. "You know you made me 
 promise that Fd see a doctor about myself, and I said 
 that I would when I could screw up my courage. I 
 wrote to Sir Digby Field asking for an appointment,
 
 A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 55 
 
 and it came for to-day at three o'clock. I was glad 
 that it was Wednesday, and matinee day, for then 
 you need not know anything about it till it was over. 
 You were not coming home to dinner, and I hoped 
 that when I saw you at night after the theater I should 
 have something reassuring to tell you. But, darling 
 I haven't. It's the other way." 
 
 "Mother!" cried Winifred, her face stricken 
 white, her voice sharp with fear. She wound her 
 arms tightly round the slender waist, holding the frail 
 little figure as if with her own young body she would 
 defend it against all harm. 
 
 " Don't look like that, darling!" her mother implored. 
 "Sir Digby didn't say I must die. He only told 
 me that I was in danger, and that, if my life were to 
 be saved, I must undergo a serious operation. Not 
 at once, but I should not wait longer than two or 
 three months. After that, it might be too late." 
 
 "Would it be a dangerous operation?" the girl 
 asked breathlessly. 
 
 "A little. It must always be so with such things, 
 I fancy. But it is the expense I am thinking of, 
 Winnie. I didn't know, when I saw Sir Digby, about 
 Irish Life and poor Dick. But when I came home, 
 feeling somewhat upset, there was the letter waiting 
 for me. It seemed almost too much." 
 
 Winifred pressed her lips tightly together over 
 her own secret, as if to hide it under lock and key, lest 
 it should betray itself. She had quite resolved now 
 that she would say nothing to make her mother's 
 burden heavier, unless circumstances forced her later 
 on to speak. 
 
 "Don't worry about the money, motherkin. Jt
 
 56 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 will be all right you'll see," she said. "And when 
 you're well again as you will be soon how happy 
 we shall feel." 
 
 "I asked Sir Digby how much it would cost," 
 sighed the little woman, "and he said it wouldn't be 
 safe to calculate upon less than two hundred pounds. 
 For I shall have to be a long time at a nursing home. 
 I don't see how we can manage it." 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Winifred. "Nothing easier. 
 Money isn't what it used to be to us when I, poor 
 little wretch, thought I was lucky to get three pounds 
 a week on tour." 
 
 "And you lived on one, and sent two to Dick and me !" 
 
 "I never wanted more, dear. You've no idea how 
 passing rich a girl can be on twenty shillings a week 
 touring in the country, if she chums with another 
 girl, as I did. Oh, there was plenty of fun in those 
 days. I like to look back on them!" 
 
 As she looked back now, they seemed delightfully 
 free from care. There had been no horrible million- 
 aires then, offering her champagne and many other 
 things which she could not take. 
 
 Somehow she comforted her mother, undressing 
 her and putting her to bed as if she had been a child 
 for Jameson was never permitted to sit up for any 
 ministrations after the theater. Mother and daughter 
 preferred then to help each other, and have their 
 two small connecting bedrooms to themselves. 
 
 But Winifred herself did not sleep. All the pent-up 
 grief which she had not allowed to be seen, at thought 
 of the suffering and danger from which, at best, she 
 could not save her adored mother, broke over her in 
 a wave. She buried her burning face in the pillow,
 
 57 
 
 quivering as if under the strokes of a lash, though no 
 tears came. Whatever happened, she must have 
 money. There must be something for poor Dick, 
 who seemed always so unlucky, even when hopes 
 had been highest; and above all, the little mother 
 must be cared for as if she were a queen. Nothing 
 must be lacking nothing. 
 
 Usually, when Winifred went to bed, she had 
 only to close her eyelids to fall asleep, not to wake 
 until Jameson knocked in the morning and threw 
 back the heavily-lined blue curtains that kept the 
 early light from pouring in at the open window. But 
 to-night she lay listening feverishly to the quarter- 
 hours as they were solemnly struck by St. Mary's 
 church clock, wondering if she would still be awake 
 to hear the next. 
 
 She invariably did hear the next, and the next. 
 And so the morning came. Her habit was not to 
 rise till nine, as it was well, her mother said, for young 
 people who worked hard to have plenty of sleep. 
 When it was half-past seven, however, she could bear 
 to lie in bed no longer, and she had bathed and dressed 
 without waking her mother in the next room, before 
 it was time for the maid to come to her door. 
 
 Already the letters had arrived, and were waiting 
 on a table in the drawing-room until it should be 
 time for Jameson to carry them to Mrs. Gray and her 
 daughter. On top was an envelope addressed in 
 Mr. Anderson's handwriting, and the girl's heart 
 gave a leap as she caught sight of it. 
 
 He had written to her on several occasions, about 
 the time when her engagement in his company was 
 pending, but never since.
 
 58 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 She took up the letter with a hand that was not quite 
 steady, and saw from the smart crest and monogram 
 on the envelope that it was the paper which he used 
 at home. He must have written to her immediately 
 on arriving at his house in Sloane Street, after the 
 theater last night. 
 
 A vision of him leaving the stage entrance with 
 Lionel Macaire, and driving away in the latter's 
 carriage, when both had bowed with elaborate for- 
 mality to her, flashed into her head. Had the million- 
 aire's revenge already begun by prejudicing the mana- 
 ger's mind against her ? Surely Mr. Anderson would 
 
 not be so unfair as to But she would not wait 
 
 to finish the question. She tore open the envelope. 
 
 "Dear Miss Gray," said the actor-manager, "will 
 you come to the theater to-morrow (Thursday) morn- 
 ing, and ask for me half an hour before the time for 
 rehearsal ? --Yours truly, George Anderson." 
 
 There was nothing very alarming on the surface of 
 this brief note, with the request which might have 
 been made for one out of a dozen harmless reasons. 
 But instinct that had brought the dark cloud of brood- 
 ing presentiment last night, spoke again gloomily. 
 
 The rehearsals for As You Like It, which had 
 begun about a week ago, were called for "eleven 
 sharp" every day. Therefore the appointment which 
 Mr. Anderson wished Winifred to keep was at half- 
 past ten. 
 
 They had sat talking together, the girl and her 
 mother, later than usual, and Mrs. Gray, who often 
 suffered at night and was a restless sleeper, was mak- 
 ing up this morning for the hours she had lost. Wini- 
 fred never allowed her to be called until she waked
 
 A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 59 
 
 of her own accord, and though this was generally 
 early, to-day Winifred had her breakfast and went 
 away without seeing her mother. She left a short note 
 full of love, saying only that she was obliged to go down 
 to the theater half an hour earlier than she had expected. 
 
 When the girl had first called upon Mr. Anderson 
 at his request, a little unknown actress from the prov- 
 inces, she had felt almost sick with excitement lest 
 something should go wrong at the last, and she should 
 lose the glorious chance she had been led to expect. 
 She remembered that day and its sensations with pain- 
 ful distinctness this morning, but now her emotion 
 was even more keen than it had been then. 
 
 The actor-manager had an "office" at the theater, 
 where he imagined that he transacted a great deal 
 of business, and did indeed spend some hours out of 
 most days in the week. Winifred knew that she 
 would be received there; and, when she had sent up 
 word that she had arrived and would wait Mr. Ander- 
 son's convenience, she furtively pinched her cheeks 
 to counteract the pallor she had seen in passing a 
 mirror. Whatever might be in store for her, she 
 did not wish to betray the fact that she was frightened. 
 
 In five or ten minutes Mr. Anderson's young secre- 
 tary came to fetch Miss Gray to the office, and at 
 the door of that room he disappeared. The inter- 
 view was to be a strictly private one. 
 
 The actor-manager sat at his desk, glancing over 
 the correspondence which his secretary had placed 
 ready for him. As Winifred was announced, he rose 
 slowly, looking formidably large and impressive. His 
 eyes were as dreamy as ever, but it seemed to the girl - 
 or she imagined it that they were slightly restless,
 
 60 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 not willing to meet and dwell upon hers with the 
 caressing, lingering gaze which was a characteristic 
 of his in greeting a pretty woman. For once he 
 appeared ill at ease; his voice betrayed a certain agita- 
 tion, as the voice of a sensitive or cowardly person 
 will when something disagreeable has to be done. 
 
 He gave Winifred a chair, and sat down again 
 himself, looking at a curious ring he wore, and talk- 
 ing about the weather. 
 
 "Yes, very cold," the girl assented, and then felt 
 that further beating about the bush would be so 
 intolerable that she must scream aloud instead of 
 converse if she were forced to endure it. " You sent 
 for me Mr. Anderson," she said, "and here I am." 
 
 "Yes, I sent for you," he echoed. "The fact is, 
 I've been thinking for several days since rehearsals 
 began that er that the part of Celia is hardly suited 
 to you. Your method is er rather too spirited." 
 
 Could it be possible, Winifred quickly asked her- 
 self, that he was about to tell her of Mrs. Peter 
 Carlton's intended departure, and offer her the part 
 of Rosalind, as Mr. Macaire had suggested, in spite 
 of the thing that had happened last night ? 
 
 "I always was a bad rehearser," she said. "I 
 know that's an amateurish excuse, and I do try, 
 but " 
 
 "I'm afraid that you'll never play Celia in a way 
 
 to do yourself justice," Anderson continued. "It 
 
 really, you know, Miss Gray, you'd do yourself 
 
 harm by playing it, after the hit you've made as Lady 
 
 Kitty in The Green Sunbonnet." 
 
 Winifred's lips began to feel oddly dry. She strove 
 to speak naturally, but her voice sounded strained
 
 A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 61 
 
 as she answered for she knew now what was coming 
 "I'm sorry that you think so, Mr. Anderson." 
 " I'm sorry, too more sorry than I can tell you," 
 he responded emphatically. There was sincerity in 
 his accents, and Winifred could see in the man's 
 handsome face that he was actually unhappy and 
 miserably ashamed of himself. She could read his 
 mind well enough to be sure that he hated what he 
 was doing, and that he was acting under strong com- 
 pulsion. He must be in sad financial straits, she 
 felt, to submit to such a humiliating yoke, for he had 
 the reputation among theatrical folk of being an 
 honorable man. Stunned as she was by the thought 
 of the blow about to be dealt the girl found a cer- 
 tain sympathy in her heart for the executioner. 
 
 "I'm sorry on your account, and sorry on my own," 
 he finished. 
 
 "Do you want me to give up the part, Mr. Ander- 
 son ?" she asked bluntly. 
 
 "I think it would be better for all our sakes, much 
 as I dislike saying so. Our contract stipulates for 
 two weeks' notice on either side, you know, Miss 
 Gray" (he gazed out of the window as he spoke), 
 "but the present circumstances are rather peculiar. 
 If you er gave up the part it would be impossible 
 for you to go on with rehearsals. And so, if agree- 
 able to you, you need not attend, though, of course, 
 you would continue to draw your present salary for 
 another fortnight." 
 
 Now at last the murder was out. Winifred won- 
 dered at her own coolness, for this came near being 
 a death blow to her. She seemed to be numb, with- 
 out feeling; suddenly she cared no more than if this
 
 62 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 were happening to a girl she hardly knew. Her 
 impulse would have been to refuse the salary to say 
 that she would not take what she had not earned, 
 and that she would consider her engagement termi- 
 nated from this moment. But, with the pressing 
 knowledge of her mother's needs, she could not afford 
 to indulge her hurt pride. 
 
 "I don't quite understand, Mr. Anderson," she 
 said in a strained voice which seemed to come from 
 some one else. "Who's to play Lady Kitty if I am 
 discharged ?" 
 
 "Don't talk about being discharged, my dear 
 child!" exclaimed the actor-manager. "Of course 
 you can go on playing Lady Kitty, if you really prefer, 
 but I thought, as there might be gossip in the theater 
 about the part of Celia being rehearsed by some one 
 else, it would be pleasanter for you to be out of it alto- 
 gether. Your understudy, Miss Cotter, could get 
 through Kitty very decently, I dare say. And she's 
 quite good enough for Celia, poor girl." 
 
 Winifred sat still, thinking earnestly for a moment. 
 Lionel Macaire had kept his word, and had lost not 
 a moment in setting about it. There was no shadow 
 of doubt that she owed this blow to him, though by 
 what threats or what bribes he had made George 
 Anderson his catspaw she could not tell. The mil- 
 lionaire had punished her, and if she took Mr. Ander- 
 son at his word and played Lady Kitty during the 
 next fortnight he would surely cause her to regret 
 it, either by forcing himself upon her at the theater 
 or by some other method which she could not foresee. 
 
 Now that this terrible slight had been put upon 
 her by the manager there would be nothing save
 
 A LETTER FROM SLOANE STREET 63 
 
 humiliation for her at the Duke of Clarence's, where 
 she had been so happy; there was nothing more for 
 her in the engagement which had brought her such 
 joy, except to take the remaining money that was due, 
 and retire with what grace she could. 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Anderson," she said dully. "I 
 do think I am being hardly treated, but I know very 
 well there's no object to be gained by saying so, except 
 a little rather bitter satisfaction to myself, perhaps. 
 I must accept the salary for the remaining fortnight, 
 though I wish very much I need not " 
 
 " Please please don't make this any harder for 
 me than it is already," pleaded Anderson, rising 
 hastily, that the disagreeable interview might the 
 sooner come to an end. "Celia's really not good 
 enough for you, my dear Miss Gray. You can do 
 better for yourself much better." 
 
 Winifred took the hint, and rose from her chair 
 also. "It will be difficult to do anything at all so 
 late in the year," she said with some bitterness, "espe- 
 cially when it is known that I've been discharged from 
 the Duke of Clarence's." 
 
 "That word again!" ejaculated Anderson, begin- 
 ning to be irritable in the midst of his remorse. " No 
 such thing will be known. You have been taken 
 suddenly ill or family trouble has forced you to 
 give up acting for the present which you please. 
 You've only to choose, and I'll have the same story 
 for all reporters or anyone who applies to the theater 
 for information." 
 
 "Family trouble!" The words stung Winifred like 
 nettles. There was truth enough for such an excuse; 
 nevertheless, she would not make it. "I think I
 
 64 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 should prefer," she said, looking him straight in the 
 eyes, "that the real truth should be told/' 
 
 He flushed under her look, and dropped the long 
 lashes of which he was as proud as if he had been a 
 professional beauty. "At least, Miss Gray," he 
 retorted sharply, "I have spared your feelings as 
 much as possible. I have seen you myself, I have 
 talked with you as one friend talks to another, and " 
 
 A sudden knock at the door seemed to strike the 
 next word from his mind. There was distress in his 
 handsome face as he said "Come in!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS?" 
 
 SOMETHING told Winifred that it was Macaire who 
 stood outside the door, demanding admittance, so 
 that when he entered he had not, at all events, 
 the satisfaction of surprising her. He knew that 
 George Anderson had sent for the girl, and the hour of 
 the appointment; probably he had been with the actor- 
 manager when the letter was written, and he had 
 come purely for the pleasure of beholding the destruc- 
 tion he had wrought. 
 
 But at the sight of the hideous red face and the 
 pale eyes which, though the sneering lips were silent, 
 said to hers, "I warned you what you had to expect, 
 and I have kept my word," Winifred's spirit rose. 
 
 A bright color sprang to her cheeks. Her eyes 
 were like stars. Never had she been more beautiful. 
 She had faced the door as Lionel Macaire opened it, 
 and she made the one glance she gave tell him it 
 had been given merely because it was unavoidable. 
 
 "Good-morning and good-by, Mr. Anderson," she 
 said, her head held high, and a proud smile on her 
 lips. Then, drawing her dress aside that it might 
 not be desecrated by touching the millionaire, she 
 swept by him without a look. 
 
 "By Jove!" she thought she heard George Ander- 
 son say, as the door closed behind her. 
 
 65
 
 66 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 As she went down the stairs from the office the 
 blood throbbing in her forehead seemed to blind her 
 eyes with a reddish tint. Hardly knowing what she 
 did she found her way through labyrinths of passages 
 to the region of the dressing-rooms, and shut herself 
 into her own. There she half fell upon the little wicker 
 sofa, where she had nestled so cosily many a time. 
 She had loved the very smell of this theater the queer, 
 indefinable odor made up of gas and mustiness, which 
 is like nothing in the world outside a theater, or even 
 farther in front than "behind the scenes"; and to her 
 the Duke of Clarence's had seemed to have an individu- 
 ality of its own. She would have known she was there, 
 and nowhere else, if she had been led blindfold; and 
 she would carry away the remembrance with her, 
 though after to-day she would never come into the 
 place again. 
 
 Her big dress-basket stood against the wall, and 
 presently she began putting things together, and 
 packing them into it. Jameson could have been sent 
 to do this work, but somehow she felt that she could 
 leave it to no one else's hands. There was a separate 
 memory in everything she touched, and she laid all 
 in the basket now with a sad tenderness. It would 
 be hard to look at these things after this. She won- 
 dered what theater they would be carried into next, 
 and so wondering her heart grew very cold. How 
 should she tell her mother of what had happened 
 the poor little mother, who ought to be petted and 
 cheered and given all she wished for, instead of 
 being buffeted by higher waves in the deep sea of 
 trouble ? 
 
 When everything was ready to be sent for Win-
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 67 
 
 ifred took one last look at the room and turned away. 
 In going out she had to pass a door which led to the 
 stage, and the voices of people rehearsing came to 
 her ears. "Miss Cotter, down right, quick as you 
 can, here!" she heard the stage manager shout. 
 
 The blood rushed up to Winifred Gray's face, for 
 Miss Cotter was her understudy a pretty girl of 
 no particular talent, recruited from "society." Win- 
 ifred knew exactly what scene they were working at, 
 and she hurried past the door, only anxious to meet 
 no one. 
 
 She was fortunate in this, for everybody was on 
 the stage, and she had only to face the doorkeeper 
 in his little room. 
 
 "Off again, Miss?" he remarked in his privileged 
 way. " Hope you ain't ill ? You're not looking 
 quite yourself." 
 
 "A little headache," the girl answered truthfully. 
 "Good-by, Hansey." And then she hurried on, 
 leaving him to suppose that she had been excused 
 from rehearsing on account of indisposition. He 
 and all the others, down to the supers and stage- 
 hands, would know the real facts or, at least, the 
 facts as Mr. Anderson intended them to be repre- 
 sented soon enough. 
 
 As Winifred left the theater she felt that her next 
 thought must be to find another engagement as speedily 
 as possible, for the need of money was too urgent 
 to admit of an hour's delay in seeking for something 
 to do. Her mother, who believed that she had gone 
 to rehearsal as usual, only starting a little earlier, 
 would not expect her home again until four o'clock, 
 for on days when there were rehearsals and no matinees
 
 68 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Winifred lunched near the theater at two or half- 
 past, when the long business of rehearsing was over. 
 
 Now it was not yet twelve o'clock, and she would 
 have plenty of time for visiting agents before she 
 need go home. If only she could hear of an engage- 
 ment, the story which must be told to Mrs. Gray 
 would not be quite so hopeless. 
 
 In Winifred's present circumstances it was a hard 
 ordeal to go and interview dramatic agents. By 
 this time her name and face were very well known 
 in London. She had made an immense "hit," for 
 which she had her charming personality and her 
 extreme girlishness to thank, even more than her talent, 
 perhaps, and earlier in the season she would have 
 had no difficulty in obtaining a "shop" as theatrical 
 slang has it. Many managers would have been 
 only too glad to have such an addition to their com- 
 panies, for Winifred had proved an actual attraction 
 in herself at the Duke of Clarence's. But now almost 
 everything worth taking would be gone, and there 
 was scarcely a chance that she would have luck. 
 Besides, she must not forget that she had made a 
 powerful enemy. 
 
 However, Winifred had a great deal of moral courage 
 and, thinking of her mother, she screwed it to the 
 sticking place, only hoping that she might not be child- 
 ish enough to blush and look self-conscious when she 
 was questioned as to why she had so suddenly left 
 Mr. Anderson. 
 
 She had had two years of provincial experience, 
 but she had begun in a school directed by an actor 
 who took his most promising pupils on tour, there- 
 fore she had never had to do with agents. She knew,
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 69 
 
 nevertheless, where they were to be sought, and turn- 
 ing into a street off the Strand, she soon found the 
 name of the man most believed in by the profession. 
 
 There were superficially jaunty, anxious-eyed young 
 men going up and down the stairway that led to the 
 office, and there were preternaturally yellow-haired 
 young women, who stared at Winifred as she passed, 
 with eager jealousy, wondering if the luck which had 
 failed them was for her. Some of them recognized 
 her face, and these were more jealous and eager than 
 the others, though one and all painfully pretended 
 indifference. 
 
 Mr. Fitzjohn Doulton had an outer and an inner 
 office, and favored indeed were the applicants who 
 ever reached the latter. 
 
 Everyone knew that there was a private exit from 
 this sanctum sanctorum, and that Mr. Doulton had a 
 way of disappearing while the outer room was crowded 
 by those who had waited for hours in the hope of seeing 
 him. This was the reason why so many men and 
 maidens haunted the stairs, that while appearing just 
 to have come, or just to be going, stopping for a chat 
 with an old friend, perhaps they might be ready to 
 dart upon their prey before he could manage to escape. 
 
 Winifred did not know these secrets of the prison- 
 house, however, and she walked with shy slowness 
 into the outer office, the dreaded blush coming as a 
 broadside of stares was directed at her. 
 
 The room was packed with actors and actresses 
 who were "resting" and yearned to rest no more; 
 and the walls were covered with photographs of other 
 actors and actresses who hoped, no doubt, that their 
 faces or figures might strike visiting managers as suit-
 
 70 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 able to their requirements. Almost all the portraits 
 were autographed, and it was a tribute to Mr. Fitzjohn 
 Doulton's benevolent talent that so many professional 
 people were "his gratefully" and his with the "kindest 
 remembrances." 
 
 The occupants of this room were not of the theatrical 
 haut monde, with which Winifred had been associated 
 since joining Mr. Anderson's company. They were 
 more of the sort she had known on tour, but there 
 were no familiar faces, and she was thankful for that, 
 as she was in no mood for greetings or questionings 
 from acquaintances. 
 
 At intervals a youth threw open the door which 
 led to Mr. Doulton's inner office, calling a name; and 
 then, with an air of importance which might almost 
 have been a lever to move the world, a man or woman 
 rose, moved across the room, followed by envious 
 eyes, and was shut out of sight into the place where 
 all fain would be. 
 
 Winifred thought it very likely that, if she chose 
 to say " I am Miss Gray, from the Duke of Clarence's," 
 the golden scepter would be held forth to her without the 
 tedious necessity of waiting for her turn; but she would 
 not do this. It was not fair that she should be pre- 
 ferred before people who had waited for hours, perhaps. 
 So she sat outwardly quiet, raging within, as she men- 
 tally reviewed her scene with George Anderson, until 
 at last the self-sufficient youth announced that Mr. 
 Doulton had been called away on business, and would 
 not be back. "There was no good any ladies and 
 gentlemen waitin' longer." 
 
 With grumblings the disappointed ones rose and 
 made for the door. It was always like this, they
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 71 
 
 complained. There was very little good coming unless 
 you had an appointment, and even then you weren't 
 always sure of Mr. Doulton he was "so erratic." 
 
 Winifred went with the rest, and among them all 
 there could scarcely have been a heavier heart than 
 hers. It would be hopeless to call upon another agent 
 until afternoon, for she had been here an hour, and 
 it was now luncheon time for most business men. 
 
 Mrs. Gray was particular about the places where 
 her pretty daughter lunched alone, and Winifred 
 had frequented a daintily decorated establishment 
 in Bond street, where charming girls in purple frocks, 
 with frothy muslin aprons, smiled upon customers 
 against a background of dull green wall and old blue 
 Delft china. But there were to be no more Bond 
 street feasts for her at present. She gloomily ate 
 a bath bun at an A. B. C. shop, and went to another 
 agent's. Here she was more fortunate. Mr. Brown- 
 wood was in, and only a few persons were before her. 
 In half an hour she was with him, and had introduced 
 herself. He was polite, had seen her act, and would 
 be pleased to serve her; but there was nothing 
 "really nothing doing." If only she had come to him 
 two months ago it would have been a different story. 
 He feared that she would hear the same thing every- 
 where. Still she might look in from time to time, 
 and certainly he would keep her in mind. 
 
 "By the way, rather a queer thing," he remarked, 
 as the girl rose to go. " I was er informed that 
 you would come to me to-day." 
 
 Winifred opened her eyes wide. "How very 
 strange!" she exclaimed. "Will you tell me who 
 'informed' you ?"
 
 72 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Mr. Brownwood smiled. "That's exactly what I 
 don't know. The fact is, it was an anonymous letter. 
 I attached no importance to it, and had almost for- 
 gotten the thing until you came in." 
 
 Winifred was scarlet. " Please tell me what the 
 letter said. I think I have a right to know that. I 
 should like to see it." 
 
 "I'm afraid it went into the waste-paper basket - 
 the best place for such things," he replied. " But I 
 can remember almost the exact words; they weren't 
 many. Let me see. 'If Miss Winifred Gray calls 
 upon you wishing for an engagement, ask her why 
 she was discharged from the Duke of Clarence's.' ' 
 
 "You haven't asked me!" broke in the girl. 
 
 "Of course not. I don't suppose for a moment 
 you were discharged. Some jealous, malicious worn- 
 an " 
 
 "I was discharged," Winifred stammered. "Every- 
 one will know it, and I know who sent you the 
 letter. But - ' and she paused for a moment - 
 "I can't tell anybody. It would only do me harm, 
 and the person who wrote it counts upon that." 
 
 "I wouldn't think of it if I were you," said the 
 agent. " I oughtn't to have mentioned it but I 
 spoke out impulsively. Well, good day. Come and 
 see me again." 
 
 Winifred scarcely knew how she got downstairs 
 and into the street. She was as sure as if she had 
 been told that the same letter which Mr. Brownwood 
 had received or one like it had been sent to every 
 respectable agent, and every manager in London. 
 So gossip would be born and grow apace. And then, 
 when the question was going the rounds: "Why
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 73 
 
 did Mr. Anderson discharge Miss Gray?'* some 
 horrible answer would be ready to meet and blend 
 with it in a hateful marriage. 
 
 Still, she would not go home, discouraged, to bewail 
 herself in idleness. She went to such other agents 
 as might possibly help her, but, as Mr. Brownwood 
 had said, there was "nothing doing." One asked 
 her bluntly why she had left the Duke of Clarence's; 
 another hinted at his desire to know. They had had 
 the letters. 
 
 v Now it occurred to her that she might call upon 
 managers, telling them if they still needed the 
 information that she was at liberty. So she went 
 from theater to theater, but found no one. She must 
 write and ask for an appointment if she wished to 
 succeed, she was told. 
 
 At last, there was nothing more to do but go back 
 tired out, and break the news to her mother. 
 
 As it happened, this was their "at home" day, 
 and if all had been well Winifred would have hur- 
 ried in after rehearsal and her late lunch to dress and 
 help receive some of the friends they had made since 
 coming to live in London. But now she had forgotten 
 all about it, and did not remember until she was fitting 
 her latch-key into the door that she could not expect 
 to find her mother alone, for already it was close upon 
 five o'clock. 
 
 As she stepped into the passage a buzz of feminine 
 voices greeted her, with a deeper undertone which 
 told that women were not the only visitors. For 
 a moment the girl hesitated, for it seemed almost 
 more than she could bear to meet people and smile 
 and chat as if she had not a care in the world.
 
 74 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Calling up all her courage, however, she walked 
 straight into the drawing-room without stopping even 
 to take off her hat. These Thursdays were popular, 
 because non-theatrical people thought it rather nice 
 to see the pretty actress off the stage and in her own 
 home, while the few professionals who came really 
 liked the girl and her mother. But never had Win- 
 ifred seen the room so crowded as it was to-day, and 
 her heart gave a bound as she saw that several mem- 
 bers of Mr. Anderson's company were there. 
 
 Once glance she gave round the room, and then 
 her eyes turned to Mrs. Gray. The little woman's 
 face was white and drawn, despite the smile that it wore, 
 and the gaze with which she met her daughter's was 
 piteous as that of some trapped, dying creature of 
 the woods. It was all that Winifred could do to 
 restrain herself from running to her mother oblivious 
 of everyone, and begging her to say what had caused 
 that look of agonized distress. For the girl knew 
 the elder woman well enough to be sure that physical 
 pain and fatigue alone would not account for it. 
 
 But there was an appeal in the great, soft eyes, 
 which seemed too large for the small pale face, with 
 its frame of whitening hair. They begged Winifred 
 to act as if nothing were wrong, to go on to the end 
 bravely, as her mother meant to do. 
 
 "We were just wondering what had become of 
 you, dear," remarked Miss Duplessis, the lady who 
 played queenly dowagers at the Duke of Clarence's. 
 "Mrs. Gray says she has never known you to leave 
 her in the lurch before. And that it should happen 
 to-day, too, when you are the sensation of the hour, 
 and we were all dying to gaze upon you, to see if
 
 "IS THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS ?" 75 
 
 you're changed! It was really too bad of you to 
 keep us in suspense so long." 
 
 "Oh, please, Miss Duplessis!" half whispered 
 Mrs. Gray, who sat near the handsome middle-aged 
 actress; "please let us not raise the subject again 
 now. By the way, Winnie" in a louder voice, 
 which strove to be playful - "we have been laughing 
 over a competition in a penny weekly paper as to 
 who is the most popular actress on the stage. We 
 never even heard of the paper, I'm afraid, much less 
 the competition; but it seems you've won the prize. 
 A pair of earrings. What a pity you don't wear 
 them!" 
 
 So the evil moment was tided over. But never 
 had time dragged with such terrible slowness for 
 Winifred. She talked of one thing and thought of 
 another. Grim fancies were in her mind. She 
 imagined herself trying to borrow money of these 
 people these, who called themselves her friends, 
 and who came in crowds to-day because they had heard 
 something about her she would not know what till 
 they were out of the house. Was there one who 
 would make a sacrifice to help her and her mother ? 
 Her eyes traveled from face to face, and she saw not 
 one man or woman to whom she would choose to go 
 if she were starving. They all looked sleek and well- 
 fed, and they did not know what it was to wonder in 
 fear and misery how future necessities were to be sup- 
 plied. They were only acquaintances, not friends. 
 She told herself bitterly that she and her mother had 
 no friends.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE LETTERS 
 
 IT was half-past six when the last rustle of the last 
 smart gown was heard in the drawing-room of the 
 Grays' little flat. Winifred murmured, "Thank 
 Heaven," when she had smiled her last smile, and 
 could fly back from the door, to which she had escorted 
 a gossiping old lady. 
 
 "Mother, dear, what is this dreadful bugbear that 
 somebody's been frightening you with?" she had 
 begun, when the stillness of the small figure reclining 
 with closed eyes on the sofa struck at her heart. She 
 left her question unfinished and moved swiftly, breath- 
 lessly, from the door to the lounge. The strain endured 
 for hours had been too much for Mrs. Gray, and she 
 had fainted. 
 
 It was not until her forehead and hands had been 
 bathed with eau-de-cologne and smelling-salts held 
 to her nostrils that she opened her eyes, and many 
 minutes passed before she was able to speak. But 
 her first words were: "Oh, Winnie, how much of it 
 is true how much have you been keeping from me ?" 
 
 "Must we talk about it now?" the girl asked. 
 "Mayn't we wait till you're better ?" 
 
 "I can't be better until I know the whole truth 
 about my dearest one," Mrs. Gray whispered. "I 
 shall be all right propped up by these pillows. That 
 
 76
 
 THE LETTERS 77 
 
 awful Miss Duplessis she gave me the most terrible 
 shock. And everybody had read it in the paper. 
 That's why they came in such droves, I know. To 
 - spy out the nakedness of the land.'* 
 
 "Everybody has read what?" echoed Winifred. 
 
 " Don't you know, dear ? Has no officious person 
 done you the same kindness Miss Duplessis did me, 
 and shown you a copy of "The Evening Impres- 
 sionist?" 
 
 Involuntarily Winifred's hand tightened on her 
 mother's. It was known in theatrical as well as in 
 journalistic circles that Lionel Macaire had lately 
 bought that extremely sensational paper, The Eve- 
 ning Impressionist. 
 
 "I haven't seen any paper to-day," she answered, 
 with dry lips. "I've been too busy. What did 
 The Impressionist say? Something about me?" 
 
 "It's here, in this room, darling. Perhaps you 
 had better read it for yourself and yet I can't 
 bear that you should have to see it. It's not so much 
 what it says, as what it implies." 
 
 "Tell me, dear," pleaded the girl. "I don't want 
 to let your hands go." 
 
 " It is almost too hateful to speak of. There was a 
 hint that there had been a sensational occurrence at the 
 Duke of Clarence's Theater, that a 'scandal' was 
 threatened, following a young and popular actress's 
 attempted elopement with a man of high position. 
 And then, after veiled suggestions, to save itself, no 
 doubt, from being sued for libel, it added that Miss 
 Winifred Gray's connection with Mr. Anderson's 
 company had been suddenly severed, Miss Henrietta 
 Cotter taking her place as Lady Kitty, in The Green
 
 78 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Sun-bonnet, and also playing Celia in the forthcoming 
 production of As Ton Like It. Those were the words 
 as nearly as I can remember them, and, of course, 
 my dearest, I don't need to tell you that I know the 
 first part is the most wicked fabrication; but the last 
 Miss Duplessis told the room that you were not at 
 rehearsal, that your understudy rehearsed your part, 
 and that Mr. Anderson said - 
 
 "What did Mr. Anderson say?" broke in Winifred 
 passionately. "What did he dare to say?" 
 
 "Merely that he 'regretted your connection with 
 his company had come to an end/ Everyone was 
 astonished and excited, Miss Duplessis took pains to 
 inform us, and somehow the most mysterious and 
 romantic rumors were started, nobody exactly knew 
 how. She remembered that this was our 'day,' and 
 determined to come up. And on the way, appar- 
 ently, she bought this horrid paper, which seemed 
 only to have whetted her girlish curiosity. Oh, I 
 thought I should have to faint before them all, in 
 the midst of the chatter about 'how you would be 
 missed at the theater,' how people would 'boycot' 
 Mr. Anderson if he really had treated you badly, 
 and all sorts of wild things. But I tried so hard 
 to keep up and I did, till it was over, thank Heaven. 
 Words grew to be meaningless to me before those 
 cruel creatures went. I didn't know what I said 
 myself, or what others said. It was just a babel 
 of sound, breaking on my ears like a ceaseless 
 tide. What is true, darling? Have you left the 
 theater?" 
 
 "Yes," said Winifred, in a low, tired voice. And 
 then, kneeling by her mother's side she told her all
 
 THE LETTERS 79 
 
 the story for it was best to keep back nothing now; 
 and even the strange incident of the cab, which seemed 
 to gain a new meaning in the fierce light of later develop- 
 ments, was not forgotten. 
 
 It appeared not improbable that the man on the 
 box-seat who had "looked like a prize-fighter in his 
 best clothes," Winifred thought, had been in Lionel 
 Macaire's pay, though precisely what his mission 
 might have been she failed to see. Nowadays even 
 actresses were not abducted by those who loved or 
 hated them, or she and her mother, talking it over 
 together, might have guessed that the cabman was to 
 be bribed for something more than allowing the man 
 to sit beside him on the box-seat. 
 
 At all events, Lionel Macaire was clearly at the 
 bottom of every other misfortune which had befallen 
 her; and he must have had his hands full in accom- 
 plishing all so quickly. 
 
 He had made it worth the actor-manager's while to 
 discharge her; he had induced Mr. Anderson to make 
 a mystery of her going, before the assembled company, 
 instead of keeping the volunteered promise that 
 illness should account for it. He had written, or 
 caused to be written, certain anonymous letters, 
 increasing the difficulty of finding a new engagement, 
 and sowing the seed of strange ideas regarding her 
 in the minds of agents perhaps also of managers. 
 He had followed up these by inspiring an article in 
 his paper stealthily reflecting upon her character 
 without actually saying in so many words that Win- 
 ifred Gray was " the young actress who had attempted 
 an elopement." 
 
 The article made a denial impossible, lest the
 
 80 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 world should say, "If the cap did not fit, why did the 
 girl allow herself to wear it ?" 
 
 Having struck so devastating a blow in less than 
 twenty-four hours, it was hardly reasonable to sup- 
 pose that the hand of revenge would thereafter be 
 held. Winifred was no longer afraid; anger domi- 
 nated her too completely for fear to find room in 
 mind or heart; but Mrs. Gray looked forward with 
 shivering apprehensions to her daughter's future. 
 What if she should by-and-bye be left alone, without 
 even the poor protection of her mother's weak arms ? 
 
 "Somebody must be told this story," the elder 
 woman said at last. "Somebody who is strong, and 
 influential, and can stem the tide of scandal. Some 
 man who will be able and willing to denounce this 
 wicked wretch for the villain he is." 
 
 "What man do we know who would be able and 
 willing?" asked Winifred. "Can you think of one 
 among those we call our friends ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gray was silent, reviewing her acquaint- 
 ances one by one. 
 
 She and Winifred had only lived in London for 
 seven or eight months. Her husband had been a 
 captain in a line regiment not one of the "smart" 
 regiments which means a passport to Society with a 
 large "S" and he had been killed in India when 
 Dick was four and Winifred three years old. Since 
 that time Mrs. Gray had got on somehow, she hardly 
 knew how, upon her husband's pension, eking out 
 her income by painting miniatures, until her eyesight 
 was almost ruined. 
 
 Then Winifred had gone upon the stage, and the 
 forty shillings a week which she had contrived to send
 
 THE LETTERS 81 
 
 home when her salary had been raised to the mag- 
 nificent sum of three pounds, had meant all the differ- 
 ence between semi-starvation and comparative comfort 
 in the small country town where Mrs. Gray lived, 
 in tiny lodgings with her son, who once in two or 
 three months was lucky enough to sell a short story 
 for a couple of guineas. 
 
 People in big towns or small do not call upon dwellers 
 in lodgings, and the Grays, who had no near relatives, 
 had lived to themselves until good fortune had whisked 
 Winifred from the provinces to London, and bestowed 
 upon her twelve pounds a week. 
 
 Several men had asked Winifred to marry them 
 since the beginning of her success as "Lady Kitty." 
 One had been a young curate, who thought it his 
 duty to redeem her from a life of meretricious glitter 
 on the stage (poor Winifred, whose life had been 
 brightened by so little "meretricious glitter"); another 
 had been a smart young guardsman, whose muscles 
 were far in advance of his brains; a third had been 
 a tinned-meat millionaire from Chicago, who had 
 gone back disappointed to his native land; and the 
 others had been actors of no great talent or intellect. 
 Not one could have been depended on in an emergency, 
 even if the girl had not sent them away, without even 
 offering to be their sister, long ago. 
 
 They went to church every Sunday, and the clergy- 
 man occasionally called upon them, but he had few 
 militant qualities, and such as he had Mrs. Gray 
 could not ask him to place at her service. There was 
 a doctor, too, who had been "nice" to her since the 
 beginning of her illness, but he was not to be thought 
 of in this crisis; and there was nobody else. Win-
 
 82 
 
 ifred was right. Most of the people they knew were 
 acquaintances, not friends. 
 
 "You don't realize, dear, what a power Mr. Macaire 
 is in London," Winifred said, when her mother 
 remained silent. "I don't believe there are many 
 who really like him, but he is very lavish with his 
 money, and people don't see why they shouldn't have 
 the benefit of it. He gives the most gorgeous enter- 
 tainments, they say, which have ever been seen in 
 England. He thinks of the most wonderful surprises 
 for his guests, that seem like things out of fairy stories, 
 and his houses are palaces, I've heard. That's the 
 reason they've nicknamed him 'Nero the Second' 
 because whatever he does or has is so extravagantly 
 splendid, almost barbaric. Don't you remember I 
 was invited to his house at Richmond last June with 
 Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Peter Carlton, but I wouldn't 
 go because Mrs. Peter didn't like me very much, and 
 I thought I shouldn't enjoy it ? How thankful I am 
 now that I didn't touch anything of his ! 
 
 "They all came back with marvelous accounts 
 of glass tables that rose out of the floor, and were 
 lighted by different colors that seemed to run through 
 the glass. And at dinner the ladies had diamond 
 bracelets in their bouquets. Well, when men enter- 
 tain like that, and have all sorts of pleasures to give 
 their friends, and can tell them how to place their 
 money on the Stock Exchange or in a horse-race, 
 or find positions for their sons and brothers on news- 
 papers, they can do whatever they like, without being 
 afraid. Nobody wants to speak against them; no- 
 body wants to have them for enemies. What would 
 people think if I went about telling them that
 
 THE LETTERS 83 
 
 Mr. Macaire had made love to me, and because I 
 wouldn't listen to him he was trying to ruin my career ? " 
 
 "I should think everyone who had ever seen him 
 might believe anything of him!" exclaimed the little 
 woman, who had always been the most charitable 
 soul on earth, speaking evil of none, defending sinners 
 for the one spark of good which she supposed still to 
 be lurking in their hearts. 
 
 "If they did believe it they would say they didn't. 
 They would probably think instead that I had angled 
 for his attention, and, finding that he didn't notice 
 me, I had maligned him out of sheer spite. Oh, Mr. 
 Macaire's quite safe from anything you and I can 
 do, mother; we might as well make up our minds to 
 that." 
 
 "If only Dick were older, and different!" sighed 
 Mrs. Gray. 
 
 "He isn't, darling. I don't despair, though. I 
 won't despair. We'll fight Lionel Macaire and his 
 wickedness, and in the end I believe that we shall win." 
 
 But the silent battle had only just begun. 
 
 Within the next few days Winifred had seen, or 
 tried to see, all the London managers. One or two 
 were thinking of putting on new productions; but 
 none of them had a part to offer her. The girl, who 
 had met several of these important personages in 
 the brief heyday of her success, and found them 
 most agreeable men, fancied that their manner had 
 changed. She felt that they looked at her differently, 
 and there was a hollow ring in their regrets that she 
 had not been able to come to them a few weeks earlier. 
 Almost with one accord everybody said that. 
 
 After she had met with disappointment on all
 
 84 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 sides, Winifred troubled herself by the fear that 
 she had seemed to expect too much, and wished she 
 had clearly specified that she was ready to accept 
 a small part a very, very small part. After the 
 position she had held at the Duke of Clarence's and 
 in public estimation, it would be a humiliation to 
 appear as a mere "walking lady" a humiliation 
 which only an actor or actress can thoroughly appre- 
 ciate but the girl was ready to do anything honest 
 for the sake of the money needed by her mother. 
 
 That need was not mentioned again now by the 
 two women. Mrs. Gray would have given much if 
 she had kept the doctor's verdict to herself, that 
 Winnie's anxieties need not be increased for her sake; 
 but it was too late for such a wish to be of avail, and 
 she could only hope, since Winnie said nothing more 
 on the subject, that other troubles had for the time 
 being crowded that one out of the girl's mind. She 
 would have thought differently, however, could she 
 have seen how her daughter's wide-open eyes gazed 
 into the darkness every night, as St. Mary's clock 
 tolled out the small hours. 
 
 Winifred no longer went to bed to sleep, but to lie 
 turning over plan after plan. 
 
 If it had not been for the sum put into the Irish paper 
 and lost the crisis might have been tided over, 
 but as it was, there was scarcely any available money, 
 and a thousand calls for it. Rent to be paid; servants 
 and household bills to be paid. And presently Dick 
 would be at home again a delightful fellow whom 
 everyone liked, but boyishly selfish and destitute 
 of that indescribable quality which enables a man to 
 get on in the world. He would be a hindrance, instead
 
 THE LETTERS 85 
 
 of a help, pleasant as his society was; for he liked 
 nice things, and would be unable to earn them. He 
 was only another to be provided for, and though he 
 would cheerfully try to find something to do, Wini- 
 fred was almost as certain as of her own existence 
 that he would fail, as he had failed dozens of 
 times before. 
 
 She wrote to her old manager, with whom she had 
 toured the provinces, but he had been vexed with her 
 for leaving him, prophesying evil things, and his 
 letter in answer to hers was a mild, "I told you so." 
 His company was full. There was no hope from him. 
 
 Then she tried other provincial managers every- 
 one whose name she knew. She visited the agents 
 again and again, and at last she was reduced to answer- 
 ing advertisements in the theatrical papers. But 
 in one or two cases she was too late, and in others 
 the salary was not to exceed a guinea a week, the 
 actress to play six leading parts in a repertoire, and 
 provide all her own dresses. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dick came home looking adorably 
 handsome, and bemoaning his own misfortunes, 
 which, in his eyes, loomed larger than his sister's, 
 and were irritatingly increased by hers. He wan- 
 dered about, seeking sub-editorships on the strength 
 of his Irish experience, or stayed at home and wrote 
 stories which nobody would have. 
 
 There was no money save a quarterly instalment 
 of Mrs. Gray's tiny pension, and the remains of 
 Winifred's savings, so that affairs grew desperate and 
 the future loomed dark, with no ray of hope shining 
 through its clouds. 
 
 One morning, Mrs. Gray, aching in heart and
 
 86 
 
 soul at the thought of her own helplessness and the 
 sight of Winifred's face growing whiter every day, 
 impulsively reproached Dick for trying only to get 
 the sort of work he liked, not striving for what he 
 might really obtain, no matter if it were irksome. 
 The burden thrown upon Winnie was too great; he 
 must shoulder his part of it. 
 
 Without a word Dick took up the smart silk hat 
 he had been playing with, and walked out of the 
 room with such a look on his beautifully chiseled 
 face wonderfully like his handsome, improvident 
 father's that the mother's heart smote her. 
 
 That afternoon, while Winifred was out wearily 
 interviewing the agents who had always the same 
 answer, a note in Dick's handwriting was brought 
 to Mrs. Gray by a messenger. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER: I have done what you wished, 
 and shouldered my half of the burden," it curtly ran. 
 "As you truly said, I ought not to mind whether it 
 is irksome or not, and as there seemed to be only one 
 door open to me, I've gone in by it. I suppose you 
 won't scorn my father's profession for me, even though 
 I begin at the bottom. This means that I've taken 
 the King's shilling or would, if they'd bothered 
 giving it to me. And I'm now Private Richard Gray, 
 1st Battalion Northamptonshire Regiment, but still 
 your son, who I hope you'll think has done the 
 best he could." 
 
 "P. S. (Dick had not been able to resist this last 
 reproachful little stab.) As I thought it would be 
 better not to shame you and Win by calling on you in 
 the uniform of a private soldier, I have enlisted in a
 
 THE LETTERS 87 
 
 regiment quartered at a distance. This to save you 
 pain; and so, good-by." 
 
 A week later followed a letter imploring his mother, 
 for heaven's sake, to get money somehow, no matter 
 how, and buy him out. The life was awful. A 
 gentleman couldn't stand it. If he weren't saved 
 from it he would not answer for himself. He should 
 be tempted to commit suicide, for existence as a 
 "ranker" was worse than death. 
 
 Supposing he did take his own life ? the mother 
 and daughter asked each other. He was rash enough 
 to do anything, and his present mood seemed a des- 
 perate one. Yet they could not help. 
 
 It was while Mrs. Gray still held Dick's passionate 
 appeal in her hand, just read, that the bell rang sharply. 
 Winifred herself went to the door, as Jameson and the 
 cook had both been paid and sent away. A district 
 messenger boy. had come with a letter for her. "I 
 was to wait for an answer, miss," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 
 
 THE letter was from Fitzjohn Doulton, the agent 
 whom Winifred had called upon in vain on the first 
 day of her trouble. Since then she had seen him 
 not once, but several times; yet he had never any 
 hope to hold out. Now he wrote in haste, asking her 
 to come down at once, as there was a chance which 
 might suit her. 
 
 Winifred was too young and healthy a girl not to 
 be sanguine. In the past weeks of suspense and dis- 
 appointment she thought that she had learned not to 
 hope for anything until it should be a certainty, but 
 now her hope leaped up with a bound. She had lost 
 a certain superficial radiance of her prettiness lately 
 through sleepless nights and weariful days, which 
 had drained her face of color, robbed her eyes of 
 brightness and her cheeks of their childlike contour; 
 but as she ran in to Mrs. Gray with the letter 
 from Mr. Doulton all her bloom and sparkle had 
 come back. 
 
 "We'll wire poor old Dick to keep up his courage, 
 and that we'll do our best for him," she cried. "And 
 for you, dearest oh, it shall be all right for you 
 soon soon. You didn't think I'd forgotten. It does 
 really seem as if there were something in this. Mr. 
 Doulton wouldn't have troubled to send up in such
 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 89 
 
 a hurry otherwise. And I've sent the boy back to 
 say that I'll be at the office almost as soon as he will." 
 
 The two kissed each other with a kiss that meant 
 much; all they had suffered together in the past, and 
 all they dared to hope for in the future, was in the 
 close touch of the fading lips and the young, red 
 mouth. Then Winifred hurried off to her room to 
 put on her prettiest frock, that thin and slightly 
 worn as it already was she might favorably impress 
 the manager, who was presumably waiting to inter- 
 view her. 
 
 There had been a time when she had worn pretty 
 things all day long, but that was past, and to-day 
 she had been dressed for housework. Her smartest 
 gowns had all been sold to a second-hand clothes 
 dealer, to pay the weekly bills of the household; and 
 even the little enameled watch and the few rings and 
 brooches which she had possessed, had gone in the 
 same way. Only six weeks had passed since she 
 had been a successful actress, envied by many older 
 women on the stage, and now she had but one frock 
 which was fit to appear in before the critical eyes of 
 the managers; there was hardly a silver spoon left in the 
 flat, and the flat itself would long ago have been 
 abandoned for cheaper quarters, if it could have 
 been let. 
 
 Still, when Winifred went out of the house, fifteen 
 minutes after the departure of the messenger, she 
 looked like anything save an object of pity. A woman 
 might have known by the cut of her skirt or the shape 
 of her sleeves that she was wearing last autumn's gown, 
 or observed that the feathers in her hat had been 
 re-curled, and her gloves cleaned; but a man would
 
 9 o THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 only have seen a lovely face under a charming hat, 
 and a slim, perfect young figure in a neat, tailor-made 
 gown, with dainty little feet in pointed shoes that 
 peeped out underneath. 
 
 She sent the telegram to Dick, which her mother 
 had written (for he must be encouraged, even if encour- 
 agement were premature), and caught an omnibus 
 which would take her in a few minutes to the corner 
 of the street running off the Strand, where Fitzjohn 
 Doulton had his offices. For the first time she went 
 up the stairs which led to them without a sickly sinking 
 of the heart. She had a right here to-day; she had 
 been sent for. 
 
 For once, though others were assembled in the 
 outer office, she had not to wait. Mr. Doulton was 
 expecting Miss Gray, and had given orders that she 
 was to go to him as soon as she arrived. 
 
 "Well, my dear, your chance has come at last!" 
 were his first words, as she was shown in. 
 
 A few weeks ago he would not have ventured to 
 call her "my dear," though it was his habit, in com- 
 mon with a certain type of stage manager, to address 
 young ladies applying to him for engagements in 
 such familiar terms. But now Miss Winifred Gray 
 was only a girl among other girls, "out of a shop," 
 and dying to get one; and to-day was not a day when 
 she would dare to resent a small familiarity, which, 
 after all, meant nothing to the ears of a professional. 
 
 She only blushed and tightened her lips a little 
 at the agent's greeting, murmuring nervously that 
 she had come down as quickly as she could to hear 
 his news. 
 
 "Well, so far as I can see, you're in for a 'soft snap/
 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 91 
 
 as our neighbors across the big pond say/' went on 
 Doulton. " Leading part, good salary, and immediate 
 engagement. The only difficulty is 
 
 "Oh, there is a difficulty?" echoed Winifred, when 
 he paused. 
 
 "That's for you to judge. You might or might 
 not think it one. Anyhow, at this season of the year 
 leading parts with twenty guineas a week screw don't 
 grow on blackberry bushes, even for the picking of 
 such charming young actresses as yourself." 
 
 "Twenty guineas a week!" exclaimed the girl 
 with a wiry beating of the blood in her temples. " Are 
 are you sure I can get the engagement ? " 
 
 Doulton grinned at her childlike betrayal of eager- 
 ness. "It's for you to take or leave, it appears," he 
 answered her. "Marmaduke Wantage, a man well 
 known all over England some years ago, is going to 
 revive an old play, which was once very celebrated, 
 and intends to make a great production of it. In 
 his opinion you are exactly what he wants for the 
 principal part, and as it's a big one he makes a big 
 offer." 
 
 "What is the play ?" asked Winifred. 
 
 "The play's Mazeppa" As Fitzjohn Doulton 
 spoke he slyly watched the girl's face from under 
 lowered lids. But it only showed surprise. 
 
 "Mazeppa" she repeated slowly, as if the name 
 conveyed no particular meaning to her mind, or as 
 if she hunted vainly for an elusive recollection. 
 
 "Yes. Have you ever read Byron's famous poem ?" 
 
 "No," Winifred answered, quite ashamed of the 
 necessity for a negative. "I've read very little of 
 Byron. I've heard of Mazeppa, of course, but I
 
 92 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 don't even know what it s about. Wasn't it played 
 a long time ago ?" 
 
 "Long before your day, or even mine. But Wan- 
 tage thinks its old success can be repeated, with a 
 lot of scenic effect, and a good company. The way of 
 it is, a panto's fallen through, and he's got hold 
 of the theater. He's going to try this instead, to 
 open on Boxing Day. So you see there's just time 
 to do it, with rehearsals beginning on the I5th; that's 
 the day after to-morrow. It's sudden, but he only 
 just got the date, and must do the best he can. I 
 don't say that you'll like the part, though a very 
 handsome creature, Ada Isaacs Menken, made a 
 tremendous hit in it forty or fifty years ago. You 
 can sign the contract to-day if you like, and get not 
 only your railway ticket (you'll be expected to stop 
 in Brighton for rehearsals, and not to travel back 
 and forth between there and town), but full salary 
 during the five weeks of rehearsals." 
 
 "Why, it's unheard of!" exclaimed Winifred, who 
 knew enough of the stage to understand how quixoti- 
 cally generous such an offer was. 
 
 " Good, isn't it ? But a rich amateur, who has an 
 enormous fancy for Byron in general and Mazeppa 
 in particular, is the 'angel,' it seems, and there was 
 some fear that it would be difficult to get just the right 
 woman for the part. I suppose this is a sort of hook 
 to catch the fish." 
 
 "And I am really the fish they want!" ejaculated 
 the girl. "Surely I must be second or third choice." 
 
 "Well, Wantage did intimate that he'd suggested 
 making overtures to Miss Nellson before applying 
 to me at all for any of his people. But she's under
 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 93 
 
 contract for January, so it was no use. And there 
 aren't many of the right sort free just now. He'll be 
 lucky to get you, and he's evidently keen on you. 
 Why, look here, my dear, if you'd like to get some- 
 thing out of this chap I'll give you a tip. You might 
 make it a point that you got a few weeks' screw in 
 advance say you must have it before you can leave 
 town, or anything you like. I believe he'd plump 
 it down like a bird rather than lose you for, you 
 see, he's up a tree, as if the thing's to be ready by 
 Boxing Day he must have all his arrangements in 
 working order at once." 
 
 Winifred's head swam in a giddiness of sheer joy, 
 with the intensity of sudden relief after long-con- 
 tinued strain. "Could I really do that?" she asked, 
 her breath coming and going quickly. 
 
 "Of course you could. I'll see to that. It's all 
 the better for me, you know," and the dramatic agent 
 laughed. "As for Wantage and his angel, they'll be 
 glad to put salt on the bird's tail. You're valuable 
 to them, and once you've handled their money you're 
 doubly bound to keep your contract; no fine lady 
 whimsies such as some sweet maids in our profession 
 indulge in, and matrons, too." 
 
 Winifred thought within herself there was little 
 enough danger that she would try to escape from the 
 contract. Why, it seemed too good to be true that 
 so wonderful an opportunity had come to her at last! 
 Twenty pounds a week and for rehearsals, too 
 when she had reached a pass to have been thankful 
 for three or four. She was sure that the hand of 
 providence was in it; and she was glad that the mat- 
 ter was to be arranged so quickly, for if her enemy
 
 94 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 had heard of her great luck, he might have found 
 some way of prejudicing this Mr. Marmaduke Wan- 
 tage and his rich backer against her. 
 
 Mr. Doulton committed himself to a virtual promise 
 that if she chose to ask, through him, for salary in 
 advance, three or four weeks' money would in all 
 probability be ready for her taking when the con- 
 tract was signed next day. 
 
 That night there was much rejoicing in the little 
 flat near Bryanston Square. The reaction from suf- 
 fering to joy was almost too keen, and Winifred and 
 her mother cried in each other's arms. 
 
 Next morning, Mr. Doulton's prophecy was proved 
 true. She did not see Mr. Wantage, who was attend- 
 ing to important business in Brighton, it appeared, 
 but the contract was ready for her signature, and a 
 check for 100 guineas. In this regard, the agent 
 informed her, she was especially favored. No one 
 else among the people engaged for the forthcoming 
 production would have got an advance if they had 
 asked for it, but her part, whether she liked it or not, 
 was considered that of a " star." Besides, Mr. Doulton 
 added confidentially, he had fancied she might be a 
 " bit hard up," owing to the sudden severance of her 
 connection with the "Duke of Clarence's," and he 
 had made a special point of the accommodation with 
 Mr. Wantage. 
 
 So the agent got his commission, and Winifred 
 had still a goodly amount left. 
 
 She knew that her mother would not have one 
 peaceful moment until Dick was snatched out of his 
 present predicament, for he had threatened suicide, 
 and he was just the sort of rash, impulsive boy to
 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 95 
 
 keep the threat in some dark moment of desperation. 
 At least Winifred believed that he might do this, 
 and if so terrible a thing should happen her mother 
 would die, and her own life be blighted forever. 
 
 To save Dick from the situation his foolishness 
 had created would take what appeared to Winifred 
 now a very large sum, but there would still be a goodly 
 amount left toward the expenses of the surgical opera- 
 tion, which Sir Digby Field had declared absolutely 
 necessary for the preservation of Mrs. Gray's life. 
 
 Without speaking to her mother of the intention 
 in her mind, the girl went straight to the famous 
 surgeon, and being lucky enough to find him dis- 
 engaged for the moment, frankly asked if he and the 
 authorities at the nursing home where the dear patient 
 must lie for a few weeks, would wait for part of the 
 payment. Unconsciously, her looks rather than her 
 words betrayed the deep anxiety of her heart. Sir 
 Digby Field was a kind old man, and was at once 
 interested. He remembered Mrs. Gray's case very 
 well, and recalled the verdict that he had given when 
 he had seen her last. He had said then that she ought 
 to be operated upon within two months, and already 
 six weeks had gone by since that day. There was no 
 time to be lost. 
 
 Sir Digby had seen Winifred act, and tactfully 
 intimated to her that his fee was less to " professionals," 
 or the immediate family of professionals. He would 
 do his part for half the usual fee, and as the nursing 
 home was under his direction he could promise that 
 Mrs. Gray would be taken for something less than the 
 ordinary charge. Altogether, Winifred was made to 
 understand at last that she actually had enough in
 
 96 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 hand to prevent any further delay. What was lacking 
 could easily be paid out of the next few weeks' salary, 
 when she received it. 
 
 When all this had been carefully calculated, the 
 girl flew home to her mother and broke the news that 
 Sir Digby Field had set the day for the ordeal. The 
 operation would be performed by him on the next 
 Saturday, and Winifred was almost certain that, 
 though she was compelled to go to Brighton at once, 
 and was not supposed to travel back and forth, she 
 would be allowed to come to town for so good and 
 sufficient a reason. 
 
 Arrangements were made for Dick's release from 
 bondage; and then Winifred placed the rest of the 
 money, all but five pounds (upon which she resolved 
 to live during the weeks of rehearsal), in their old bank 
 to Mrs. Gray's credit. So it would be safe when it 
 was needed, and presently she would tell her mother 
 what had been done, assuring her that she had kept 
 plenty for herself. 
 
 It was bitterly hard to say good-by, with a thought 
 in the hearts of both of the trial that was coming 
 the danger which Sir Digby Field made light of, yet 
 could not wholly deny. Still, the tide of fortune 
 seemed to have turned, and the little frail woman 
 and the girl were hopeful, each one striving to appear 
 far more cheerful than she really was. Mrs. Gray 
 went to the station to see Winifred off, grieving that 
 she should go third-class and without a maid, and 
 making the girl promise that she would take comfort- 
 able lodgings and write immediately. Dick would be 
 home before Saturday, and Winifred must not fret. 
 
 By the same train went several of the actors and
 
 WINIFRED'S LUCK 97 
 
 actresses engaged for Mr. Marmaduke Wantage's 
 production, and Winifred recognized them from 
 portraits which she had seen in Fitzjohn Doulton's 
 office. He had pointed the photographs out to her 
 the day before, saying that the originals would be 
 of her "party." It struck the girl that they were 
 all somewhat common in their appearance "cheap 
 people," as they would have been slightingly called 
 in their own profession, and she could not see one 
 among the number whom she thought that she should 
 care to know. 
 
 "I do hope there will be others who are nicer," 
 she found herself wishing, then remembered how 
 little difference it would make to her after all. 
 
 Whether they had motives for econorriy equal to 
 her own, or whether their salaries for rehearsal were 
 not to be on the same scale of generosity as hers, 
 at all events, the five or six other members of the new 
 company traveled third-class also, and a gaudily 
 dressed young woman with very yellow hair came 
 into Winifred's compartment. 
 
 She was a witness to the farewells between the 
 girl and her mother; and when the train had left 
 Victoria Station she spoke to Winifred, who hap- 
 pened to be the only other occupant of the compart- 
 ment. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the lady of the yellow 
 hair, " but are you Miss Winifred Gray ?" 
 
 Winifred smiled a little sadly, for tears were on 
 her lashes still from the parting with her best loved 
 one and admitted her claim to that name. 
 
 "I thought I must be right," went on the other. 
 "I never saw you act, but I've seen your photograph
 
 98 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 only you're thinner and a bit different somehow. 
 Fm Miss Julia Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard of 
 me. I think we're going to be in the same company, 
 from what Mr. Doulton told me. Only, of course, 
 it isn't true that you're playing Ma%eppa ? " 
 
 "Yes, it is true," said Winifred. 
 
 Her traveling companion gave her a very queer 
 look. "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "I thought Mr. 
 Doulton must be joking. I shouldn't have supposed 
 that was in your line at all." 
 
 " Why not ? " Winifred asked, wondering at the look 
 and tone. 
 
 "Oh, nothing particular," said Miss Sinclair. But 
 her voice declared that it was very particular indeed; 
 and the first faint thrill of apprehension that Winifred 
 had felt for herself since her great good fortune thrilled 
 through her veins. What was there so peculiar about 
 this part, which first Mr. Doulton and now this bold- 
 eyed girl had hinted at? Why should it be "out of 
 her line" ?
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 
 
 WINIFRED had left London in the morning, and 
 at two the first reading rehearsal was appointed at 
 the Brighton Theater. She found cheap lodgings 
 not in the same house with Miss Julia Sinclair, for 
 whose companionship she had no fancy lunched on 
 bread and milk, that her five guineas might last the 
 longer, and arrived early at the theater. 
 
 The stage manager and prompter were already at 
 the little table on which lay all the parts for distri- 
 bution. The former rose with more punctilious- 
 ness than most provincial stage managers show as 
 Winifred drew near, and a tall, slightly dissipated 
 looking man, who had been talking with him and 
 the prompter, advanced to meet her. 
 
 "Miss Gray, I think?" said the tall man. "Ah, 
 yes, I have had the pleasure of seeing you act in Lon- 
 don. I am Mr. Wantage. Glad to meet you, and 
 to have secured you for my production." 
 
 Thereupon he proceeded to introduce the stage 
 manager, whose name was Jeffreys, and Winifred 
 was given her part. By this time the company was 
 assembling, and the girl could not help noticing how 
 differently she was treated from the rest. It was as 
 if she had been a princess among peasants, and she 
 was at a loss to understand the way in which she was 
 
 99
 
 ioo THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 distinguished, since the fact that she was engaged to 
 play a leading part was hardly enough alone to 
 account for it. Mr. Marmaduke Wantage, too, was 
 a puzzle. Once he had been what is called a "fine 
 man," but he looked as if he had been buffeted in 
 the battle of life. His nose was red; there were bags 
 under his eyes, and his flashy clothing was ostenta- 
 tiously new. He gave the impression of a person who 
 had been down in the world, having come so suddenly 
 up again as to be almost disconcerted by his own 
 good luck. 
 
 After an introduction or two had been effected 
 Winifred opened her part with curiosity, and began 
 to skim over the lines before the rehearsal. Then 
 came a shock. She hurried from the wings where 
 she had been sitting to the stage manager, and as 
 soon as he had finished giving certain directions to 
 the prompter she attracted his attention. 
 . "These read like a man's lines," she said. 
 
 "Mazeppa was a man, you know," he answered. 
 
 For an instant Winifred could not speak, but by 
 an effort she controlled herself. "I didn't know," 
 she returned. "No doubt it was stupid of me, but 
 I never read the poem or heard anyone speak of it, 
 except casually. I I can't She was about to 
 
 say that she could not possibly play a male part, when 
 she remembered how completely she was bound. " It 
 isn't my line at all." (Miss Julia Sinclair's very 
 words, as she realized while speaking them.) 
 
 "Mr. Wantage thinks it's your line," replied the 
 stage manager. "You're 'specially engaged.' I 
 should have thought a larger person would look it 
 better; but I've no doubt you'll act charmingly."
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 101 
 
 His eyes glanced over her face and figure. "And 
 in your great scene you will be perfect." 
 
 "Oh, is there a 'great scene' ?" she echoed. 
 
 "Yes. It was a big sensation once. No reason why 
 it shouldn't be so again." 
 
 "And the costume?" Winifred faltered, her eyes 
 large and anxious. 
 
 " Oh the costume ? You'll find that all right. 
 Picturesque, you know ancient period. Plenty of 
 time to discuss that later. Now we really must call 
 the first act." 
 
 Winifred felt cold all over. She had never played 
 a part in male attire save Rosalind, which she had 
 dressed in long leggings, the drapery of a cloak con- 
 stantly falling about the figure or forming a back- 
 ground. Even that costume had caused her embar- 
 rassment at first, although Rosalind, being really a 
 girl, with all a sweet, wholesome-minded girl's mod- 
 esty to shield her even in disguise, made it less dis- 
 tasteful to an actress than genuinely apeing a man. 
 
 Yet there was nothing to be done except go through 
 with it. Not only was the contract signed, but she 
 had accepted full salary in advance for the weeks 
 of rehearsal. It was partly her own fault. She ought 
 to have thought less of the advantage she would 
 reap and more about the part; then she would have 
 asked more questions. But even so, Winifred did 
 not see, if she had known the truth from the begin- 
 ning, how ^he could have acted differently. It was 
 for her mother's very life perhaps her brother's 
 life too, and she must not think of herself and her 
 own scruples. Many good, modest women dressed 
 in male attire on the stage, and no one thought the
 
 102 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 less of them, nor did they lose their own self-respect 
 which was even more important. 
 
 So Winifred read her lines, and learned her stage 
 business, and nobody guessed what she was feeling. 
 But as the rehearsal went on she wondered more and 
 more at the choice of Mazeppa as an attraction to 
 open at pantomime time in a town like Brighton at 
 the beginning of this blase twentieth century. It 
 was said to be a "new version," but it was clumsy 
 and old-fashioned. 
 
 "What do you think of it?" asked the man des- 
 tined to play the tyrant, who dooms Mazeppa to a 
 ghastly fate. He spoke in a confidential undertone, 
 such as one "pro." uses to another when the eccen- 
 tricities of the management are to be discussed. They 
 were not "on," but were waiting in the wings, and 
 nobody was near enough to hear the words. 
 
 "I don't know what to think of it," responded 
 Winifred. 
 
 "If it has a chance it will be your big scene that 
 will save it." 
 
 " You mean the one with you ? " 
 
 "No oh, dear no. I mean when you come on 
 strapped to the horse. They say the house used to 
 rise to Ada Isaacs Menken." 
 
 "I have to come on strapped to a horse ?" 
 
 "Don't tell me you didn't know that?" 
 
 "I didn't. Oh, I can't do it. I should be too 
 frightened. They must leave out that scene." 
 
 "I expect they'd sooner leave out all the rest of 
 the play. Why, that is 'Mazeppa' -- all it's worth 
 being put on for. They'll get a reliable 'gee' for 
 you, of course. But there'll have to be rehearsals.
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 103 
 
 Fact is, Miss Gray" and he chuckled a little 
 "we're all rather looking forward to that scene." 
 
 Somehow Winifred was angry. He was not a 
 gentleman, she told herself, and there was a look 
 and an emphasis which she disliked, though she could 
 not quite have explained why. 
 
 After the rehearsal Mr. Wantage called her aside. 
 The gentleman who was backing him a great lover 
 of Byron had a horse which he was going to lend 
 for the big scene. It had been bought from a circus, 
 was a clever and docile beast, would arrive in a few 
 days with its groom, and there must be rehearsals. 
 Did Miss Gray understand horses ? 
 
 She had ridden when a child, and again sometimes 
 in the park since she had lived in London; that was 
 her sole experience. She did not think that she was 
 a coward, but if she had known what she would be 
 required to do as Mazeppa, she would have thought 
 twice before taking the part. 
 
 "I hope you don't accuse me of unfairness in my 
 treatment of you?" asked Mr. Wantage. "Every 
 request you have made has been granted, and if there 
 is anything else " 
 
 "Only to escape from that scene, if it were pos- 
 sible." J 
 
 "That's the one thing that isn't possible. Every- 
 thing depends upon that. Oh, it won't be half as bad 
 as you think. And it will be the success of your life. 
 All England will be talking about you." 
 
 There was little consolation in that, but Winifred 
 did not say so. When she wrote to her mother in 
 the evening, she did not mention her new troubles. 
 As a girl, Mrs. Gray had been debarred by the old-
 
 104 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 fashioned prejudices of her parents from reading 
 Byron, and a sentiment had kept her obedient to the 
 memory of their wishes since, therefore Winifred 
 was sure that the name of Mazeppa had been no 
 startling revelation to her mother. 
 
 When the invalid was well again, then the require- 
 ments of the part might be gently broken to her, and 
 the best made of them. 
 
 After all, Winifred could not obtain permission 
 to go to town on Saturday, but a telegram was await- 
 ing her after the long hours of suspense during 
 rehearsal, to say that all was well. The operation had 
 been successfully performed. On Sunday she did go 
 to London, and was allowed to see Mrs. Gray, though 
 not to speak. There was only a gentle pressure of 
 the hand, and a meeting of the eyes which said as 
 much as words; but it was hard for the girl to go 
 away again, knowing that, as she had left herself so 
 little money, she could not afford another visit until 
 she began receiving salary once more. 
 
 To her relief, nothing further was said about the 
 horse for some days. Then, one morning, it was 
 announced that the animal had arrived in Brighton, but 
 he was to be accustomed to the stage by his groom, 
 who would rehearse him several times privately before 
 Miss Gray need try the scene. Would she care to 
 see the creature meanwhile ? 
 
 At first she refused, for the thought of what she 
 must be prepared to do was hateful. But after a day 
 or two a kind of nervous curiosity triumphed, and 
 she informed Mr. Jeffrey that she would like to be 
 present when the others were out of the theater, the 
 next time that the animal was rehearsed on the stage.
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 105 
 
 So she sat in a box and watched the queer scene 
 with an unpleasant fascination. 
 
 The footlights were lit, that the horse might become 
 accustomed to the effect, and then Winifred heard 
 the echoing ring of hoofs on wood. The horse was 
 in the wings, being got ready for his entrance. Sud- 
 denly he dashed on at a gallop, and with a thump- 
 ing of the heart she saw that a slim young man, almost 
 a boy, was strapped across the creature's back, with his 
 head hanging down. The horse went through various 
 evolutions, such as rearing with his rider and flinging 
 up his hind legs as if desiring to be rid of the burden, 
 then galloped off the stage again. 
 
 This was Mazeppas "great" scene. This was 
 what she Winifred Gray would be called upon to 
 do. It seemed even more horrifying than her fancy 
 had painted it. 
 
 After that the girl looked forward with shudder- 
 ing to her own first rehearsal with the formidable 
 animal. He was said to be gentle, yet she was not 
 reassured. 
 
 But at last the dreaded moment came. In cycling 
 "bloomers" -since a skirt was impracticable she 
 was strapped to the horse's back as the groom had 
 been, submitting to the loathed necessity in silence, 
 with white, set lips for she was not a girl to indulge 
 in hysterical outcries. The groom ran by the horse's 
 side at first, then retired to the wings, and before she 
 had realized what had happened the ordeal was over 
 for the day. 
 
 By this time the company had been rehearsing 
 for several weeks. They had all been measured for 
 their costumes, which were to be supplied by the
 
 io6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 management, and would be ready in time for a 
 dress rehearsal. 
 
 Brighton was placarded with huge colored posters, 
 and Winifred's name was to be seen on every hoard- 
 ing in large letters. She was "starred," and of course, 
 as Mr. Wantage pointed out, it would do her a great 
 deal of good in the profession. To be a "star" was, 
 in his opinion, a step up even from playing Lady Kitty. 
 
 On the day of the dress-rehearsal all was sup- 
 pressed excitement at the theater. The costumes 
 had come, and were very handsome; but there had 
 been one mistake, Winifred was informed. "Your 
 things for the great scene were forgotten when the 
 rest were sent off from the costumer's in town," Mr. 
 Wantage said, "but I have telegraphed, and they'll 
 be here in time for the night, without fail. If any- 
 thing's happened, they'll have to set to work and 
 finish a new rig-out." 
 
 "Why, I didn't suppose I was to have another 
 costume for my ride," exclaimed Winifred. "Surely 
 it isn't necessary and won't even be realistic ? You 
 see, I'm a prisoner condemned to die. Is it likely I 
 would have an extra suit of clothes for the purpose ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid we're rather bound by convention for 
 that scene," replied Wantage, not looking the girl 
 in the eyes. "It slipped my mind to say anything 
 about dressing it, as that was taken for granted. 
 Exactly the same costume has been provided for 
 you, and made from your measurements, as Ada 
 Isaacs Menken wore when she made her great hit in 
 the part." 
 
 Winifred said no more. The costumes which had 
 already arrived were modest as well as magnificent,
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 107 
 
 and she must take it for granted that this other, copied 
 from the dress of the once-famous actress, would be 
 equally satisfactory. 
 
 At last the night of the first performance came, 
 and Winifred, cheered by favorable news of her 
 mother, set out from her quiet lodgings for the theater. 
 
 It was raining a cold, sleety rain, but this would 
 not matter to the management, as Mr. Wantage had 
 told Winifred that every reserved seat in the house 
 was already sold. 
 
 As she came near to the theater she saw that, 
 despite the rain, a large crowd was collected. " People 
 must be waiting for the pit doors to open," she 
 thought. As she approached on her way to the stage 
 entrance, however, she found that they were not form- 
 ing a line, but were huddled round a poster at 
 which everyone was staring on tip-toe over each 
 other's shoulders. 
 
 There had been no poster in that place before, and 
 Winifred wondered vaguely what it could be which 
 apparently interested so many people at once. 
 
 She would have liked to draw closer and see for 
 herself, as she knew that, if it were a picture, it must 
 represent some scene in the play. But it was not 
 good form for one of the actresses to mingle with a 
 crowd in the street in front of the theater, so she 
 went on her way, on the other side of the street, only 
 crossing to reach the stage door. 
 
 Miss Julia Sinclair stood near the entrance, read- 
 ing letters, for it was early still. 
 
 "Have you seen the new poster?" she asked, with 
 a certain eagerness, her eyes on Winifred's face. 
 Perhaps she had lingered over her letters when she
 
 io8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 learned that Miss Gray had not yet arrived, in the 
 hope of asking this question and hearing the answer. 
 
 "No," said Winifred. "But I saw a crowd grouped 
 round something which looked like one. Isn't it 
 rather late for a new poster?'* 
 
 "Better late than never for such a striking one as 
 this. I suppose they couldn't get it ready before 
 or else they had some other reason. A pity you 
 missed it. It shows Mazeppa on the horse. And it 
 has your name underneath in red and black letters six 
 inches high 'Miss Winifred Gray as Mazeppa." 1 
 
 Winifred was annoyed, for though she had grown 
 fond of Selim, the clever and beautiful "trick" horse, 
 she hated the scene almost as much as ever, and would 
 have preferred not to be identified with it on a special 
 poster. With a quick flash of intuition she was ready 
 to believe that Mr. Wantage had kept back the pic- 
 ture until the last moment, suspecting how she would 
 feel, and not wishing to be troubled by objections. 
 But she did not give Miss Sinclair the satisfaction of 
 seeing her annoyance. 
 
 "It must be a fancy portrait," she said quietly, 
 "unless some one 'snapshotted' me in those wretched 
 bloomers of mine at rehearsal." 
 
 "Well, it isn't much of a likeness," rejoined Miss 
 Sinclair, "but the effect is certainly striking." 
 
 "Is the dress pretty?" Winifred asked, already 
 moving away toward her dressing-room for she 
 had not her own maid to help her now, and must not 
 waste too much time. 
 
 Miss Sinclair laughed out, a queer little giggle. 
 "Lovely!" she answered. "Lovely!" 
 
 Farther on there was Mr. Wantage, who had been
 
 A QUESTION OF COSTUME 109 
 
 waiting for her. The costume had not come yet. 
 There had been a hitch. But he had sent a man 
 to town, who would be back with it in his hands an 
 hour before it was needed. 
 
 Winifred was not particularly concerned. She did 
 not see the crucial necessity for an extra dress. She 
 could quite well go through the horrid scene in the one 
 she had worn previously, for the less the audience 
 looked at her during those moments the better she 
 would be pleased. 
 
 By-and-by she heard from her dressing-room the 
 ringing-in of the orchestra and the beginning of the 
 overture. She was not excited with the half-painful, 
 half-delicious excitement she had always known 
 before on a first night in a new part, yet she was far 
 from calm. There was a twanging of the nerves 
 in her temples, a heavy beating of the heart which 
 caused strange little qualms of faintness. She felt 
 an indefinite sense of foreboding, which she tried to 
 throw ofF by telling herself that there was nothing so 
 terrible about poor Mazeppa after all; and besides, 
 it was not likely that anyone she particularly cared 
 for would have come from town to Brighton for the 
 production. 
 
 But this was not enough. She could not shake off 
 the brooding misery the shadow of loneliness and 
 vague terror. 
 
 Just as she was ready to go out for her first scene 
 someone knocked at the door and pushed in a parcel. 
 "Your costume's come at last," said a voice, and 
 Winifred took the box that was hastily handed in 
 to her. 
 
 But she could not wait to open it then. Tossing
 
 i io THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the parcel on to a chair she hurried away, and was 
 only just in time. 
 
 Out in front was a sea of faces. The house was 
 packed. Winifred saw this only vaguely, but as she 
 appeared upon the stage someone moved in the pros- 
 cenium box and let fall a rose, which dropped close to 
 her feet. Involuntarily the girl looked up, and met 
 the eyes of Lionel Macaire.
 
 THE SECRET OUT 
 
 WINIFRED did not know how she got through the 
 scene. It was only mechanically that she spoke her 
 lines. For her there was but one man in the audi- 
 ence; the man who had done his best to ruin her life 
 and drive her out of the sole profession in which she 
 was fitted to make a living. "He heard that I was 
 to play in this, and so he came," she said to herself. 
 "He hoped that the sight of him would make me 
 break down. But I shan't I shan't." 
 
 She felt if only she could escape to the quiet of 
 her own dressing-room and think for a moment that 
 she might steady her nerves again; and when at last 
 she was liberated by her first exit speech she hurried 
 almost blindly from the stage. But Mr. Wantage 
 blocked the way. "Our backer wishes to be intro- 
 duced to you, Miss Gray," he said, stopping her in 
 the comparative dusk of the wings. Her eyes were 
 still dazzled by the glitter of the footlights and she 
 only saw, for an instant, that there was another man 
 with the manager. "Of course you must often have 
 heard of Mr. Lionel Macaire," he went on. And 
 at the sound of that name the eyes of her mind were 
 opened. As by a lightning flash in dead of night 
 all that had puzzled her, all that had lain hidden in 
 comforting darkness, was made poignantly clear.
 
 ii2 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Without speaking she broke away, and fled to her 
 dressing-room. She pushed the door shut, and lock- 
 ing it in the same instant, stood still, panting, her 
 forehead damp under the stage make-up." 
 
 "How's the piece going, Miss?" asked a meek 
 voice, and, hearing it, Winifred started. It was the 
 "dresser" employed in the theater who assisted such 
 ladies as had no maids of their own, and had helped 
 Winifred to get into her costume for the first act. 
 The girl had forgotten her existence, but instantly 
 she controlled herself as well as she could. 
 
 "Going? Going?" she repeated vaguely, for the 
 woman's question had scarcely conveyed an idea to 
 her mind. "Oh I'm ill! I don't know what I 
 shall do." 
 
 "Have a drop o' brandy, Miss. I'll send out for 
 you," suggested the dresser, accustomed to such emer- 
 gencies. " You'll be all right." 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed Winifred. "I don't want 
 anything. And I shan't need you. You can go 
 and help somebody else." 
 
 " Well, Miss, if you're sure, there's plenty as wants 
 me," answered the woman. "But I thought I'd be 
 here ready, as I'd been tendin' so much to the others 
 at first. There's your new costume, Miss, out of the 
 box. I thought you'd like to have it put out and save 
 your time, though there is the next scene before you 
 dress." 
 
 She pointed, and Winifred saw something pale and 
 pink and glimmering hanging over the back of a 
 chair. For a few seconds after the dresser had 
 softly unlocked the door and departed she stood 
 looking at the delicately tinted, formless mass, half-
 
 THE SECRET OUT 113 
 
 dazedly; then she sprang forward and snatched it 
 up in both hands. 
 
 What she held was a complete suit of silk flesh- 
 ings, made to cover the entire body; and Winifred 
 dropped it to the floor with a little choking cry of 
 disgust, as if the thing had been a snake and writhed 
 under the touch of her fingers. Then she covered 
 her face with her hands and stood quivering. 
 
 "Mazeppa, pie-ease!" the call boy shouted. Win- 
 ifred did not hear. 
 
 Five minutes passed, and she had not moved. She 
 was thinking thinking, when a thundering knock 
 at the door tore away the dark evil of thought in 
 which her spirit had wrapped itself. 
 
 " Miss Gray, what's the matter ? Good gracious, 
 they're waiting for you on the stage." It was the 
 voice of Jeffrey, the stage manager. 
 
 "I can't go on with the part," she answered brok- 
 enly. "Something has happened. I've been cheated 
 deceived." 
 
 "Nonsense!" he ejaculated desperately, and pushed 
 open the door. "Who would have thought you 
 were one of the hysterical kind ? Come on, Miss Gray; 
 you've got to come on." 
 
 "I can't," she panted. "I can't." 
 
 His answer was to catch her round the waist and 
 pull her out through the open door. "You must 
 be mad," he stuttered. "I'll have to use force with 
 you. You've got to play. Make a row afterward 
 if you must. Do you want to ruin us all Wantage, 
 and every man and woman in the company ? Come 
 along; I tell you the stage is waiting." 
 
 Roughly he pushed her into the proper entrance.
 
 ii 4 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Again she was blind, giddy, distracted. Everything 
 swam round her for a moment, and then she knew 
 that she had been sent staggering on to the stage, 
 every eye in the house upon her. 
 
 All the actress in her nature rose and mastered 
 shame and despair. She found herself answering 
 her cues, saying her lines, going through the stereo- 
 typed stage-business. There were two selves that 
 fought together one raging with a wild rebellion 
 against the vile plot which had trapped her; another 
 that was like a cold, unfeeling piece of stage-mech- 
 anism wound up to do a certain thing, and insisting 
 upon doing it though the world rocked. 
 
 So the end of the act came, and there was applause 
 from the audience and the clapping of a pair of hands 
 in the proscenium box. 
 
 Winifred was half carried off the stage by some 
 one of the actors who saw that she was scarcely con- 
 scious of what she did. He held her as the applause 
 went on, growing louder, and supported her before the 
 curtain in response to a "call.'* 
 
 Whether the old-fashioned play were to be a suc- 
 cess or not, the audience was taking it kindly. Out 
 in front they were talking of a certain poster, and 
 wondering if it were possible that the real scene and 
 costume would resemble it, when Mazeppa should 
 appear bound to the horse. 
 
 Behind the curtain, Mazeppa was being carried 
 in a dead faint to her dressing-room. 
 
 Marmaduke Wantage called to consultation 
 and the stage manager were both in a state border- 
 ing upon desperation. "She's shamming the little 
 fiend!" Jeffrey hissed. "She'd go to any lengths
 
 THE SECRET OUT 115 
 
 to get out of it. Better not have kept so dark about 
 the scene, and have had your row out with her before- 
 hand. Cat! Idiot! Prude! What's to be done, now?" 
 
 "Tell the dresser to get the things on to her, some- 
 how, while she's unconscious, and take everything 
 else away. Then you'll have her on the horse and 
 out on the stage before she knows what's happened 
 to her," answered Wantage, furiously, his face darkly 
 flushed. 
 
 He was not in his "backer's" secrets, but he had 
 some suspicion that he had been beckoned from his 
 obscurity for a very special reason. There were 
 other men whose names and reputation would have 
 been of far more value to the revival of this ancient 
 play than his; and, high salary or low salary, it was 
 all one to Mr. Macaire, if he chose to amuse him- 
 self by paying a huge bribe to buy off a pantomime 
 at the Thespian Theater of Brighton, and put on a 
 musty old piece which everyone else had forgotten 
 thirty or forty years ago. 
 
 After a while Wantage had begun shrewdly to 
 guess that there was method of some sort in the 
 millionaire's seeming madness, and presently to real- 
 ize that the whole production was but a gigantic 
 bait to lure one pretty little fish. 
 
 But that discovery mattered nothing to him. He 
 had got his chance to be in the swim again, and he 
 was earning more money in a few weeks than he had 
 been able to beg or borrow during the years in which 
 he had been down under the deep waters. Marma- 
 duke Wantage was utterly unscrupulous where he 
 had any advantage to gain for himself. Lionel 
 Macaire had chosen his man well. And now Wantage
 
 ii6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 was determined that his patron's mysterious scheme, 
 whatever it might be (exactly what it really was he 
 had never been quite sure), should not fail in the 
 very moment of fruition. 
 
 He had obeyed instructions to the letter in his 
 treatment of Miss Gray what he had told her and 
 what he had kept from her; and he was certain that 
 if she did not go obediently through her part on this 
 night before the crowded house out there, he would 
 be the scapegoat in the millionaire's eyes. 
 
 " All the better if she's fainting," he went on, when 
 Jeffrey was silent, biting his lips. "The horse plays 
 the scene, not Mazeppa." 
 
 " By Jove, I haven't the heart for it. It's too steep !" 
 exclaimed the other. " This is going to make a scandal, 
 and you and I won't be the whiter for it, old man." 
 
 "You're stage manager, and it's your place to see 
 that everything goes right," said Wantage threaten- 
 ingly. " You don't want to make an enemy of Macaire, 
 do you ? He would be a bad one." 
 
 Jeffrey, who was another man with a past, and a 
 dilapidated present, remembered his wife and chil- 
 dren. After all, the girl was a fool. As good women 
 as she had appeared in the sort of costume or lack 
 of it which she affected to abhor, and would so 
 appear again. He was even less in Lionel Macaire's 
 confidence than Wantage, being ignorant that the 
 actress and the millionaire had ever met before to-night, 
 and he supposed, in scorn, that the girl had seen fit 
 to faint merely because she did not wish to wear a 
 certain kind of garment. It was her business to do 
 what was required of her, and he would see that it 
 was done, with her will or without it.
 
 THE SECRET OUT 117 
 
 The dresser was summoned, and told that Miss 
 Gray must be got ready for the next scene. As she 
 had fainted, and could not help herself, she must be 
 treated as if she were an infant. And no time must 
 be lost, as the next scene was the most important one 
 in the play. 
 
 A sovereign was slipped into the dresser's palm, 
 and she promised that, whether Miss Gray waked up 
 or not, she should be ready when she was wanted, so 
 far as clothing was concerned. Then she locked the 
 door, and stolidly set about her task. 
 
 For a time Winifred's body was as limp in her 
 hands as if the girl had been dead, but as the work 
 progressed a perceptible shuddering thrilled through 
 the delicate limbs, and the bosom rose and fell with 
 a sobbing breath. 
 
 The dresser paused for an instant, looking critic- 
 ally down at the dark line of curled lashes. "She'll 
 be coming to herself before I'm done with this," was 
 her thought. "I wonder what'll happen then ?" 
 
 As she wondered there was a gentle tap at the 
 door. The woman rose, and opening it an inch or 
 two, peeped out. 
 
 "Here's a note for Miss Gray," whispered Mr. 
 Wantage. "Give it to her immediately, if she regains 
 her consciousness before it's time for her next scene. 
 In that case there'll be an answer. If she has to go 
 on as she is, you can hand the letter back to me." 
 
 He pushed an envelope addressed in pencil through 
 the narrow opening, and the dresser took it. Then, 
 turning back to her charge, she saw that the young 
 actress's eyes were wide open. 
 
 The girl was lying on a sofa, opposite a long mirror,
 
 ii8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 and upon her own reflection there her gaze was fixed 
 with horror. 
 
 " I thought it was a dream but it's true, after 
 all. What have you been doing to me?" she 
 gasped. 
 
 "There, there, ducky," cooed the old woman, 
 "nothing at all but helping you to get ready for your 
 big scene, because time pressed and you weren't able 
 to do anything for yourself. And here's a letter 
 that's just been sent in to you by some friend outside. 
 Better open it now you're awake again, and maybe 
 there'll be a word of comfort." 
 
 "A word of comfort!" the girl echoed bitterly. 
 "There's no such thing for me." 
 
 But she took the letter, and with hands that were 
 cold and trembling tore open the envelope. 
 
 "My darling," she read, the words hastily scrawled 
 in pencil, "they tell me that you object to go through 
 the scene that is coming you will know what I mean. 
 If you can care for me at all you will feel free to follow 
 the dictates of your own heart. Then, you will know 
 
 that I am thinking Forget that you owe a penny; 
 
 forget the contract you have signed. The debt shall be 
 canceled, the contract torn in pieces. What is a 
 miserable hundred pounds of salary, what are the thous- 
 ands spent upon the revival of this play what is 
 anything in this world when weighed against a tear or 
 smile of yours ? 
 
 "If you can care for me, you will be glad that I am 
 thinking this, and there will be nothing on earth 
 that you cannot take from me, or let me do for you. 
 But if you still hate me as you once thought you did, 
 if I am still 'horrible' and you 'loathe me/ then I
 
 THE SECRET OUT 119 
 
 know you cannot avoid remembering the money you 
 have accepted, the contract you have signed, and you, 
 being an honorable girl, will feel that you must earn 
 the one and carry out the other. 
 
 " Send me a line, or even a word, to make me happy, 
 and the curtain may ring down and the audience be 
 sent away for all I care, though enough money has 
 been spent on scenery, costumes, and rent, to keep 
 a dozen poor families in comfort for a year. And it has 
 been all for you, to make you a ' star, ' though I fear me 
 much that my efforts to advance my love have not yet 
 been appreciated by you. Still, the world appreciates 
 them at something like their full value. One or two 
 newspapers have got hold of the fact that my money 
 is behind this company, and our friends are saying 
 which is the truth that I am doing it all for you. 
 Since this is being said, therefore, why not let me do a 
 thousand times more for you relieve you of every 
 anxiety both for this evening and all future days?" 
 
 The letter was not signed, but well did Winifred know 
 who had written it; and the keen, poisoned dagger- 
 point in every line went home, drawing heart's blood. 
 
 Under the velvet glove was the hand of iron, with 
 talons that pinched her very soul. How he reminded 
 her of her obligations, and made it plain that they 
 were all owing to him. How he dangled temptation 
 before her eyes escape from the net in which he 
 had first enmeshed her, and his millions for her little 
 fingers to dip into at will. How he emphasized his 
 arguments by his stealthy hint that, since the world 
 knew of his admiration and would at all events believe 
 it reciprocated, there was the less reason to hold back.
 
 izo THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Only a word, which she could deny afterwards, 
 and those two horrible men, Wantage and Jeffrey, 
 would let her alone. There would be no more tor- 
 turing persuasion, no more attempts at actual force. 
 He had said that he would "bring her to him on her 
 knees." Now he almost saw her at his feet. 
 
 Winifred felt physically very weak. Her eyes 
 traveled again to the mirror, and she shivered from 
 head to foot as she saw herself decked by the old 
 woman's hands for the sacrifice. If she fainted 
 again they would do what they chose with her. She 
 would be carried out, bound on Selim's back, and all 
 those terrible eyes in the audience would see her 
 like that. And she might faint. She had suffered a 
 very great shock to-night, and besides, for days she 
 had been half-starving herself to make the five guin- 
 eas last until salary should begin once more. She 
 had had nothing to eat that day but bread and cocoa. 
 
 Supposing she sent Lionel Macaire the message 
 he wanted ? Somehow she could hide herself after- 
 wards; and she would work hard oh, so hard, until 
 she could pay back every penny of his money which 
 she had and spent a hundred pounds, as he reminded 
 her. Surely if ever it were right to do evil that good 
 might come it would be right now. 
 
 "The gentleman said there'd be an answer," sug- 
 gested the dresser. 
 
 "Tell him " began Winifred; but her voice 
 died away. Then her eyes lightened, and her droop- 
 ing head suddenly lifted. "That is my answer!" 
 she exclaimed, and tore the letter into pieces, folding 
 it again, and tearing again, until the tiny white squares 
 fell to the floor in a fluttering shower, like a miniature
 
 THE SECRET OUT 121 
 
 stage snowstorm. "When you are asked for my answer 
 you can tell them what I did. And now please go away. 
 I shall take off these hateful things that you have put 
 on me, and dress myself to go home. And I would 
 rather be alone to do it." 
 
 "Oh, Miss, you must play the scene, you know," 
 urged the woman. "And it's so close now. When 
 they sent me in to you, there was but half-an-hour first, 
 and I worked as fast as I could. Only think, the other 
 ladies and gentlemen are on the stage now. They'll 
 soon be ready for you, and it won't do for me to let 
 you be late. You'd never be allowed to go home: and 
 just think how bad it would be to be sued for breach of 
 contract. They'd make you pay a lot of damages. 
 Hundreds and hundreds of pounds, maybe." 
 
 "I couldn't pay," desperately retorted Winifred. 
 "I should have no money." 
 
 "Then they would put you in prison," said the old 
 woman, far more intent on persuading her charge 
 to be sensible than upon accuracy of statement. She 
 really did believe what she said, and the girl in her 
 ignorance could offer no contradiction. 
 
 They could put her in prison! Perhaps that was 
 what Lionel Macaire had been working for all through. 
 It would surely kill her mother. 
 
 At the thought of the dear little loving woman, 
 who was thinking of her now at this very moment, 
 far away in that nursing home in London, it was as 
 if a great hand had grasped Winifred's heart and 
 squeezed it. With a sob she broke into a storm of 
 crying. "Oh, mother, mother!" she sobbed. "Shall 
 I, who love you so, be the one to kill you ? Will no 
 one help, will no one save me from this horror?"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 
 
 MR. JEFFREY gave Mrs. Purdy, the dresser, as 
 much time as he could conveniently allow, and then 
 he returned to the door. "How do you get on?" 
 he inquired anxiously. " Is it going to be all right ? " 
 
 "I get on as well as you might expect, sir," came 
 the old woman's voice in reply. "'Twill be all right. 
 Don't you fear." 
 
 "I can't give you longer than five minutes more, 
 I'm afraid," he answered. "Can you manage with 
 that?" 
 
 "Needs must, when somebody drives," he could 
 hear an irreverent mumble from within. 
 
 Not far away stood the horse, Selim, held by his 
 groom. The animal was used to the wings now and 
 the lights and sounds of loud voices on the adjacent 
 stage, so that he was quiet enough. The strapping- 
 gear was right. Nothing remained but for Mazeppa 
 to be fastened on the beautiful black horse's back, 
 when his skin of jetty satin would make a marvel- 
 ously effective background for the slim, apparently 
 nude figure thrown across it. 
 
 Jeffrey listened eagerly to what was going on upon 
 the stage. They were "working up" with every 
 word now to Mazeppa's thrilling entrance, which 
 was bound to stir the audience, shocking some, pleas-
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 123 
 
 ing others. It occurred to him as he stood impatiently 
 waiting, that this was a much better version than 
 the old one, and, as he had altered it, under advice 
 from Mr. Macaire and Wantage, he was entitled to 
 take some credit to himself. If only all went well 
 with this one scene, prosperous days might come back 
 for him. 
 
 Everyone knew that the millionaire was interested 
 in several theaters in London and in the provinces, 
 and he controlled two or three powerful papers as 
 well. Wantage was right; Macaire was a man to be 
 conciliated. 
 
 Four minutes passed, and he could remain passive 
 no longer. He went back to the door of the dressing- 
 room which had Winifred Gray's name printed neatly 
 on a card, tacked on the raised space between the panels. 
 
 "Time's up!" he announced, with a warning rap. 
 "I really must have Miss Gray now." 
 
 "Dead or alive, eh, sir ?" came from the other side. 
 
 "Yes if there was a question of dying. I must 
 have her conscious or unconscious. The stage can't 
 be kept waiting again. They're playing slow now, 
 and by Jove, if Mazeppa and that horse aren't ready 
 to go on, there'll be some lively faking which means 
 the play'll be a failure, certain." 
 
 "Give me just three minutes longer, can't you?" 
 pleaded Mrs. Purdy. "Them silk tights is the dick- 
 ens and all to get on another person that's in a dead 
 faint no more life in her limbs than a doll. But 
 we're most ready. And a real picture she'll be, I do 
 assure you, sir." 
 
 "Then for goodness' sake don't stick there with 
 your mouth at the door, but go back and finish your
 
 124 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 'picture/" growled Jeffrey, who would have yelled 
 instead, if there had not been an audience in the 
 house with ears quick to hear any over-loud sounds 
 behind the scenes. 
 
 By this time Selim was getting restless, and stamp- 
 ing his iron-shod hoofs. 
 
 Jeffrey went to him and occupied the interval he 
 had extended for Mrs. Purdy in talking to the groom 
 and soothing the horse with a lump of sugar bor- 
 rowed from one of the stage hands. But he did not 
 forget when the promised three minutes were up, 
 and, with a glance at his watch, he was off again to 
 Miss Gray's door. 
 
 He knocked, and on this occasion, somewhat to 
 his surprise, the door yielded under the pressure of 
 his knuckles. Not only had it been unlocked at last, 
 but slightly opened as well. Taking advantage of 
 this, he impatiently thrust in his head. 
 
 There stood Mrs. Purdy, leisurely hanging up the 
 pieces of the actress's last-worn costume which she had 
 taken from the fainting girl, and, in her hurry, strewn 
 over the floor. Her present movements suggested 
 calmness of mind and plenty of time for all that need 
 be done. 
 
 With one eager sweep of his eyes, Jeffrey took 
 in the whole room. He had laid Winifred on the 
 sofa, when putting her in the dresser's charge, but 
 she was not there now. The place offered little or 
 no chance of concealment; yet he could see the girl 
 nowhere.
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 125 
 
 His face fell into utter blankness, then darkened 
 into fury. 
 
 "What's this mean?" he ejaculated. "Where's 
 Miss Gray?" 
 
 The old woman turned and gave back his look 
 coolly, her eyebrows rounded in surprise. 
 
 "Don't get in a wax, sir," she responded. "The 
 poor young lady came to herself just as we were fin- 
 ishing, had a drop out of that very brandy bottle as 
 ever was" (indicating with a motion of her head a 
 black bottle standing among scattered "make-up" 
 on the dressing-table) "and felt quite well and sensi- 
 ble. Says she, ' I can go out by myself. Just you pick 
 up my bits of things,' and out she goes. I wonder 
 you didn't meet her, sir." 
 
 "Good gracious!" was Jeffrey's only answer. He 
 darted away, almost pushing down the big screen 
 which had been put up in front of Selim, that the 
 process of strapping Mazeppa on the horse's back 
 need not be stared at by every passing stage-hand. 
 
 It was possible that Winifred might have gone 
 straight to this corner, which had always been put to 
 the same use during her rehearsals with Selim, though, 
 if so, it was strange indeed that he (Jeffrey) had missed 
 seeing her. 
 
 But there stood the groom and the horse, in the 
 semi-dusk; and there was no one beside. 
 
 "Cutting it rather fine, ain't she, sir ?" asked Selim's 
 attendant, who knew all the cues by this time as well 
 as did the actors. 
 
 "Cutting it fine, I should think so!" groaned the 
 stage manager. What a fool he had been to go out 
 of sight of Winifred Gray's door for an instant ! What
 
 i 2 6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 a double-dyed ass he had been to trust to the common 
 sense of a drunken old woman! (This aspersion was a 
 grave injustice to the respectable Mrs. Purdy; but it 
 was a necessity to revile some one, and she answered 
 as well as another for a scapegoat.) 
 
 Jeffrey tore back to the dressing-room, for there was 
 time even yet, if that fiend of a girl could be found 
 and dragged to her duty. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, which way did she go?" he 
 adjured the dresser, who was still calmly putting the 
 room to rights brushing, shaking, folding, hanging. 
 
 "I don't know," retorted the old woman. "I'd 
 done all you told me to. When she went out by this 
 door, sir, she was off my hands." 
 
 With an oath Jeffrey flung away. He had no 
 time to bandy words with this stupid old creature. 
 The girl might still be somewhere about the stage. 
 
 Half mad with impatience, he hurried this way 
 and that. Every nook, every corner was searched; 
 not an empty dressing-room was forgotten. But 
 Winifred was not to be found, and the moments were 
 flying. Already it was close upon the cue for 
 Mazeppa's sensational entrance. Wantage, who had 
 been in the box with Macaire, was behind the scenes 
 again now, in a passion of rage, blaming the stage 
 manager, swearing at everyone. 
 
 When there could be no further waiting, Jeffrey 
 desperately played the card which, all this time, he 
 had been keeping up his sleeve. 
 
 From the moment, weeks ago, that he had been 
 warned not to mention to Miss Gray the kind of 
 attire she would be required to wear in her "great" 
 scene, he had feared a hitch at the last moment. Of
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 127 
 
 course, it was vital to the success of the play that she 
 herself should appear strapped upon the horse; but 
 from the stage manager's point of view, at least, any- 
 thing was better than that a scene should be left out, 
 or the curtain rung down in the midst of an act on 
 flat failure. 
 
 That this might not happen, if the worst came to 
 worst, Jeffrey, had secretly prepared an understudy, 
 of whose readiness he had not chosen to speak even 
 to Wantage, lest it should seem a confession of weak- 
 ness a fear that his authority as stage manager 
 might not be enough to dominate a rebellious actress. 
 
 If Winifred herself had known the truth, of course, 
 it would have been fatal; she would have said, "Let 
 the understudy do it." But, as a matter of fact, one 
 of the ladies in the ballet to whom he had taken rather 
 a fancy, and whose figure somewhat resembled Wini- 
 fred Gray's, was at this moment dressed for the scene 
 in fleshings from neck to foot, and with a wig like 
 Mazeppa's. She was called, flung upon the horse, 
 strapped on, and just in time not to be late for the cue, 
 Selim galloped upon the stage with his living burden. 
 
 Lionel Macaire sat in his box, half hidden by the 
 curtains, yet leaning eagerly forward. He, too, knew 
 the cue for the great entrance, and ignorant of the 
 latest development since Wantage had left him his 
 eyes had not for some moments strayed from the stage. 
 
 He heard the galloping hoofs in the wings; then 
 the noble black horse, with a pearly-pink, slim body 
 thrown across his back, sprang into sight. 
 
 Macaire's lips were apart. He uttered a faint, 
 hissing breath, which gave a vent to strong emotion 
 long pent up.
 
 i 2 8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "They've made her do it!" he said between his 
 teeth. 
 
 Then he looked closer, bending out of the box, 
 deaf to the murmurs that went round the audience 
 below. In the rage of disappointment at realizing 
 his mistake he could have shouted oaths aloud. But 
 he had succeeded in doing many things in his eventful 
 life by sheer force of self-control, and he had seldom 
 lost it unless he chose deliberately to let himself go. 
 He did not lose it, or let himself go now. 
 
 So quickly did the scene pass by that few in the 
 audience were certain that the figure on the horse 
 was a mere understudy for Mazeppa. Some said 
 that it was Miss Gray herself; others vowed that it 
 was another girl in her place. 
 
 From the stage manager's standpoint the act was 
 saved, whatever might have to happen later; but to 
 Lionel Macaire the substitution of an understudy 
 for the girl whom he had meant to shame and humil- 
 iate was only an aggravation. He cared nothing 
 whether the play went on or was stopped in the midst 
 of the first night. It was only Winifred he had thought 
 of from the beginning. 
 
 No answer had come to the note he had sent behind 
 the scenes, and in this case he knew well enough 
 that silence did not mean consent. If Winifred had 
 intended to fling herself upon his mercy she would 
 have replied with a written line or verbal message. 
 And no word having been deigned, he had believed 
 Wantage's assurance that the girl would go through 
 the scene on the horse, even if she had to be 
 forced to it. 
 
 The instant he saw that the slight, apparently nude
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 129 
 
 figure bound to Selim's back was not Winifred Gray's, 
 he rose from his seat without showing signs of haste, 
 and left the box. 
 
 Behind it was a door which led through a short 
 passage to the stage, and the first person he met there 
 was Jeffrey. 
 
 " Why did not Miss Gray play that scene ? " Macaire 
 questioned sternly. Grotesquely ugly at all times, 
 he was appallingly hideous when in a passion, and, 
 though his voice was merely cold, Jeffrey saw by the 
 purple face and the jelly-like quivering of the marred 
 features that the millionaire's wrath was held in check 
 by an effort. 
 
 "Miss Gray can't be found; she's disappeared," 
 the stage manager stammered, his castles in the air 
 rocking on their foundation, built above this rich 
 man's money and favor. 
 
 Then Lionel Macaire muttered an oath between 
 his teeth. "What do you mean?" he said. "Wan- 
 tage came out and told me that the girl had fainted, 
 but was being dressed for the scene, and would be 
 put through it somehow, without fail. He had your 
 word for it as stage manager. What do you mean, 
 then, by saying she has disappeared ?" 
 
 Jeffrey did not dare to lose his temper, though 
 he had a hot one, quickly fired. "It is a most mys- 
 terious affair," he answered. "I don't know what to 
 think of it. But certainly I am not to blame. And, 
 if Miss Gray isn't found, her understudy can get 
 through somehow, though it will be a great mis- 
 fortune on the first night, of all nights. The only 
 thing will be to go out before the curtain and make 
 a careful announcement, working up some sensation
 
 130 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 that will fetch the newspapers and rouse the public's 
 curiosity. It may even create a certain boom." 
 
 "Boom be d d!" ejaculated Macaire. "The 
 girl's played you false, then ? But what a fool you 
 were to let it happen! Do you remember it is my 
 money you've been letting her make ducks and 
 drakes of?" 
 
 "She's certain to be found," faltered Jeffrey, droop- 
 ing under the millionaire's anger. "She can't pos- 
 sibly have left the theater. If you'll come with me, 
 Mr. Macaire, to her dressing-room door, where Mr. 
 Wantage is catechising the woman who had charge 
 of her after she fainted, you'll understand that it must 
 be so." 
 
 "Very well," said the other, and together they 
 walked across the stage, behind the setting which 
 was going up for the next act. As Jeffrey had stated, 
 Mr. Wantage, afraid to go out and face his patron 
 after what had happened, was standing in the open 
 doorway of Winifred Gray's dressing-room, talking 
 excitedly to Mrs. Purdy. At sight of Macaire advanc- 
 ing upon him he flushed darkly, then grew pale. 
 
 "This is a mystery, Mr. Macaire!" he exclaimed, 
 with a shaking voice. "Miss Gray has disappeared. 
 A most obstinate girl. I knew that she objected to 
 go through the scene in the only suitable way, and 
 Jeffrey knew it. But we " 
 
 "Be kind enough to state exactly what occurred 
 after Miss Gray fainted," Macaire broke in, address- 
 ing the woman without a glance at Wantage. "She 
 was then brought into this room, was she not, and 
 placed in your charge?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, she was, sir," returned the dresser, star-
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 131 
 
 ing at the hideous face of the man with undisguised 
 astonishment, even repulsion. She did not know that, 
 though so villainously ugly to look upon, he was 
 worth a thousand times his weight in solid gold. 
 Macaire was not so uncommon a name that she should 
 associate him with millionaire Lionel of that ilk, even if 
 she heard him addressed by Wantage or Jeffrey, 
 and it did not occur to her that he was to be fawned 
 upon. "Ugly beast! I wonder what the dickens 
 he means by poking his nose into it ? " she was prob- 
 ably asking herself. "Who's he, anyhow?" And, 
 aloud, she inquired, "Are you Miss Gray's father or 
 or anything, sir?" 
 
 " I am a friend of her family. And I am, unfor- 
 tunately, financially interested in this company," the 
 great man condescended to explain. "It is not pleas- 
 ant hearing that the star has run away on the first 
 night." 
 
 "She can't have run far," cut in Jeffrey. "This 
 woman here will tell you that." 
 
 Lionel Macaire looked at Mrs. Purdy, and she 
 accepted the look as her cue to speak. "I managed 
 to get the young lady into the things she was to ride 
 the horse in, sir, when she was fainting. And a rare 
 job it was, too." 
 
 "What happened then?" questioned Macaire. 
 
 "Why, this gentleman, the stage manager, sir, he 
 kept comin' to the door and worrittin' me, till I thought 
 I should have gone off my head. But, finally, I did 
 have the young lady ready, and at the last moment, 
 as I was tellin' him, she popped open those great eyes 
 of hers. She'd been wild about the fleshin's before, 
 sir, sayin* nothin* on earth would induce J er to put
 
 132 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 'em on. But she seemed wonderful calmed down like, 
 after her faintin' spell, and, says she let me see, 
 what was it she says first ? oh ! 'If you've got a 
 drop of spirit handy I think I could go on all right and 
 do the scene/ Those were her very words/' 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Well, and then, sir, I gave her the spirit. There's 
 the very bottle on the 'make-up' table. 'Twas my 
 own; I'd bought it on purpose, thinkin* it might be 
 needed which it was. When my daughter faints 
 away, sir, which she does sometimes, without no warn- 
 in' at all " 
 
 "Never mind about your daughter at present," 
 interpolated Macaire, his curious, pale eyes fixed keenly 
 on the woman's commonplace little face. "You 
 gave Miss Gray the spirit, and " 
 
 "And up she jumped, most as soon as 'twas down. 
 'I believe I've been silly,' she says to me. 'I don't 
 like this, but I've got to do it/ You see, I'd been 
 tellin' her how she'd be sued for breach of contract, 
 and if she'd no money, she'd be put in prison, may- 
 be " 
 
 "When did you tell her that?" quickly broke in 
 the millionaire. 
 
 The old woman looked somewhat nonplussed for 
 an instant, but then appeared suddenly to recollect. 
 "Oh, it must have been before she went off in the 
 faint. You see, I was helpin' her early in the evenin'. 
 And then, anyhow, the young lady seemed all right 
 and as sensible as could be. I was goin* out of the 
 room with her, but she wouldn't have it. She was 
 quite strong enough to go alone, she says, and I'd 
 better stop where I was, and pick up the nice new
 
 THE GREAT SCENE AND AFTER 133 
 
 costume which I'd pitched on the floor piece by piece 
 as I dragged it off of her. So thinkin' no harm, and 
 havin' had no instructions what to do after I'd got 
 the lady ready, I let her go. I thinks no more about 
 it, till a minute or two later along comes Mr. Jeffrey 
 again, askin' 'Where's Miss Gray?" 
 
 "You haven't: told me yet why you are all so sure 
 she's in the theater," said Macaire. 
 
 Mrs. Purdy pointed to the walls of the dressing- 
 room. "There hangs her clothes, sir," she announced. 
 "There was some talk of takin' 'em away, when she 
 was so obstinate, but that was before she fainted. 
 There they hangs. And as these are modern times, and 
 Miss Gray ain't the Lady Godiva the poetry's about, 
 it stands to reason she can't have got far." 
 
 "I've sent for the door-keeper, who swears that he 
 hasn't left his post to-night, and that Miss Gray 
 didn't go by," added Jeffrey. "Yet the theater's 
 been searched from below the stage up to the flies. 
 The girl's nowhere. She's vanished into air."
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 
 
 WINIFRED GRAY had disappeared as mysteriously 
 as the bride in the ballad of "The Mistletoe Bough." 
 No trace of her could be found at the theater or else- 
 where, either on the night when mystery had swal- 
 lowed her up or during the days to come. 
 
 Macaire had neither expected nor greatly desired 
 the play produced with his money to be a success; 
 but strangely enough, the very event which caused 
 his keen discomfiture created an artificial vogue for 
 the revival of Mazeppa. 
 
 The scenery was magnificent if the company (save 
 for the vanished star) was poor. Most of the best 
 people had been engaged when Mr. Wantage had 
 first begun his quest for actors, and he had been given 
 to understand that if Miss Gray were secured the 
 rest of the cast mattered little to the backer; there- 
 fore he had been easily suited for most of the parts. 
 Yet scenery alone and the disproportionately large 
 amount of pictorial advertising which had been done 
 could not have saved Mazeppa from failure. The 
 length of its continuance on the boards would have 
 depended upon the sum of money Mr. Macaire was 
 willing to throw away. But the sudden disappearance 
 of the star gave a fillip which perhaps nothing else 
 could have given. 
 
 134
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 135 
 
 A story had been circulated that the well-known 
 millionaire had been induced to "back" the production 
 because of his infatuation for the Miss Gray who had 
 lately been discharged from the Duke of Clarence's 
 Theater for extraordinary and mysterious reasons. 
 People, even in London, talked a good deal about it, 
 and harsh things were said of Winifred, who was 
 represented as a bold young woman, trading upon her 
 charms to handle Lionel Macaire's money, and her 
 "brazen front of impudence'* was proved without 
 shadow of doubt by the startling posters she had allowed 
 to be exhibited, representing herself as Mazeppa bound 
 to the horse. She would certainly not have undertaken 
 to play the part and dress it as it had once been dressed 
 by the actress who had made the play famous, it was 
 argued, had she really been the simple, modest girl 
 she had hypocritically tried to appear during her brief 
 months of popularity at the Duke of Clarence's. 
 
 Then, on the top of this gossip, which associated 
 her name with that of a man notoriously con- 
 nected with other scandals, more or less of the 
 same sort (though he was not too notorious to be a 
 target for matchmaking mothers), came the actress's 
 disappearance. 
 
 Among all the things which had been said about 
 her, no one had dreamed of starting the theory that 
 she had been deceived as to the part of Mazeppa and 
 its requirements. She was an actress, and actresses 
 went through life with their eyes open. And the 
 old story of the thwarted elopement which had, in 
 some inexplicable way, cost the girl her position in 
 Mr. Anderson's company, was revived. It had been 
 freely said before that the man in the case had been
 
 136 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Lionel Macaire himself, and though he posed as a 
 bachelor, there had been many rumors that he had a 
 wife from whom he was separated. But now it was 
 thought that the scandal had been connected with 
 a married man well known in London society, and 
 that the plan which had failed before had been suc- 
 cessfully brought off in Brighton. Miss Gray was 
 supposed to have thrown up her engagement and left 
 her manager in the lurch, to run away with a man 
 differently identified by almost every person who 
 helped to keep the tale in circulation. All agreed 
 in one particular alone. The man had a lovely wife, 
 who was heartbroken at her husband's treachery, and 
 by-and-bye, a divorce case would come on which would 
 make a tremendous sensation in the "highest circles." 
 
 Brighton people flocked to the new Thespian Theater, 
 where Miss Gray's understudy, a pretty girl with a 
 good figure and no absurd scruples of squeamish- 
 ness, made the most of her "great chance." Others 
 even ran down from town to the seaside, ostensibly 
 because "Brighton was so jolly in November, you 
 know," but really to see for themselves the scene in 
 which they might have been shocked at Winifred Gray's 
 boldness, if she had not run off, on the first night of the 
 piece, with Lord So-and-so. 
 
 As if the fates were tireless in agitating the "boom" 
 which had saved Mazeppa for the benefit of its needy 
 manager and its company of actors, Brighton was 
 favored with another sensation on the very morning 
 after the girl's disappearance. 
 
 The startling posters which had been put up only 
 on the afternoon of the first performance were all 
 either torn down from their hoardings or destroyed
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 137 
 
 beyond recognition, the name of Winifred Gray 
 being stripped away from underneath the picture in 
 every case. 
 
 Other posters of the same design were ordered and 
 put up to replace the damaged ones after a day or 
 two's delay (for Lionel Macaire still had it in his 
 power to take this mean revenge); but on the follow- 
 ing morning they were seen to have gone the way of 
 their predecessors, even though a reward had been 
 advertised for the detection of the guilty person. 
 
 Meanwhile Lionel Macaire remained in Brighton, 
 having sent for a detective from a certain well-known 
 private agency, not to be on the watch, save incidentally, 
 for the destroyer of the posters, but to take up the 
 scent from the start and track down Winifred Gray. 
 
 He did not move openly in the matter, Wantage, 
 as business manager of the company, acting for him. 
 But even if the interest which he took in finding the 
 girl leaked out, it could not damage his reputation. 
 He it was who had given the first kick to the football 
 of scandal, which at the time of the Duke of Clarence's 
 Theater incident had linked their two names together. 
 Now he was to be pitied, both as the financial backer 
 of a company treacherously deserted by its principal 
 member, and as a lover deceived by her upon whom 
 he had heaped benefits. 
 
 The detective was certain that by some method 
 which it was his duty to discover, the girl had con- 
 trived to get away not only from the theater but from 
 Brighton. Everybody else believed this, of course; 
 but then only two or three persons knew the real 
 reason why it would have been especially difficult 
 for the actress to escape. Only Wantage, Jeffrey,
 
 138 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Mrs. Purely, Lionel Macaire, and now the detective, 
 were aware that Winifred had been prepared for the 
 "great scene" while fainting, and that, so far as 
 could be ascertained, she had had no possible oppor- 
 tunity or even time for changing. In spite of this 
 fact, however, the man from Sleigh's agency persisted 
 in his theory. The girl must have hidden herself 
 somewhere in the theater for hours, and then received 
 assistance from outside. Once away, she would 
 naturally have taken steps to leave Brighton as soon 
 as possible. Her brother, who had just returned to 
 London, was shadowed, but in vain. It was dis- 
 covered that Mrs. Gray was ill at a nursing home in 
 Welbeck Street, and that she had within the last few 
 days suffered a relapse; but nothing could be learned 
 there about her daughter. 
 
 Lionel Macaire, however, could not be brought to 
 share the detective's theory. He was utterly without 
 religion, yet his was a superstitious mind. He believed 
 in the warning power of dreams, or curious coin- 
 cidences which had sometimes ruled his conduct on 
 the Stock Exchange or in racing. He had a conviction 
 that Winifred Gray was not far from him; and while 
 it kept its grasp upon him he wished to linger in 
 Brighton. 
 
 So a week passed on, and still Mazeppa flourished 
 at the Thespian Theater; and still the detective 
 had been able to learn nothing of importance con- 
 cerning Winifred. 
 
 On the eighth day after her disappearance Lionel 
 Macaire went out late in the afternoon from the Hotel 
 Metropole, where he was staying, and walked slowly 
 along the King's Road. He was thinking of Winifred,
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 139 
 
 as he almost always was now, not sure whether he 
 most loved or hated her; and with thoughts of the 
 girl came up memories of his strange past. Before 
 the eyes of his mind rose the image of a woman far 
 more beautiful than Winifred, of whom the girl 
 reminded him in some of her moods. If that chapter 
 of his life could have ended differently, perhaps he 
 would have been a different man. " F. E. Z." 
 though the woman's fair face was only a memory, 
 distant though never dim, and her place in what he 
 called his heart had been usurped by a girl thirty 
 years younger than she those initials had the power 
 to call up a thrill even now, half delicious, half painful. 
 Oddly enough, just as he hated and loved Winifred 
 Gray at the same time, so he had loved and hated that 
 other woman. Since he could not have her he would 
 have killed her if he could; if she had had a son, he 
 believed that it would have given him a subtle pleasure 
 to be revenged for the past, through him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered the dark young man who 
 had called at the Duke of Clarence's Theater, with 
 an introduction to George Anderson from " F. E. Z." 
 
 It had been in Macaire's thoughts at the time that 
 the good-looking young fellow in the odd clothes 
 might have been more than a mere friend to the beauti- 
 ful woman whom so many had adored. When 
 "F. E. Z." had vanished from the world where she 
 had scintillated as a bright, particular star vanished 
 as mysteriously as Winifred Gray she had been 
 several years older than Winifred; twenty-three or 
 twenty-four, perhapj. 
 
 That was now twenty-seven or twenty-eight years 
 ago. He had been a young man then, poor and
 
 140 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 obscure, though he had already secretly sown the 
 seeds of his great future. Now he was rich almost 
 beyond his own knowledge; and he was fifty-six 
 years, old, well into middle age, though his heart was 
 hot as it had been in his youth. 
 
 The man whom he had seen at the theater, in the 
 very act of doing personal injury to an employee of 
 his, could not have been more than six or seven and 
 twenty; therefore his relationship with "F. E. Z." 
 could hardly have been that of a lover, unless she had 
 by some magical power carried the charms of her 
 youth through the chill shadows of middle age. 
 Macaire's marred eyes had studied the clear-cut face 
 for traces of a likeness. He had not seen what he 
 sought; still, the fancy had lurked in his mind that 
 the man for whose sake " F. E. Z." had spoken after 
 all these years, might have been near and dear to her 
 through ties of blood. 
 
 He had not wished Anderson to do anything for the 
 fellow. There had been a grim joy in thwarting 
 a request of the woman he had loved and lost, feeling 
 that through time and distance he could stand in 
 the way of her desire. But he had not meant to lose 
 sight of the young man, and he had regarded it as 
 not impossible that he might patronize him in the 
 future. Only, whatever was done he intended should 
 be done by himself and in his own way. 
 
 Anderson had unintentionally thwarted his last 
 design by forgetting to inquire the address of Hope 
 Newcome (an assumed name, no doubt), and in the 
 quickly following events which concerned Winifred 
 Gray, Macaire had neglected to follow up a clew 
 that might once have been easily obtained.
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 141 
 
 Rather curiously, he cherished no personal grudge 
 against Hope Newcome for the fight with the man 
 on the box-seat of Winifred's cab outside the stage 
 door on a certain night full of excitement. If a fool 
 made a mess of his work he deserved to be ignored 
 by his employer and punished by a stranger. Lionel 
 Macaire had no use for fools, and was merciless to 
 those who failed. But, maimed and physically handi- 
 capped himself in almost every way, he secretly adored 
 and respected strength and courage above all other 
 attributes of man. 
 
 He was jealous of them, too, because of rather 
 than in spite of, his admiration, and nothing on earth 
 afforded him more subtle amusement than to make 
 servants of strong men great giants who could have 
 crushed him with a blow of their fists, yet were forced 
 to become the slaves of his money, and the position 
 which that money had won for him. 
 
 He did not hate Hope Newcome for thwarting him; 
 but if all his soul had not been absorbed in the pursuit 
 of Winifred he would have desired to have the young 
 man as a pawn on his chessboard, to be used, taken 
 up, and thrown down as whim or occasion suggested. 
 
 Macaire regretted to-day, as he thought of "F. E. Z." 
 and the man she had sent to her old friend, that he had 
 allowed the latter to slip out of sight. Not that it 
 mattered much. Still, the feeling in his mind was like 
 the annoyance of having carelessly let the reins drop, 
 when they should have been firmly held. 
 
 As he walked on, noticed and recognized by many 
 of the passers-by, the sound of music came to his ears. 
 A woman was singing to the accompaniment of a 
 banjo, cleverly played.
 
 i 4 2 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Macaire lifted his head and saw a couple of masked 
 minstrels; a girl poorly dressed, with long, curly, red 
 hair falling from under her hat over her shoulders, her 
 face completely concealed by a mask; a tall man, with 
 his face also hidden, and in his hands a banjo. 
 
 The couple played and sang better than the majority 
 of seaside "buskers," and their masks gave them 
 a certain piquancy, yet Macaire flung them but one 
 glance, and pushed his way on through the small 
 crowd which had collected for the music. He had 
 not gone far, however, when a sudden cry of fear or 
 pain in a woman's voice caused him to turn his head. 
 
 The group surrounding the masked minstrels had 
 been partly made up of several swaggering young 
 cockneys from the lower middle class, who had prob- 
 ably come to Brighton for a Saturday to Monday 
 "lark" on their bicycles. One of their number, per- 
 haps dared by his fellows, was in the act of attempting 
 to pull off the red-haired singer's mask as Macaire 
 turned; and it was her protest he had heard. 
 
 What he stopped to see was the neat way in which 
 her companion, despite the hampering banjo, sent 
 the aggressor sprawling. 
 
 "Well done!" Macaire said to himself, hoping 
 for more sport, as he dearly loved a fight, and was an 
 enthusiastic patron of the ring. 
 
 He was not to be cheated of the desired fun, for 
 the other members of the fallen man's party rallied 
 round him thirsting for revenge. Luckily for the 
 millionaire's amusement not a policeman was in 
 sight. The various nursemaids and their little charges 
 who had been listening to the music scattered like 
 frightened rabbits, and the town men seemed likely
 
 THE MASKED MINSTRELS 143 
 
 to have it all their own way for a moment or two, with 
 the masked minstrels. 
 
 Macaire stood at a distance faintly grinning, a 
 twinkle in his pale eyes. "That fellow's got his work 
 cut out for him," he thought. "I hope to goodness 
 no one will interfere." 
 
 Some of the man's intimates, who knew that he 
 had once had a bear-fight to the death in one of the 
 cellars under his town house; that men had pommeled 
 each other's bodies and faces into a blood-stained jelly 
 in the same place to win an enormous purse, and 
 afford secret midnight amusement to a few choice 
 spirits these intimates of his would have understood 
 the expression on his face now and the ugly glint in 
 his yellow eyes. 
 
 He was near enough to hear the masked man say 
 to his companion, "Run, as fast as you can go!" 
 He saw the girl turn and try to obey, and he saw 
 the spring that one of the cads made to do what 
 his prostrate chum had failed in doing tear off 
 her mask. 
 
 Up went the girl's hands to defend herself; but the 
 defense was not needed. A smashing blow with the 
 banjo, which brought the taut parchment down on the 
 cockney's head and crushed his hat over a red, 
 astonished face, finished him as a combatant. He 
 retired with a bleeding nose to assist his fallen com- 
 rade, while the three others still in fighting trim 
 attacked the minstrel, who now stood in front of the 
 red-haired girl. 
 
 Two of the men seemed to have some technical 
 knowledge of boxing, as Macaire's trained eye was 
 quick to note, and the third, while his friends used
 
 i 4 4 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 their fists, raised a stick over the tall minstrel's head 
 to avenge the late attack with the banjo. 
 
 But the masked man was not to be taken unawares. 
 Keeping off the two boxers, who were sparring up 
 to him, he sprang suddenly to one side, caught the 
 thick stick which threatened him, broke it in two 
 pieces as if it had been a reed, threw it in the owner's 
 face, and turned his attention again to the principal 
 attack, all without allowing the boxing contingent a 
 chance worth having. 
 
 " By Jove, what a fellow !" thought Macaire. " Won- 
 der what he plays the banjo for when he might be 
 coining money with his fists ? I wonder how he'd 
 do against Joey the Kid." 
 
 At this instant a big policeman, informed of what 
 was going on by one of the fleeing nursemaids, appeared 
 upon the scene. 
 
 The man who had gone down first was up now, 
 and, seeing the policeman, gave the alarm to his 
 companions. 
 
 Before the policeman could get near them they had 
 turned tail and darted away round the first corner 
 and out of sight, the masked minstrel not deigning to 
 follow. He stood his ground, merely stooping to 
 pick up the broken banjo, which he had flung aside 
 for the fight, after smashing the frame too severely 
 for the instrument to be practicable as a weapon. 
 
 If Macaire had had eyes for anyone so insignificant 
 he might have seen that in the melee somehow the 
 little masked, red-haired girl had contrived to slip 
 away. But he was watching the man, and approach- 
 ing slowly that he might, if necessary, win the young 
 athlete's gratitude by bearing witness in his defense.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 A DISCOVERY; AND A PROPOSITION 
 
 MACAIRE was just in time, as it happened, to be 
 of yeoman service, for the policeman, irritated that 
 the other offenders had escaped, and not too kindly 
 disposed toward a " busking" vagabond with a mask, 
 had opened the vials of his wrath when the millionaire 
 sauntered up. 
 
 "Look here, bobby," said he in the harsh voice 
 which, for some curious occult reason, seemed to have 
 great power over the lower classes, " my name is Lionel 
 Macaire. Perhaps you know it, and I give you my 
 word that this young man is in no way to blame for 
 what has happened. I saw the affair from the begin- 
 ning, though unfortunately I was unable to interfere. 
 One of those ruffians insulted a girl who was with him, 
 singing, and this man defended her. Then all the 
 others set upon him five to one. He is a brave 
 fellow, and ought to be praised instead of reprimanded." 
 
 The policeman was a reader of newspapers, and 
 had known for years that the name of Lionel Macaire 
 was financially one to conjure with, The millionaire 
 had been pointed out to him also, since the sensa- 
 tional affair at the Thespian Theater, and once having 
 seen that frightful face it would be impossible to 
 mistake it for another's. 
 
 Why a millionaire's word should be accepted more
 
 146 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 readily than a pauper's ought to be hard to explain; 
 but such is human nature even among policemen. 
 
 "All right, sir; if you say it's all right, I suppose 
 it is," this member of the force responded promptly. 
 "I must do my duty, sir, that's all." 
 
 "Well, you have done it, and now it's over," said 
 Macaire. At the same time he produced from his 
 sovereign pocket two gold pieces; and though the 
 man in blue honestly scorns bribes in silver this 
 one was not able to resist an offer of more than a 
 week's salary, "all in one go," merely for taking a 
 gentleman's word. 
 
 "Here is a little token that I appreciate your com- 
 mon sense and moderation," went on the millionaire; 
 and then the two sovereigns changed hands. The 
 policeman, at that instant opportunely spying a motor- 
 car which he thought might be going too fast, had 
 the best of excuses for bestowing his presence where it 
 was most needed; and with warning shouts of " Hi-hi!" 
 to the oblivious motorist, he went off at a run. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the masked minstrel heartily 
 to Macaire. "You have saved me from a lot of bother, 
 I'm sure." He spoke like a gentleman, but if he 
 were English his accent suggested that he had lived 
 for years out of his native country. 
 
 "On the contrary," returned the other in his most 
 ingratiating manner, "it is for me to thank you for 
 as pretty an exhibition of dash and skill as I've seen 
 for some time. You can imagine that I don't refer 
 entirely to your musical feats, though they were excel- 
 lent, no doubt. But I'm no judge of music. I am, 
 I flatter myself, a judge of most things in the athletic 
 line, and if you'll allow me to say so, I wonder that
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A PROPOSITION 147 
 
 you care to earn your living by your fingers when you 
 might do it so much more effectually with your biceps 
 and your fists." 
 
 The young man in the mask laughed frankly, and 
 glanced down at his ruined banjo. "I did better 
 work with this to-day than usual, perhaps," he said. 
 " But it looks as if it has played its last tune. As for 
 the talents you're good enough to think I possess, 
 I've tried to make use of them since I came to England, 
 but the market for muscles is apparently overstocked. 
 Indeed, I tried several things before I began making 
 a professional use of my banjo; but I can't afford to 
 despise it, as it's been the best friend in the money- 
 making line I've found in this country." 
 
 "All the worse for the country, then," responded 
 the millionaire. "I hope, though, you're not so dis- 
 couraged as to want to leave it, and go back to your 
 own wherever that may be." 
 
 " I shan't leave it till I've done what I came to do," 
 the young man answered, with a nonchalance which 
 perhaps cloaked a deeper feeling. "Not if it takes 
 me ten years." 
 
 "Oh, so you came to England with an object, eh ?" 
 inquired Macaire, in the good-natured way he could 
 affect when he had a motive. His motive now was 
 to get this young athlete under his patronage, and 
 perhaps match him against a certain champion who 
 had gone about in swaggering defiance of rivals long 
 enough. It was something to have his thoughts 
 taken off his galling failure with Winifred Gray, and 
 he was pleased to find himself feeling so keen an interest 
 in an alien subject. 
 
 "Don't most men travel with an object?" retorted
 
 148 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the man with the mask. "There'd be no incentive to 
 a lazy fellow, else. And for fear I go back to a con- 
 dition of laziness I must be off thanking you again 
 for what you did for me." 
 
 "Stop a bit," ejaculated Macaire. "I've some- 
 thing to suggest to you. As you say, few men that 
 is, few men of brains like yours and mine do things 
 without an object. Now, I had an object in interfer- 
 ing in your interest with our friend in blue. It wasn't 
 an entirely selfish one, perhaps, though partially so, 
 I admit, and I should like to have a talk with you about 
 it, if you're so inclined. It might turn out to be for 
 our mutual advantage." 
 
 Again the young man laughed. "You can guess 
 that I'm open to offers, if it's anything of that sort 
 you mean." 
 
 "That's precisely what I do mean," announced the 
 millionaire. "Look here, it's getting on toward one's 
 dinner-hour. Come to Mutton's with me. I'll get 
 a private room, and we'll have a chop and a bottle 
 of Burgundy together, if you can spare the time." 
 
 "I've got more time than anything else just now," 
 responded the masked minstrel, lightly. "And I'm 
 very much at your service." 
 
 They walked together to Mutton's (a place chosen 
 by Macaire because he did not wish to meet acquaint- 
 ances), forming a strange contrast; the tall young 
 man with the black mask covering his face, the broken 
 banjo in his hand; the stooped figure of the millionaire 
 with his hobbling limp and his scarred features. There 
 could hardly have been a more incongruous pair, and 
 people they met turned to look after them. But 
 Macaire either did not notice the attention he and his
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A PROPOSITION 149 
 
 companion aroused, or was too independent of public 
 opinion to care for it. 
 
 He was wondering whether the masked minstrel 
 knew anything of him besides the name which he 
 must have heard spoken when he had mentioned it to 
 the policeman a few moments ago. He wondered 
 whether the fellow was aware that he was walking 
 beside one of the richest men in England a man so 
 rich that he could afford to do, say, look, and wear 
 exactly what he pleased. 
 
 Macaire hoped that the other did know all this, 
 although, as he had apparently not long ago come to 
 England, he might be in ignorance of his companion's 
 importance. It would be awkward to call direct 
 attention to it, especially as the millionaire was on his 
 best behavior, endeavoring to appear a jolly, modest 
 fellow, not too proud, despite his wealth and position, 
 to hob-nob with a nobody to whom he had happened 
 to take a fancy. 
 
 Wishing to impress the minstrel in some quiet and 
 unobtrusive way, he took the best private room that 
 Mutton's could give, and, though it was too early in 
 the day for him to work up an appetite for dinner, 
 instead of the chop and bottle of Burgundy he had 
 suggested, he ordered an elaborate feast, with plenty 
 of champagne of his own favorite brand. 
 
 "Now," he remarked, when the hors-d'oeuvres 
 
 appeared, "now is the time when you must cease to 
 
 hide your light under a bushel, and throw off the mask 
 
 -that is, unless you merely intend to look on while 
 
 I eat my dinner." 
 
 "To a man who hasn't dined, but only eaten food, 
 for some time, that would be too cruel an aggravation,"
 
 150 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 returned the minstrel. "It is nothing more or less 
 than morbid self-consciousness vanity, if you will 
 that tempted me to pick my banjo from behind a 
 screen. I don't intend to trouble you with my ante- 
 cedents, but people who were once dear to me 
 would have been made unhappy if they could have 
 known I was destined to get my living by 'busking* 
 at the seaside; and I suppose I'm idiot enough to be 
 ashamed, in a way, of what I've been doing though 
 I'm ashamed of myself, too, for being ashamed. But, 
 anyhow, here goes the mask." 
 
 It had been tied behind his head, and as he talked 
 he had been fumbling awkwardly as men's unaccus- 
 tomed fingers do fumble with the knot. But the 
 strings yielded at last and the mask suddenly fell, to 
 show a dark, handsome, clear-cut face, with lips parted 
 in a rather shy, boyish smile over a row of strong, 
 perfect white teeth. 
 
 The minstrel's laughing brown eyes met those of 
 the millionaire; and Lionel Macaire's boasted self- 
 control came into play as he restrained a start of 
 surprise. 
 
 " Haven't I seen you somewhere before ? " he asked, 
 hiding all emotion. As well as he knew his own 
 strange antecedents did he know when and where he 
 had seen that dark face before; but he did not wish 
 the other to guess himself of enough importance to 
 have been definitely remembered. 
 
 "Yes," the young man answered without an instant's 
 hesitation, "at least, I have seen you, sir, and I recol- 
 lected it the moment you came up to me this afternoon, 
 though I didn't suppose you'd noticed me particularly 
 that other time."
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A PROPOSITION 151 
 
 "Where was it?" asked Macaire, "and when, if 
 you can recall that?" 
 
 "I have some reason for recalling it," replied Hope 
 Newcome. "I had a big disappointment that night. 
 I had been at the Duke of Clarence's Theater, with 
 an introduction from an old friend of Mr. Ander- 
 son's, to him. I wanted a short engagement till I 
 could get something else to do merely as Charles 
 the Wrestler, in the production of As You Like It, 
 which was coming on. But, though I'm nearly six 
 feet, Mr. Anderson has an inch or two the advantage 
 of me, and thought it wouldn't do. I saw you coming 
 out of the theater with him afterward." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Macaire, as though suddenly 
 enlightened. "Of course. How stupid of me. You 
 were engaged ha, ha! in much the same occupa- 
 tion as I found you at to-day. A queer coincidence." 
 
 "You'll think me a very pugnacious person, sir," 
 Hope Newcome said, flushing slightly under the clear, 
 sunburnt olive of his skin that kind of sunburn 
 which does not wear away with years, unless in mortal 
 illness. He did not use the word "sir" in addressing 
 the millionaire as if he were kow-towing to a superior, 
 but as though he, a young man, adopted it out of 
 respect to one many years his senior. Though he 
 had been seen fighting at stage doors, and playing the 
 banjo on Brighton beach, he had the air of simply 
 - unconsciously almost taking it for granted that 
 he was Macaire's equal. And Macaire saw this, and 
 was grimly amused by it, considering certain differences 
 between them. 
 
 'The shortest road to my regard, as far as that's 
 concerned," responded Macaire, "is by being a 'pug-
 
 152 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 nacious person/ as you call it. If I hadn't thought 
 you one through our acquaintance to-day we shouldn't 
 be dining together now. And what I've just learned 
 only raises you in my estimation. I believe now that 
 I even heard you speak to my friend Anderson that 
 night, and I am usually rather quick to recognize 
 voices. But yours sounded differently when you 
 spoke under your mask. By the way, as it happens, 
 that was rather an eventful night for me, too." 
 
 He could not have told why he should volunteer 
 the admission; but he let it come because he did not 
 see that acting upon impulse could in this instance do 
 any harm. And somehow he found himself oddly 
 drawn toward the young fellow. There was a certain 
 fascination about his strong, virile personality, which 
 was augmented by the knowledge that this was he whom 
 "F. E. Z." had known, perhaps loved. Yet Macaire 
 was far from sure whether the magnetic attraction he 
 experienced was nearer to hate or affection. He only 
 knew that he felt it, and desired to have a master hand 
 over this young man's fate. 
 
 "I didn't know who you were that night, sir," 
 Hope Newcome said. " But I remembered your face." 
 
 The corners of Macaire's mouth went down in a 
 bitter sneer. 
 
 "That's because of my fatal beauty," he retorted 
 harshly. " I seldom find myself forgotten even 
 by a pretty woman. But I have more important things 
 to talk of than personalities, and my ideas concerning 
 you are in no way changed by the fact that we have 
 met before. You tell me you wanted to play the 
 wrestler on the stage. It has occurred to me that you 
 might like to do so in good earnest, since that is your
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A PROPOSITION 153 
 
 forte. Surely you haven't wasted those muscles of yours 
 all your life ? And as surely you've had training ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I trained both as a wrestler and boxer," 
 Newcome answered; "but I never intended to use 
 the arts professionally. It was at a Western university 
 in America where I first began to take a great interest 
 in sport. I was m rather a sporting set, and I took 
 the fancy of an old prize-fighter resting on his laurels, 
 who lived in the town. He and a pal of his taught 
 me everything I know, and they seemed to think me a 
 decent sort of pupil. 
 
 'Then, a year before I finished my college course, 
 family affairs took me away home. I lived a very 
 different sort of life after that, but I didn't forget what 
 I'd learned from Foxy O'Sullivan and his mate. I 
 had a chance at a wrestling match with a big man 
 among the amateurs champion he was then, and I 
 got the belt from him. Two or three matches I had 
 afterward, but I kept the belt." 
 
 "Are you any good with the gloves, or don't you 
 go in for anything but wrestling ? " asked Macaire, 
 his eyes dwelling with a queer, jealous, grudging 
 admiration on the other's splendid shoulders, his arms, 
 his wrists visible under shabby sleeves too short for 
 him his strong, brown hands that had done damage 
 to-day. 
 
 "Oh, wrestling's been my specialty, but I believe 
 I'm not a bad boxer," Newcome answered with mod- 
 est confidence in his own powers. "I think I could 
 hold my own with most amateurs, though I'm a bit 
 out of training." 
 
 "How would you like to go into training again, if 
 you stood to make your fortune, eh?"
 
 154 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Newcome's dark eyes flashed. "I'd do anything 
 that would keep me in England, and among the sort 
 of men I must be among, if I'm to do what I came a 
 good many thousand miles to do. And as for a 
 fortune well, I've got more than one use for money 
 just now." 
 
 As he finished his face changed. No longer open, 
 it became reserved. Though at first sight he seemed 
 to have been exceedingly outspoken, even confidential, 
 about his past and his present circumstances, after 
 all he had told practically nothing; and despite his 
 boyish frankness at times he looked like a man who 
 could keep his own counsel, a man who would be 
 strong enough, dogged enough to die for the keeping 
 of a secret if need arose. 
 
 Macaire, however, did not now make these reflections 
 regarding his companion's character. He thought 
 of him as a connecting link with the past, through 
 "F. E. Z." (concerning whom he meant cautiously 
 to put questions in time to come), and as of a mag- 
 nificent young animal to be trained for his uses, rather 
 than as a thinking, feeling man with ambitions and hopes 
 of his own. The millionaire was accustomed to make 
 puppets of others who were handicapped in life's 
 race by the lack of what he possessed in abundance; 
 and one of his most extravagantly eccentric ideas was 
 taking form in his brain, for the future of his present 
 companion. 
 
 By this time dinner was well under way. Here 
 and there they had paused in their conversation for 
 one course to go and another to come, lest the subject 
 should prove too interesting for a waiter's ears; and 
 they had now passed oysters, soup, and filleted sole.
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A PROPOSITION 155 
 
 "Very well," Macaire commented on the other's 
 answer. "Then you're the man for me. And I 
 rather think I'm the man for you, too. I'm rich I 
 suppose you've heard that of me, haven't you ?" 
 
 "I've heard that there's a Mr. Lionel Macaire 
 who's got millions. Are you that Macaire, sir ?" 
 
 "I'm that Macaire. I like to amuse myself, and I 
 can afford to pay for it; I do pay for it. I invite you 
 to cater for my amusement, and I'm willing to pay a 
 big price. If you consent, after I've explained, I 
 don't mind giving you a sum down if you're so situated 
 that money in hand would be a convenience a sort 
 of retaining fee, don't you know ?" 
 
 "Thank you," said Newcome. "If I saw that I 
 could earn the money, I don't deny that it would be a 
 convenience." 
 
 "Good. There's just one thing, then, before I 
 put my proposition and try to see if you and I can 
 come to terms. Will you give me your word, if you 
 accept, that the arrangement between us shall be 
 entirely confidential entirely, mind you ? I haven't 
 asked you to confide in me, and I don't know whether 
 you're alone in England or whether you're with friends 
 or relatives, male or female. But when I say that I 
 want our transactions to be private between ourselves, 
 I don't except such relatives or friends." 
 
 "I understand you, sir. And if I accept it shall 
 be as you say. I give you my word."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE REST OF THE BARGAIN 
 
 "How soon could you get into training for the 
 biggest fight you ever had?" asked Macaire. "That 
 is, everything being favorable." 
 
 "I could be ready in a fortnight, I'm sure," New- 
 come answered, after an instant's thought. "I haven't 
 much superfluous flesh to work off, and I always go 
 in for a certain amount of exercising every day, with 
 the exception of a few when I slept on a seat on the 
 Victoria Embankment. Without exercising each morn- 
 ing I feel as lost, somehow, as I do without my cold 
 plunge. But as for a fight - 
 
 "No 'buts' until you've heard me out!" Macaire 
 broke in. "My friends all know me for a sportsman, 
 and I have few friends who are not sporting men. 
 Sometimes, to amuse them, I give a show in a big 
 vault of a room under my house, and nobody outside 
 is the wiser. Last spring I managed a pretty good 
 glove fight-- Joe Nash, known as Joey the Kid, and 
 a mulatto, Bill Clay. They were both first-rate men. 
 The Kid is the champion of his county, and since he 
 downed Clay, who had a splendid record in the prize- 
 ring in the States - 
 
 " I've heard of him," said Newcome. 
 
 "I thought you must have. Well, the Kid has 
 gone swaggering about swearing there's no one who 
 
 156
 
 THE REST OF THE BARGAIN 157 
 
 can touch him. He's getting tiresome, and I should 
 like nothing better than to see you knock him out 
 at my place, with my friends and me looking on for 
 a purse of, say, two thousand pounds. It would be a 
 very sporting thing for you to accept." 
 
 Hope Newcome flushed a little, and did not hurry 
 in answering. He saw that the millionaire looked 
 upon him as an animal, and valued him as a man 
 may value a new hunter which he thinks of securing. 
 Newcome felt that there were things in him of more 
 worth than his muscles, and the proposal made by 
 the millionaire liked him not. But only this morning 
 he had told himself that he would do anything for a 
 hundred pounds, even to committing a crime. Not 
 for his own necessities, though he wanted money 
 badly enough, but for another use upon which he had 
 set his heart and soul. Now, here was the chance of 
 earning much more than the sum he had thought of 
 - a chance which a few hours ago had seemed as 
 far away from him as the stars in heaven. It would 
 be madness to think of letting it slip. 
 
 But Macaire believed that he was hesitating in the 
 hope of a larger bribe. That bribe he had meant 
 to offer by and by; now, however, he proceeded to 
 "spring" it at once. 
 
 'Two thousand pounds is the purse for which you 
 would put on the gloves," he said. "But I'm rather 
 a whimsical fellow; I like my jest with the world 
 which has played some hard tricks on me; and in 
 this hour that you and I have had together an idea 
 has come into my head concerning you. Two thou- 
 sand pounds is a good enough purse, maybe, but it's 
 not a fortune; and I hinted to you that you might
 
 158 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 make your fortune. If you knock the Kid out you 
 get the purse; but how would you like at the same 
 time to blossom out as a rich young man about town, 
 with a name and enough money to buy you a place in 
 society ? A place as good as mine, for instance ? " 
 
 Macaire watched the dark face, but it changed 
 very little. There was only a slight quivering of the 
 lips for a second, which ended in a smile not exactly 
 the sort of emotion that the millionaire had expected 
 to call up. He had looked for astonishment. 
 
 "The higher the place, the better I should like it," 
 said Newcome, laughing. "But I don't see any 
 ladder to begin the climb on, at present." 
 
 "If you fight Joey the Kid and lick him," returned 
 Macaire, in the vernacular of his kind, "I'll provide 
 the ladder. After the fight's over I shall introduce 
 you to my friends as a sporting young pal of mine 
 who did the thing for a lark. I shall give them the 
 tip that you have come into a pile of money, and that 
 you want to see something of London life. I've done 
 pretty well for myself, and I'm in just the sort of set 
 that I like; but there are people in English society 
 who think themselves too good for me, in spite of my 
 money. There are others who'll say black's white 
 if I ask them to, because I've got what they want. 
 You shall know both kinds. You must have a good 
 name, of course a title would be the best thing. But 
 an English one couldn't be managed, I'm afraid. 
 You'd have to put up with a foreign makeshift. What 
 would you think of er let me see, Baron von 
 Zellheim?" 
 
 Now, at least, Macaire had no need for disap- 
 pointment, for the young man's face was red from
 
 THE REST OF THE BARGAIN 159 
 
 chin to forehead. "How did you happen to think of 
 that for a name ?" he asked, quickly. 
 
 " It came into my head," answered Macaire, " partly 
 because there really is such a title, which has lapsed, 
 I believe, for lack of a man with the right to bear it; 
 partly because it's not important enough to be doubted 
 and disputed; and partly because of an association 
 in my mind." 
 
 "Would you object to telling me what that asso- 
 ciation is ? " 
 
 "Not at all. When you recalled to me the fact 
 that I had seen you at the Duke of Clarence's Theater 
 one night some weeks ago, I remembered that I then 
 asked my friend Anderson who you were. Said he: 
 'That young man was sent to me with a letter of 
 introduction from the once famous "F. E. Z." Well, 
 I knew 'F. E. Z.' slightly a long time ago, when 
 she was very young, and I not so much older. If she 
 had been a man she would have been Baron von 
 Zellheim. You knew her personally, I suppose ? Did 
 she ever mention that to you ?" 
 
 "Yes. She spoke of her antecedents." 
 
 "If she had married and had a son he would have 
 been the Baron von Zellheim. But, as a matter of 
 fact, I believe she never did marry. However, you 
 may know better than I about that." 
 
 "No," remarked Newcome, coolly. "About her 
 private life, until I had the privilege of meeting her, 
 I knew very little." This time his expression told no 
 more than his words. 
 
 "Well, you understand what I meant by the 'asso- 
 ciation/ " quietly explained Macaire. "Seeing you, 
 and remembering what Anderson said, brought up
 
 160 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the thought of the beautiful 'F. E. Z/ So I recalled 
 the title which is going begging a good old German 
 name, and nobody to dispute it if you choose to keep 
 your mouth shut. As the lady is your friend " 
 
 "She is dead/' cut in the other. 
 
 So George Anderson had notified Macaire after 
 receiving the information from Newcome. But the 
 millionaire affected surprise and regret. He still 
 professed certainty, however, that she would gladly 
 have lent the family title to her young friend if it 
 could serve him. 
 
 "Why should it serve me?" asked Newcome. 
 
 "It would offer a foundation to begin upon, which, 
 with the money I should put at your service, would at 
 once give you a free pass into society real society, 
 I mean." 
 
 "But I don't understand yet why you should put 
 money at my service," Newcome answered. 
 
 "To amuse myself. I should like to play a trick 
 on the society which has only accepted me because of 
 what I have. I should enjoy seeing you take every- 
 one by storm; seeing a man like you flattered, and 
 run after, and made much of, on my recommendation. 
 I tell you, if you fight the Kid for me and come out 
 on top, you shall have six months of such a life as 
 perhaps you've never dreamed of." 
 
 The thought that flashed through Hope Newcome's 
 head was: "Six months ought to be enough for my 
 purpose. With such a chance as this madman offers 
 me for some queer reason of his own, which he's hiding 
 and don't want me to guess at, I could not only give 
 the help I would sell my life to give, but I should be 
 able to learn how to keep my oath as well."
 
 THE REST OF THE BARGAIN 161 
 
 "And at the end of the six months ?" he said out loud. 
 
 ' ' After me, the deluge/ " smiled Macaire, grimly. 
 "Why, at the end of the six months I should come to 
 the kernel of my joke. Wouldn't you be willing to 
 help me crack the shell?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by that. Perhaps 
 you don't wish me to." 
 
 " I confess I'm fond of a harmless mystery," answered 
 the man just baffled by the mystery wrapped round 
 the vanished figure of a girl. "If I merely to 
 amuse myself not out of any exaggerated whim 
 to be generous offer you a er salary, we'll call 
 it, of a thousand pounds a month for six months, and 
 let you do what you like without asking questions, 
 wouldn't you grant me my mystery till the end of that 
 phase of our partnership ?" 
 
 "I've never yet taken any money I haven't earned," 
 said Newcome. 
 
 "I mean you shall earn this. At first, with the 
 fight (the thing's off if the Kid knocks you out); after- 
 ward, at the end of the six months. Oh, you needn't 
 look so suspicious, my friend. I swear I would ask 
 nothing dishonorable. Will you take my word for 
 that, and, trusting me for the rest, give me my way ?" 
 
 Lionel Macaire, with his hideous, scarred face and 
 pale eyes, did not look a person to whom trust would 
 naturally flow out; but Hope Newcome wanted money 
 and position position not for what it could give him 
 of enjoyment, but for the help it would afford in the 
 mission for which he had lived, until the moment when 
 an incentive even stronger, came suddenly into his life. 
 Money he must have for the accomplishment of both 
 objects.
 
 162 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 It seemed to him, holding no cue to the motif-music 
 which sang so strange a tune in Lionel Macaire's 
 blood, that the eccentric millionaire must be hovering 
 on the verge of madness a verge where it was diffi- 
 cult to draw a line of definition. But there was the 
 offer, such as it was, for him, Hope Newcome, to take 
 or leave. And after six months, why, he believed 
 himself strong enough to face the consequences and 
 pay the bill, whatever it might be. Besides, he might 
 not win in that fight, supposing he went in for it. Yes 
 he would do it. Let all depend upon that. It must 
 be Fate's decision, not his. 
 
 "Well ?" inquired Macaire. 
 
 "How long will you give me to decide ?" 
 
 "Five minutes. The fight to be twenty rounds, 
 Queensbury rules, two-ounce gloves, a decision on 
 points if you stick it out till the finish. Fifty pounds 
 in your hand before you leave this room for your 
 immediate expenses, living, and training for you'd 
 want a sparring partner and a lot of odds and ends. 
 The best thing for you to do would be to go straight 
 to town, take up your quarters in my house, and use 
 my gymnasium. But all these points we can settle 
 if you decide my way in five minutes." 
 
 Hope Newcome had wanted as many hours, meaning 
 to walk by the sea in the November darkness, making 
 up his mind. But the offer of fifty pounds down and 
 a -chance to live without spending too much of it was, 
 in the strange circumstances known only to himself, 
 more than he could resist. 
 
 "I'll try it," he said, without waiting for even one 
 of the five minutes to go by.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A BACKWARD GLANCE 
 
 WHEN Winifred Gray had cried out her broken 
 prayer for help on the night of her great trial at the 
 theater Mrs. Purdy had honestly striven to comfort 
 the girl. 
 
 The old woman thought that the young one made 
 far too much of the ordeal through which she was 
 expected to pass, and bluntly said so. "What's an 
 extra petticoat here or there?" she had scornfully 
 demanded. "There's many a girl just as good with- 
 out as with 'em. My own daughter now, is one of 
 the best, and she plays the boy in pantomime, my dear, 
 whenever she can get the job, and I wish she had one 
 now. It didn't kill me y not it. Why should it your 
 mother?" 
 
 There was a difference, but perhaps too subtle for 
 Mrs. Purdy's comprehension. Winifred, quivering 
 and panting still, did not attempt to go into it, but a 
 few words which the woman had spoken made her 
 turn wet, wistful eyes up to the common old face. 
 
 "You've a daughter of your own," she said. "For 
 her sake, and for my mother's, help me. It isn't 
 only this scene that is so dreadful. There is far more 
 than that. A man a very rich man has per- 
 secuted and plotted against me. My playing Mazeppa 
 and being here at all to-night is part of the trick. He 
 
 163
 
 1 64 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 would spoil my whole life if he could I think he has 
 nearly spoiled it now. This is to bring me into the 
 dust under his feet; and he would be glad if the shame 
 of it killed my mother, who is very ill, for then I should 
 have no one on earth to care for or protect me. Think 
 how you would feel if your daughter your good 
 daughter were in such trouble and danger. Do 
 for me what you would have my mother do for her if 
 our places were changed. Help me to get away 
 to hide myself from this man." 
 
 She caught the woman's skirt with her hands when 
 Mrs. Purdy half turned away. Eyes, and shaking 
 voice, and falling tears all did their part in pleading. 
 
 "Dea.r me, if you ain't suddenly the image of my 
 own beautiful lady, F. E. Z., the first and dearest I 
 was ever dresser to!" exclaimed Mrs. Purdy. "It's 
 your eyes I think and the look of your face now. 
 I'll never forget till the day I die, seeing her cryin* 
 because of a trouble a bit like yours. Why, if there 
 was anything I could do for you, miss, I'd do it and be 
 glad, for my girl's sake, and the look on you like my 
 lady. But what could a body like me do that would 
 be any use ? In fifteen minutes you'll be on the stage 
 and " 
 
 "But there are those fifteen minutes first. Some- 
 how, if you would, you might smuggle me out of the 
 theater, and then, if you could tell me what to do just 
 for to-night " 
 
 "Hist!" whispered the old dresser, holding up a 
 finger of warning. "Someone is coming to the door." 
 
 Winifred was hushed into instant silence, her wet 
 eyes large and shining, her lips parted for hurried, 
 uneven breaths.
 
 A BACKWARD GLANCE 165 
 
 Knuckles rapped out a summons on the door. It 
 was then that the stage manager had asked Mrs. 
 Purdy how she was getting on. With a quick, mean- 
 ing glance at Winifred, her answer had been that she 
 was "getting on as well as could be expected." 
 
 Then he had been induced to go away, and the par- 
 ley had begun again where it had been so abruptly 
 broken off. 
 
 "Supposing I could get you out I don't say I 
 could, but supposing " the dresser went on, "you 
 couldn't go to your lodgings, could you? This rich 
 man you're talkin' about, he's sure to know where 
 you lodge, eh ? " 
 
 "They have my address here at the theater. He 
 could easily have found out." 
 
 "Then he has found out. You may bet on that, 
 miss. The search for you would begin the minute 
 they discovered you'd given 'em the slip. And if you 
 was to try and get to London, even, the railway stations 
 would be the very places they'd look for you." 
 
 " I haven't a penny. I couldn't go to London if I 
 wanted to," said Winifred. "I'm even in debt at my 
 lodgings for I was counting on my salary at the end 
 of the week." 
 
 "There it is, you see!" 
 
 "Ah, but I can earn money, somehow. Hide me 
 at your house, and I swear I'll pay you back one day 
 before long. Do help me. In a few minutes it will 
 be too late." 
 
 As the girl talked she had begun unfastening the 
 hated silken garments for Mazeppas great scene. 
 But, as she would have begun hurriedly dressing her- 
 self in her own clothes, Mrs. Purdy, with a shrewd
 
 166 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 glint in her little eyes, laid a restraining hand on the 
 girl's arm. 
 
 "If you want to get off" without leaving a trace," 
 she said quickly, "you mustn't put on one of your 
 own things. And look here, it isn't payment I was 
 thinkin' of, 'twas something else. My gal's got diph- 
 theria, and I've kep' it from the doctors, so she could 
 be nussed at home, she cried so at the thought of 
 goin' into hospital. She's better now, but she's laid 
 up yet. Ain't you afraid?" 
 
 "No," answered Winifred. "I'll help nurse her. 
 I'm a good nurse my mother says so." 
 
 "There's someone helpin' me now a lodger. But 
 we can make room for you somehow, only you may 
 get the disease." 
 
 " I'd rather die than stay here," cried Winifred. 
 
 "Well, then, this is what I've been thinkin'. Lucky 
 enough, when I come I puts in my pocket a hood I was 
 knittin' for my gal. It's finished, all but the strings. 
 And this worsted shawl, you could have that. No 
 one would notice I'd took it off. And I could spare 
 you a few things, my theater slippers, and I've a 
 petticoat on, was a dress-skirt once, only made a bit 
 shorter. Then you could leave all your clothes as 
 they are, and I'd make 'em think you'd gone out for 
 your scene that you couldn't have left the theater, 
 whatever you did. I'd keep 'em waitin' as long as I 
 could, too. If only you had a thick veil, now, to hide 
 your face, you could slip out of this room while Jeffrey's 
 back was turned; I'd peep first, and make sure you'd 
 a chance. You might pass by every stage hand about 
 the place, and the door-keeper, too, before anybody 
 dreamed you weren't bein' dressed in here for your next
 
 A BACKWARD GLANCE 167 
 
 scene. Miss Emmet one of the ballet girls wears 
 a hood like this; I knitted it for her myself, and you're 
 about her size. She leaves the theater after the first 
 act. If you could go now it would be about her time, 
 and with a veil 
 
 "My black chiffon fichu," cried Winifred. 
 "Doubled, it would hide my face." 
 
 In five minutes she was dressed and ready to go. 
 Mrs. Purdy peered out, even her old heart beating 
 fast with excitement. Jeffrey was talking to Selim's 
 groom behind the big screen. No one was looking. 
 "Now!" whispered the old woman. "Don't forget 
 the way I've told you to go when you get out. Now's 
 your one chance." 
 
 Winifred took it. Mrs. Purdy softly shut the door 
 after her and locked it, muttering to herself. She 
 had, while getting the girl ready for the venture, told 
 her how she must, when she had passed through the 
 stage entrance, go to the left, take the second turning 
 to the right, first to the left again, and so on, through 
 confusing directions, until she should come to a little 
 street called Salt Street. The Purdy house was No. 13 
 (there were but twenty houses in the street), but the 
 old woman feared that Winifred would never find 
 her way. She had said that she would be certain 
 to remember the directions, since so much depended 
 on not forgetting; still, Mrs. Purdy doubted that the 
 girl's confused, excited mind could possibly retain 
 them without getting hopelessly mixed. 
 
 She had done all that she could do, however, and 
 in the midst of her misgivings a crabbed sense of 
 humor set her laughing at the thought of Winifred 
 Gray's slim little feet flopping through the streets in
 
 i68 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the Purdy slippers for the smart patent-leather 
 shoes had been left behind with everything else that 
 was Winifred's. 
 
 The old woman's meditations were interrupted by 
 another call from the stage manager; and she had 
 gained three or four minutes' time for the fugitive by 
 her complaints that it was difficult to dress people 
 who were fainting. 
 
 "In for a penny, in for a pound," was her motto; 
 and her conscience was not of the mimosa type, which 
 shrinks from a fib or two. In fact, she was to tell 
 many before the night was out, and with such innocent 
 eyes that her prevarications would have done credit 
 to an accomplished actress. 
 
 But she, though feeling her triumph, was desperately 
 impatient to be at home. "What had happened 
 there ?" she continued to ask herself, under the placid 
 mask of the commonplace, dried-apple face. Had 
 that poor, distracted lassie ever found her way through 
 the darkness ?
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL, AND A MAN IN A MASK 
 
 ALL went well with Winifred, so far as she could 
 tell, until she was out of the theater, and had taken a 
 few of the many turnings prescribed by her friend. 
 She did not think that her leaving the theater had 
 attracted any attention, as several ladies of the ballet, 
 employed in the first act only, were departing for 
 their homes about the same time. And she was nearly 
 certain that, at all events, she was not being followed. 
 
 When she had gone a certain distance, however, 
 she began to feel confused, to fear that she had taken 
 a wrong turning, and might do so again, thus getting 
 hopelessly lost, unless she should inquire of people 
 whom she might meet, the way to Salt Street. 
 
 But Mrs. Purdy had warned her against the risk 
 of making inquiries if possible to avoid it, as a search 
 for her would certainly be instituted by the person she 
 most wished to shun. He would very likely employ 
 detectives, and someone might remember having been 
 accosted on that night at such and such an hour, by a 
 veiled woman with the voice of a lady, asking to be 
 directed to Salt Street. So a clever detective might 
 be put upon her track, and Mrs. Purdy was as anxious 
 to avoid such a mischance as Winifred could be; for 
 the lies she must tell at the theater would put her in a 
 peculiar position if they should be found out. Mrs. 
 
 169
 
 1 7 o THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Purely had been at the Thespian Theater as dresser 
 since it had been built a few years ago, and she did 
 not wish to lose her place. 
 
 Suddenly Winifred heard the lively music of a 
 banjo. A man's voice was singing a darky song. 
 Not one of the songs known in London music-halls as 
 "genuine plantation ditties" warbled by shapely 
 young ladies in broad white collars, knickerbockers, 
 and silk stockings, attended by black-faced "Picka- 
 ninnies"; but the real thing, invented by Southern 
 darkies for darkies senseless, tuneful, contagious of 
 mirth. It was that quaint bit of Kentucky gibberish 
 known as "Homemade Chicken Pie," and the people 
 who had crowded round the singer to listen were laugh- 
 ing and patting their feet, some of them joining in the 
 chorus. 
 
 They were collected at a well-lighted street corner, 
 and Winifred had begun to wish that she could find 
 a quieter thoroughfare when the song came to an end. 
 
 "Give us 'Linger Longer Loo/ " suggested someone. 
 
 "Can't, thank you. Shop's shut up for to-night," 
 laughed the man who had been singing, with a South- 
 ern American accent, which might or might not be 
 affected. Something in the voice caused Winifred 
 to pause at a distance outside the radius of the nearest 
 street lamp, and try to obtain a glimpse of the speaker. 
 He was tall, and wore a black mask, which completely 
 hid his face; but Winifred was sure that she associated 
 the voice with some incident which had lately happened. 
 
 She never forgot a face or a voice; and when she 
 had thought for a moment or two the elusive memory 
 was enticed back, and came flying swiftly, like a 
 homing pigeon.
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL 171 
 
 "It is the young man who flung that strange person 
 off the box-seat of the cab on my last night at the Duke 
 of Clarence's," she said to herself. And she thought 
 it odd, indeed, that he should be singing, masked, in a 
 Brighton Street at night. At first, in her almost morbid 
 fear of detection, she wondered if his presence could 
 possibly have anything to do with her; but in an 
 instant she had decided that this was most improbable. 
 
 She crossed to the other side of the road in order 
 to avoid the light and the crowd, and went on her way 
 or what she hoped was her way not turning to 
 look back. The music did not begin again, and, 
 having turned a corner which she could only trust was 
 the right one, she found herself in a dark and quiet 
 street. 
 
 It was very long and straight, and at each junction 
 with another road Winifred paused and peered through 
 her thick, improvised veil, hoping to see the name of 
 Salt Street. If it were not somewhere near she was 
 wrong in her calculations, and would have to ask the 
 way of someone, or be hopelessly lost. She went on 
 thus, slowly, and could see the name she looked for 
 nowhere. It was not late, but most of the houses in 
 this quiet street appeared to have gone to sleep for the 
 night. There was no sound, save the dulled murmur 
 of distant traffic, so that a footstep coming after her 
 seemed unnaturally loud. 
 
 It began by being just audible far away; then grew 
 more distinct, till it rang clearly along the pavement. 
 What if, after all, she had been followed, Winifred 
 thought. Somebody might have watched her, waiting 
 his chance; and now in this dark, silent street 
 
 She could not follow the supposition further without
 
 172 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 turning to look over her shoulder. Against her will 
 she did it, feeling as if some power other than her own 
 forced her head round. 
 
 The dim light that shone through a yellow window- 
 blind in a house where the inmates were still up, 
 fell upon something bright, and struck out a gleam. 
 It was the metal frame of a banjo; and Winifred 
 sighed with relief. Instead of being afraid, she was 
 glad that the man was near, for if she must question 
 anyone she felt she would rather trust him not to 
 betray her than a stranger. 
 
 Even supposing he recognized her, instinctively she 
 felt that, for the second time, he would do what he 
 could to protect rather than injure her. 
 
 He came on rapidly with a swinging stride, as if 
 he were in a hurry, and passed Winifred without 
 paying the slightest attention to the slim woman's 
 figure in its dark, inconspicuous clothing. Just as he 
 had gone by, however, she summoned courage to 
 speak. "I beg your pardon," she said meekly, "but 
 can you tell me the way to Salt Street ? I'm afraid 
 I have come wrong." 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and took off his hat, not like 
 a seaside minstrel, but like a gentleman. "I'm going 
 to Salt Street," he replied. "It isn't far from here, 
 but there are a couple of turns still, one to the right 
 and one to the left. If you like, I could show you." 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Winifred. "I 
 should be glad if you would, since it won't be taking 
 you out of your way," 
 
 They walked on side by side, but at some distance 
 apart, and neither spoke. Probably the man fancied 
 that if she wished for conversation on the way she
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL 173 
 
 would set the ball rolling. They took the two turnings, 
 and presently entered Salt Street, the masked singer 
 announcing the fact in a businesslike tone. 
 
 Winifred thanked him with a dismissing "Good- 
 night." Obediently, her late guide dropped behind, 
 his occupation gone; but, apparently to the surprise 
 of both, they met again at the door of Number Thirteen. 
 
 The lady in the veil and the man in the mask stopped, 
 and looked at each other. Then off came the man's 
 hat again. "I beg your pardon," said he, "but I 
 live here. Was it Number Thirteen you wanted?" 
 
 "Yes," responded Winifred, "I thought so. Maybe 
 I've made a mistake. Isn't it Mrs. Purdy's house ?" 
 
 "It is," he answered, "and I'm Mrs. Purdy's lodger." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Winifred, "she spoke of you. 
 She said you had been good to her sick daughter." 
 
 "I haven't been able to do very much," replied the 
 masked man. "You know her daughter's ill, then?" 
 
 "Mrs. Purdy told me." 
 
 "I don't think," he went on, "that it's right for you 
 to come into the house. Miss Purdy's better, but ' 
 
 "I'm not afraid," Winifred broke in. "Mrs. Purdy 
 sent me here. I I hope I can be taken in. It 
 would be very inconvenient otherwise." 
 
 "Of course you can be taken in, if you're not afraid. 
 I don't believe myself there's much danger now, but 
 one never knows; and for your sake, I wish - 
 
 "Please don't mind," she interrupted him again. 
 And then, hesitatingly: "I --think I recognize your 
 voice as one I have heard before." 
 
 "I recognized yours the moment you spoke," he 
 returned. "But I thought perhaps I ought not to 
 say so."
 
 174 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "As you are Mrs. Purdy's lodger, and I shall be 
 in her house for a time," said Winifred, "we are sure 
 to see each other's faces. And if your face is the one 
 I think it is, I feel certain you will respect my wish 
 to have no one know that I am here." 
 
 "You may be certain of that," he answered, and, 
 fitting a latch-key which he had taken from his pocket 
 into the keyhole of a small, battered door in a mean 
 little house in a row of other mean houses, exactly 
 like it, he threw the door open for Winifred to 
 walk in. 
 
 Inside was a tiny passage, lit by a common, unshaded 
 paraffin lamp suspended from the wall by a bracket, 
 with a tin reflector as a background. The floor was 
 bare, save for a narrow strip of carpeting meant to 
 cover a stairway, and on one side of the passage were 
 two doors. 
 
 " Miss Purdy's in that room," said the masked man, 
 indicating the door near the front. "At the back 
 here, there's a sort of sitting-room and dining-room 
 and kitchen all in one. Will you walk in ? and I'll 
 light the lamp." 
 
 Winifred did walk in, and in a moment, after some 
 fumbling with matches, darkness was turned into 
 light. The girl saw dimly through the double folds 
 of her fichu veil a small room, uncarpeted, and furnished 
 only with a red-covered table, a few chairs, a kitchen 
 range, plenty of shelves for brightly polished tins, and 
 cheap blue and white china. A queer old-fashioned 
 clock, with the picture of a pastoral landscape on the 
 door under its face, ticked with supernatural energy 
 on a very narrow mantel-piece above the range. Hang- 
 ing over this was a vilely executed crayon enlargement
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL 175 
 
 of a photograph, representing a good-looking young 
 woman dressed as a " pantomime boy." 
 
 There was hardly anything else in the room save 
 a colored mat woven of rags, which adorned the bare 
 floor and afforded a resting place for a large black cat; 
 but everything was spotlessly clean, and despite its 
 poverty the poor little room contrived to wear an air 
 of homely comfort. 
 
 Winifred's heart warmed to her refuge. Somehow, 
 she suddenly discovered that she was not as unhappy 
 as she had been. She felt a sudden accession of 
 courage and hope, though there was little which could 
 reasonably account for either emotion. 
 
 The masked singer gave her a chair, and she sat 
 down, conscious that she was faintly embarrassed in 
 his presence. He had recognized her voice, just as 
 she had recognized his; they knew each other, and 
 she desired to account to him in some commonplace 
 manner for her anomalous position; yet she did not 
 see how to do so without revealing the actual, hate- 
 ful truth. 
 
 The young man laid his banjo on the table beside his 
 hat, and began removing his mask. As he did so, with 
 a sudden impulse Winifred's hands went up to the knot 
 which tied the piece of chiffon at the back of her head. 
 
 Perhaps he had his secret as well as she. But he 
 was trusting her, and she would show that she meant 
 to trust him as well. Many wise people, knowing her 
 circumstances, would have thought her exceedingly 
 imprudent to do this. And doubtless she was impru- 
 dent. But she did not fear the consequences. And 
 the veil and the mask slipping down at the same instant, 
 the man and the girl looked into each other's faces.
 
 176 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 The man's was pale, and his dark eyes were bright. 
 If Winifred had possessed the slightest clew to his 
 strong feeling she might have wondered at the light 
 in his eyes. His expression was that which a man 
 might wear in dreaming a wonderful dream from 
 which he feared to be awakened. But Winifred was 
 not in a mood for subtle comparisons, and she only 
 realized more keenly than she had at their last meeting, 
 that his face was fine and virile, and singularly attractive 
 in a way that she could feel without analyzing. 
 
 She wondered, nervously, if he would ask any 
 questions; but he did not, and it seemed to her that 
 he was making an effort to pass the whole matter off as 
 if it were but a mere commonplace occurrence 
 nothing to excite surprise at all. 
 
 "I must go to Miss Purdy's door, and knock softly, 
 to find out whether she's sleeping still, or if she's 
 waked up and wants anything," he announced. "After 
 a fashion I'm acting nurse when the poor girl's mother's 
 away; but she's so well again now that she can be 
 left alone for awhile, so I went out for an hour. I'll 
 be back in a minute, and perhaps you'll let me get you 
 something to eat or drink, if if you're tired." 
 
 As he spoke he had been gazing at her with a wistful- 
 ness that would not be concealed. Winifred guessed 
 that she must be pallid and weary-looking after all she 
 had gone through, and fancied that her white face had 
 suggested his stammering offer. 
 
 His manner seemed to her curiously comforting and 
 helpful, though he had made no offer of help or hinted 
 his suspicion that she might need it. While he was 
 gone from the room Winifred listened attentively 
 to the sound of his footsteps in the passage, his low-
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL 177 
 
 toned conversation with the sick girl, and was glad 
 when he came back again a warming, protected glad- 
 ness as of one who has found safe haven after storm. 
 
 " I always make myself a cup of tea or cocoa when 
 I come in about this time," he said, when he had 
 returned to the kitchen-sitting-room. "Mrs. Purdy 
 has given me permission, and I feel myself very much 
 at home. Won't you have some tea, or do you like 
 cocoa better at night?" 
 
 "I should like tea very much, thank you," Wini- 
 fred answered. 
 
 She leaned back in the cheap, old easy chair and 
 watched him. There was something wonderfully 
 restful about it, after all she had passed through. 
 
 He seemed to understand by instinct that she was 
 too weary and worn to talk, and went quietly about 
 his work. 
 
 In this little household extra lumps of coal and 
 kindling were luxuries, so the fire had not been lighted. 
 Hope Newcome boiled the water over a spirit lamp, and 
 before the kettle had begun to sing he cut thin, tempting 
 slices of bread, and buttered them. He knew where 
 to find everything, and performed his self-appointed 
 task with the skill of one who has cooked himself many 
 a meal at times and in places when otherwise he would 
 have had none. 
 
 There was a glass of milk for the sick girl in the 
 next room, and when it had been carried to her the 
 tea had stood long enough to be good. A pleasant 
 fragrance filled the little room. Feeling like one in 
 a dream, Winifred ate bread and butter and sipped 
 strong tea. It was a very strange thing, but nothing 
 on earth had ever tasted so nice.
 
 178 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "What delicious tea you make!" she said. 
 
 "Do I? I'm glad," he answered. "I used to 
 make it for my mother." 
 
 "And my mother used to make it for me!" the 
 girl exclaimed. Then suddenly it struck her that it 
 was curious they two should have been thrown together 
 again, and be talking most familiarly in a calm, every- 
 day way, ignoring all that made each one's heart sad 
 or anxious, and knowing absolutely nothing of one 
 another's lives. 
 
 Yet now that she thought of it, did this man know 
 nothing of her life ? She had told him nothing, but he 
 had been at the Duke of Clarence's that night, and 
 now he was here in Brighton. He might have had 
 some superficial knowledge of her as an actress in the 
 beginning, and possibly he had asked questions. At 
 least, he could hardly be ignorant of her name after 
 what he had done in her service outside the stage-door 
 of the London theater; and if he remembered it, he 
 must know that Winifred Gray was billed to act in 
 Mazeppa to-night and after. . 
 
 The blood rushed up to her face as this conviction 
 seized her. What he had not already learned Mrs. 
 Purdy would probably tell him. Somehow the girl 
 could hardly bear that he should know all the truth. 
 It would be horrible to feel that she was associated 
 in his mind with a man of Lionel Macaire's repu- 
 tation. 
 
 Of course, there was no reason why she should 
 care what this poverty-stricken young minstrel, who 
 masked himself and played his banjo in the public 
 streets, thought of her, even though, whatever his 
 outward circumstances, he was certainly by birth and
 
 A LADY IN A VEIL 179 
 
 breeding a gentleman. Still, Winifred did care, dis- 
 proportionately, cruelly. 
 
 She was seized with a vivid desire to discover how 
 much he already knew. All the brief, sweet restful- 
 ness had vanished with those thoughts. 
 
 "Do you know my name ?" she asl^ed abruptly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered without hesitation. "I hope 
 you don't mind my remembering it so well. You are 
 Miss Winifred Gray. I couldn't help inquiring at 
 the theater that night; and the door-keeper told me. 
 As for me not that you'd be interested, still, I'd 
 like to tell you. I call myself Hope Newcome. It's 
 not my real name; I merely chose it because it meant 
 something to me, for a sort of mission that brought 
 me to England, and I shall drop it when that mis- 
 sion's done. But I haven't told anybody else this." 
 
 "Thank you for trusting me," said Winifred, 
 guessing that he had told her just to show his trust, 
 and to let her see that she was not the only one who 
 had secrets to keep. "I can't feel that we're strangers 
 after what you did for me that night. I've never 
 forgotten. But there are other things I want to ask 
 you about. Did you know that I was to have acted 
 in Brighton ? Of course, though, you must have 
 seen the bills." 
 
 As she spoke her eyes fell and her color rose, for 
 she seemed to see one terrible poster with a crowd 
 about it. Perhaps he had been one of that crowd, or 
 another like it. 
 
 "I knew, yes," said Hope Newcome, and flushed 
 a little also, for it was because he had known that he 
 had come to Brighton. But he would not tell her that. 
 
 He could not tell her how he had been tempted that
 
 i8o THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 night when he had first seen her (and the whole world 
 had seemed the brighter and sweeter for his knowl- 
 edge of her) to follow and find out where she lived, 
 merely that he might sometimes pass the house and 
 look up at the windows. He could not tell her of his 
 astonishment and pain when he had read in a paper 
 that Miss Winifred Gray had suddenly severed her 
 connection with the Duke of Clarence's Theater. He 
 had meant somehow to get the money for a seat on the 
 first night of As You Like It to see her as Celia, but 
 the Duke of Clarence's lost its attraction for him when 
 he knew that she was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 PARTNERS 
 
 HE could not tell her that, nor how often he had 
 thought of her, wondering whether she were still in 
 London; whether she were ill or well; whether she 
 were "resting" or rehearsing for some new play of 
 which he had missed the announcement. 
 
 He could hardly have looked her in the face to-night 
 if she could have guessed how, when he had read 
 that she was in Brighton, he had hastily answered 
 an advertisement in a dramatic paper requiring a 
 banjo-player and singer of American "plantation" 
 melodies, for a negro minstrel party to open, at an 
 early date, at a cheap music-hall in that seaside town. 
 He could play the banjo well, and a very good one 
 which he had had since his college days was still in 
 his possession; that is, grim necessity had not yet 
 obliged him to pawn it. 
 
 He had got the engagement, as the manager was 
 in a hurry and ready to take almost anybody. And 
 he had been delighted with the chance, though he 
 would have to black his face with burnt cork every 
 night, associate with cads and bounders, and receive 
 in exchange for his services the sum of one pound 
 a week. 
 
 As a matter of fact,, the pound was forthcoming 
 for one week, and no more. Business was bad, and
 
 182 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the manager disappeared before treasury day of the 
 second week, leaving the five members of the troupe 
 to do as best they could. 
 
 What Hope Newcome did was to stay and help 
 his landlady take care of her sick daughter. When 
 his funds failed he put on a mask, which Mrs. Purdy 
 made at his request, and went out into the street or 
 down by the sea with his banjo, earning not only 
 money enough to pay his way, but to provide some 
 little delicacies for the invalid, which otherwise she 
 would have had to do without. 
 
 Unassisted, he would perhaps not have thought of 
 this method of re-filling his empty pockets, but when 
 the "ghost" ceased to "walk" for the "Six Jolly 
 Niggers," Clara Purdy had suggested the idea. New- 
 come had come to occupy the one room her mother 
 had to let, before a cold had developed for her into 
 serious illness, and she had recently been earning a 
 few shillings in the same way herself. Having no 
 engagement for this year, she had been in the habit 
 of going out, masked, to sing popular music-hall airs, 
 with a sweet, untrained voice; and she had thought 
 that Hope Newcome might utilize his rich tenor and 
 his banjo. 
 
 So he had taken her advice, and had been in 
 Brighton thfee weeks. But there was very little of 
 this which could be explained or even mentioned to 
 Winifred Gray. And if he could tell her nothing 
 about himself, still less could he ask her questions. 
 He must be content for the present with the crumbs 
 that she cared to throw to him. 
 
 And how content he was ! As if it mattered what 
 wind had buffeted her within his reach, if she
 
 PARTNERS 183 
 
 were not hurt by its roughness, since here she was 
 beside him! 
 
 "Yes, I knew you were here," he had said, simply. 
 And the answer seemed bald and cold enough, com- 
 pared with the whole reality which he had in his 
 thoughts. "I knew it some weeks ago. You were 
 here before I was." 
 
 He had not referred to her question about the pos- 
 ters. But perhaps he had only forgotten to speak 
 of them. Perhaps he had not seen those horrible 
 new ones of which that girl at the theater had told her. 
 
 "Did Mrs. Purdy speak of me?" she asked. 
 
 " No, not to me. Since she went to the dress rehear- 
 sal she hasn't spoken of anyone in particular at the 
 theater; and, of course, as there's been nothing going 
 on there except rehearsals, she wasn't at the place 
 till then, since you came to Brighton." 
 
 Newcome might have added that he had taken the 
 room in Mrs. Purdy's house because someone at the 
 music-hall had told him she acted as a dresser at the 
 theater; and that he had tried to extract from her 
 some information concerning Miss Gray, after the 
 dress rehearsal of Mazeppa, but had not gone about 
 it tactfully enough to get the satisfaction he wanted. 
 He kept this part, however, untold. 
 
 "You must be wondering very much why I am here 
 instead of playing my part on the first night," Wini- 
 fred said hesitatingly, not sure yet how far she meant 
 to go in explanation. 
 
 " I'm not thinking about that," Newcome answered. 
 "I am only thinking that I should like to help make 
 you comfortable now you are here." 
 
 "I simply couldn't play the part as they wanted
 
 184 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 it done," the girl faltered on. "They deceived me 
 up to the very last, on purpose, of course, because 
 they must have known I wouldn't do it if I had been 
 told in time. They hoped that at the last moment 
 they could force me to take their way. But I would 
 not. Still, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Purdy they 
 might have succeeded. She helped me to get away, 
 and nobody at the theater guessed. When they found 
 out that I was gone as they must have, long ago 
 now I don't know what they could have done. I 
 suppose they sent someone else on in my place. But 
 I can't care much, because it was like a plot, and I had 
 to save myself, since they were determined that I 
 should wear that I should play the part exactly in 
 their way. I don't want them to know where I am. 
 It's to be quite a secret, if it can be kept so. And oh, 
 I hope it can!" 
 
 "It shall be," said Hope Newcome. His firm 
 tone gave the girl courage, and she felt a thrill of 
 gratitude. 
 
 They were still talking together when Mrs. Purdy 
 came home with the news of the theater and all that 
 had happened after Winifred's disappearance. 
 
 Winifred flew down the passage to meet the old 
 woman, when her latch-key was heard scraping in the 
 lock. She wanted time for one whispered caution 
 before her hostess should come into the sitting-room. 
 
 "If you guess the name of the man I most want 
 to escape from," she said hurriedly in Mrs. Purdy's 
 ear, "please don't mention it to anyone, not even 
 your daughter or your lodger, will you ? I can't 
 bear to think that people should know in what a hor- 
 rible way I have been persecuted."
 
 PARTNERS 185 
 
 "If I've a thought in my mind about that, there 
 it stays locked up," rejoined the old woman. "The 
 name I was thinkin' of isn't known to the public as 
 the manager of the play, and there's no reason why 
 anyone here who ain't in theatrical secrets should put 
 it alongside o' yours." 
 
 "That is what I hope," the girl exclaimed. "And 
 now I'm so anxious to hear all you have to say. Your 
 lodger has been very kind to me. But I've been 
 impatient for you to come and tell me if there's any 
 suspicion " 
 
 "Not a jot, thanks to my lies," broke in the old 
 woman. "I've told a pack this night, and my only 
 hope is that I may be forgiven, as 'twas in a good 
 cause. When I've had a peep at my gal I'll come 
 into the sittin'-room and tell you everything." 
 i She was as good as her word; and presently Wini- 
 fred's mind was relieved, for the moment, of the 
 fear that Mrs. Purdy's complicity in her act or the 
 hiding place chosen, had been suspected by anyone 
 at the theater. 
 
 Later, Hope Newcome had also a private word 
 for the old woman's ear. He wanted to give up his 
 room to Miss Gray without letting her know what 
 he was doing, and transfer his few belongings to the 
 storeroom behind it, where a bed of some sort might 
 be made upon the floor. 
 
 Mrs. Purdy had mentally apportioned this poor 
 accommodation to her unexpected guest, since she 
 herself slept in a cot in her daughter's room down- 
 stairs; but since Mr. Newcome was willing to endure 
 inconvenience, there was no reason against it; and 
 it was like him, that was all she had to say!
 
 i86 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 So Winifred was made comfortable at the expense 
 of her knight, blissfully ignorant that he was sacri- 
 ficing himself for her sake. 
 
 Next morning she made Clara Purdy's acquaint- 
 ance, and Clara's fertile mind, alert in her conva- 
 lescence, suggested a method by which Winifred's 
 safety from pursuit might be further secured. Clara 
 was a red-haired girl, but her tresses were neither 
 long, curly, nor abundant. One year in a provincial 
 pantomime she had played the fairy queen, and she 
 had worn a ruddy wig, which was an improvement 
 upon her own hair. That wig had been preserved 
 with care since then as an expensive "prop," which 
 might be found useful at any time; and in going out 
 to sing in the streets this autumn she had worn it, as 
 being more attractive, when hanging on her shoulders, 
 than her own rather scanty locks. 
 
 She was ill now, and not likely to leave her room 
 for ten days or a fortnight. Meanwhile Miss Gray 
 might have the wig if she would take it; and as Miss 
 Gray's "make-up" box had been left in her dress- 
 ing room at the Thespian Theater, with many other 
 things that were hers, Miss Gray was at liberty to use 
 Clara's, which had not done duty since the panto- 
 mime last year. Miss Gray might make up with a wig 
 and grease paints to look quite different from herself; 
 and then, if any prying eyes spied her through door 
 or window, she would never be associated with the 
 young lady who had run away from the Thespian. 
 
 Clara's advice was taken, to a certain extent. Win- 
 ifred did wear the wig, and blackened the soft natural 
 darkness of her brows and lashes to give the same 
 somewhat startling contrast presented by Miss Purdy's
 
 PARTNERS 187 
 
 own. Seeing her so, a stranger but casually acquainted 
 with Clara's appearance might, after a fleeting 
 glimpse of her, go away and say that he had seen 
 Mrs. Purdy's daughter. 
 
 A day or two passed and Winifred remained closely 
 in hiding. Accounts from the theater were satisfac- 
 tory. Suspicion had not turned toward Mrs. Purdy 
 or Mrs. Purdy's house, and Winifred had so far some 
 cause for satisfaction. Nevertheless, she was rest- 
 less and utterly miserable. 
 
 It was dreadful to be living on charity, with no 
 present prospect of being able to repay the debt of 
 gratitude she owed, and the girl chafed under her 
 burden of humiliation. 
 
 One of the first things she had done after finding 
 sanctuary at the house in Salt Street was to write a 
 letter to her mother. Even to do that she had been 
 obliged to beg paper and a postage stamp. 
 
 It had been a difficult letter to write, because Mrs. 
 Gray's state was still critical, in so far that the least 
 excitement might induce a relapse. Something she 
 had to be told, lest strange rumors might reach and 
 distress her; but Winifred had weighed each word 
 as she set it down on paper. She explained that 
 unfortunately she had had a "misunderstanding with 
 the management," and at the last moment thrown 
 over the part of Mazeppa, which she had felt she could 
 not play according to their requirements. They had 
 been angry, threatening legal proceedings; and at 
 present she did not wish her whereabouts to be known. 
 Her dear one must not worry, but instead of letting 
 the nurse write, or scrawling a few pencil lines herself 
 to the theater, she must address Miss W. Graham
 
 188 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Post Restante, Brighton. And then she begged that 
 a word or two might be sent to her soon. But no 
 word came, though Hope Newcome called at the 
 post-office twice a day. 
 
 Winifred grew desperately anxious. She longed 
 to telegraph to the head nurse of the "home" where 
 her mother was, but she had not a penny; and though 
 she often tried to find courage enough to ask for a 
 loan, she invariably failed at the last moment. 
 
 The Purdys were very poor. They had nothing 
 save what they could earn and Clara had not been a 
 bread-winner for many weeks. It was bad enough to 
 be wearing their clothes and eating their bread, with- 
 out borrowing their hard-won shillings. 
 
 But, though the girl could keep silence, she could 
 not hide the fever of anxiety in her eyes. Hope New- 
 come saw it there, and asked her straight out what 
 was the matter. Was she not comfortable ? Was 
 she in a great hurry to bring- her short stay in this 
 poor little house so unworthy of her to an end ? 
 Above all, was there anything that he could do ? 
 
 She did not dream of what he was already doing. 
 She did not know that his long absences from the 
 house were all for money-getting, that little delica- 
 cies might be bought to tempt her appetite, or a bunch 
 of flowers to bring a fleeting smile to her face. 
 
 So she answered that he could do nothing. She 
 was only rather worried at not hearing from her 
 mother, who was ill at a nursing home in London. 
 
 "Why don't you telegraph ?" he answered. 
 
 Winifred flushed, and did not answer. Then he 
 knew what he had already suspected. He had posted 
 the letter she had sent to Mrs. Gray, and though he
 
 PARTNERS 189 
 
 had not meant to look, had accidentally seen the num- 
 ber of the house in Welbeck Street and had since been 
 unable to forget it. 
 
 He hesitated for a while, and then went out, hav- 
 ing made up his mind. Three hours later he brought 
 home a telegram addressed to "Miss W. Graham, 
 Chief Post-office, Brighton." 
 
 "Mrs. Gray had relapse, unable to read or write 
 letters," the girl read with a sick throbbing of the 
 heart. "We hope no cause for serious alarm. Now 
 we have address will write same when further news/' 
 
 This message was signed by the head nurse, and 
 for a few minutes, in her grief and terror, Winifred 
 had no time to wonder how or why it had come. She 
 looked upon the telegram as a long-delayed answer 
 to the letter she had sent to her mother. But when 
 she grew calmer she realized that this could hardly 
 be, and guessed what Hope Newcome must have done. 
 
 He had taken a liberty, perhaps, but it was not 
 hard to forgive him, especially when, being accused, 
 he admitted his guilt, looking shamed and unhappy, 
 his eyes wistful as he begged for pardon. 
 
 After this Winifred grew somewhat more confi- 
 dent with him, confessing that she had great need of 
 money. She must earn some before she could try to 
 steal quietly away from Brighton, or pay the debt 
 which she felt was increasing every day that she lin- 
 gered at the little house in Salt Street. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I go out with you and sing?" 
 she suddenly flashed at him. "In these clothes, with 
 this wig of Clara Purdy's and a mask like yours, it 
 would be impossible for my own mother to know
 
 190 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 me, except that she would recognize my voice in sing- 
 ing, which nobody here could do. And I can sing. 
 I can really. Once I hoped to be a singer instead of 
 an actress, but that was long ago. I haven't had 
 time for singing lately. But I shall do well enough 
 for the street." 
 
 She was sorry for those last words the instant they 
 were uttered, lest his feelings, since he sang in the 
 street, should be hurt. But if they were, his man- 
 ner and face kept the secret. He did not seem to 
 think of himself at all, but only of her. It would 
 be impossible that she should do what she proposed, 
 jhe said. It was not to be thought of for a moment. 
 
 But Winifred did think of it; and the more she 
 thought the more practicable seemed the idea. She 
 had no fear of being recognized in Clara Purdy's 
 clothes, mask, and wig; and neither Lionel Macaire 
 nor any member of the Maxefpa Company had ever 
 heard her sing. Indeed, no one whose presence she 
 need fear in Brighton would know her singing voice. 
 
 Hope Newcome made money enough to tide him 
 over a crisis in his financial affairs; why should not 
 she ? Surely there was no disgrace in trying to earn 
 an honest living, and this seemed the only road open 
 to her. She would think of it, and talk of it, and 
 insist, despite her new friend's protestations, until at 
 last he began to understand that she would be better 
 in health and happier in mind if she were allowed to 
 have her own way. 
 
 He consented to take her with him; and quite as 
 excited as she had ever been on a first night in a new 
 
 O 
 
 part she lifted up her voice to sing in the public street, 
 accompanied by Hope Newcome's banjo.
 
 PARTNERS 191 
 
 The pair attracted quite a crowd, and when the 
 masked man held out his banjo afterwards a shower 
 of small silver and coppers went clinking in. At 
 home later they counted their takings, and found that 
 they had made six shillings. This was unusual luck, 
 and Newcome attributed it entirely to the charm of 
 Winifred's voice. He generally averaged two shil- 
 lings, he said; and, of course, this was all hers, every 
 penny of it. 
 
 But Winifred would not listen to such arguments. 
 They were partners or nothing. She would not touch 
 the money unless he would take half. Seeing anger 
 in her eyes, Newcome had to yield. And after this 
 they went out together every day. 
 
 Winifred's eyes, shadowed by her mask, roamed 
 hither and thither as she stood singing in the King's 
 Road or in less important thoroughfares. Once they 
 were near a large hoarding which had displayed a 
 poster of Mazeppa, but everything was torn away 
 save a bit of colored paper at the top and half the 
 name at the bottom. 
 
 Winifred could scarcely bear to look at this, fear- 
 ing that the poster might have been one of the dreaded 
 ones, and that Hope Newcome might have seen it 
 in all its horror before some kind hand had torn it 
 down. She did not even guess whose hand had 
 served her not only in this one instance, but in 
 many others. Newcome, however, could have told 
 if he would; though he would probably have died by 
 slow torture rather than speak of all those vile paper 
 desecrations, save with murmured profanity under 
 his breath. 
 
 Winifred looked, too, for faces from the theater;
 
 i 9 2 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 but not one did she chance to see until, late one after- 
 noon, Lionel Macaire had passed her by without a 
 glance. Then had come the episode of the fight 
 which had been begun to save her mask from being 
 torn aside by rude fingers. She had rushed away, 
 adjured by Newcome, and had not been there to see 
 the millionaire when he returned again. 
 
 She had her reasons for not wishing it known that 
 she and Lionel Macaire were acquaintances. Hope 
 Newcome had given a promise that his dealings with 
 the man should remain a secret; and so it was that 
 Fate began to play a pretty game of cross-purposes 
 between the man and the girl who called each other 
 " partners."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 
 
 IN all Winifred's confidences to Hope Newcome 
 during their quaint "partnership" she never uttered 
 the name of Lionel Macaire, mentioning only the 
 business manager of the Mazeppa Company in the 
 complaints, which were hints rather than outspoken 
 statements. But Newcome had seen the obnoxious 
 posters (indeed, had the girl known it, he had done 
 much more than see them) and he could read hidden 
 meanings into her few stammered words. 
 
 When she confided to him, however, the fact that she 
 had striven to cover her flight with such secrecy, 
 principally because she feared, from Mrs. Purdy's 
 warnings, that the management might obtain and 
 enforce an order of arrest, imprisoning her for breach 
 of contract, unlearned as he was in the matter of 
 English law, he was able to laugh away her terrors. 
 Nothing of this sort could possibly happen, he had 
 assured her after a long confidential talk on the night 
 after the making of his queer bargain with Macaire. 
 She would probably be sued for breach of contract, 
 and large damages would be claimed, that was all, he 
 informed her. When the case came on, if it should go 
 against her in spite of the defense she would be able 
 to make, she would be called upon to pay a sum of 
 money and her adversary's costs. If she could not 
 
 193
 
 194 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 pay, she might be made bankrupt, which would be 
 disagreeable perhaps; but no one would think any 
 the less of her; and, besides, as she was in a position 
 to bring such grave counter-charges, the enemy would 
 most likely only bluster and threaten, and never pro- 
 ceed against her at all. 
 
 This information changed the face of affairs for 
 the girl. If she could she would still gladly have 
 kept her whereabouts from Lionel Macaire's knowl- 
 edge, for he was a treacherous foe. But now that 
 she knew how mistaken her childish panic had been 
 she no longer felt the one necessary thing to be con- 
 cealment concealment at almost any cost. 
 
 Since she had heard of her mother's relapse she 
 had been desperately anxious to get back to London, 
 and now that she realized the enemy's compara- 
 tive powerlessness over her, only the lack of money 
 held her back. She had earned a few shillings 
 by her singing, but she had handed these to Mrs. 
 Purdy in payment for her board and lodging; and 
 Mrs. Purdy, being very poor, had felt obliged to accept 
 them. 
 
 Hope Newcome had guessed her difficulties with- 
 out being told, for his mind was sensitized by his 
 passionate love for the girl, and her thoughts, as 
 they passed through her brain, seemed often to print 
 themselves upon his. If he had not engaged himself 
 to go to London and train for the coming event, which 
 might mean everything for his future, it would have 
 been hard for him to bid her good-by. But as it was, 
 though his bargain with Macaire was to be so pro- 
 found a secret, Newcome was joyous at the prospect 
 of Winifred's departure to London. Even if he did
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 195 
 
 not see her there for many a day to come it would be 
 something to feel that she was not far away. 
 
 Not only did he advise her to go as soon as possi- 
 ble to her mother, but, when he had received the fifty 
 pounds promised in advance from Macaire, he sent 
 half the sum anonymously to Winifred. 
 
 Just how he should do this had been a puzzle. 
 She would not take money from him, that was cer- 
 tain. He could not forge a letter from the girl's 
 mother, or from the brother of whom she had spoken 
 rather sadly once or twice. And no friend of hers 
 was supposed to know her present whereabouts. 
 
 But, after much thinking, he hit upon an idea, 
 which he at once proceeded to work out. He ad- 
 dressed an envelope in a feigned hand to "The Young 
 Lady Singer in the Mask, 13, Salt Street, Brighton." 
 In the same cramped writing he penned a few lines on 
 a sheet of paper saying: 
 
 "This is from an invalid, blessed in this world's 
 goods, who, being wheeled in her bath-chair along 
 the parade, has heard you sing favorite songs of her 
 childhood in your sweet voice. The pleasure you 
 have given her has been better than medicine; and 
 she begs that you will accept the enclosure as a slight 
 tribute of admiration." 
 
 To this sheet of paper Newcome had pinned bank- 
 notes for twenty-five pounds, and had hardly been 
 able to wait in patience until the letter had been 
 delivered at the house by the postman. 
 
 Winifred's surprise and bewilderment were quite 
 vivid enough to satisfy his boyishly eager anticipa- 
 tions; but he had to put forth all his powers of argu-
 
 196 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 ment and persuasion before she would entertain the 
 idea of using the money. What could she do with it 
 else ? he urged. As she did not know the name of 
 the sender, she could not possibly return the present. 
 Why not, then, consider the gift providential, believ- 
 ing that the thought had been put in somebody's 
 head for the purpose of enabling her to go to the 
 mother who needed her ? It seemed to him that her 
 course was clear; every other road was blocked. 
 
 After her bitter experiences Winifred was inclined 
 to be fearful and easily suspicious. She did not for 
 an instant think of her "partner" as the mysterious 
 benefactor, because, so far as she knew, he was nearly 
 as poor as herself. But she did think of Lionel Macaire, 
 asking herself if he could have found out where she 
 was hiding, and be firing another mine to explode 
 under her feet by-and-bye. 
 
 At last, however, the temptation to accept the 
 goods given by the gods was too strong for her. She 
 imagined her mother dying, calling in vain for the 
 daughter who was kept away by a mere scruple. She 
 remembered the debt she still owed to Sir Digby 
 Field, and at the nursing home; and she decided that 
 it would be worse than folly to let the money, which 
 could do so much, lie idle. If evil came from it in 
 the future, why, the future must take care of itself. 
 
 Having once come to this resolve, she grew quite 
 reckless, for five-and-twenty pounds seemed so much 
 for her to own after those days when she had been 
 looking with respect on every halfpenny. She gave 
 Mrs. Purdy and Clara a present, and very shyly begged 
 Hope Newcome to let her lend him a few sovereigns. 
 
 This offer had its humorous side, since the money
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 197 
 
 she was pressing upon him was in reality all his; but 
 Newcome received it with a perfectly grave face. 
 He was on the point of telling her that he needed 
 nothing and would take nothing, when suddenly he 
 had an idea which struck him as brilliant. 
 
 "That's awfully good of you/* he said, "and I 
 will borrow a sovereign I really don't want more 
 on one condition, and one only." 
 
 "What is that ?" asked Winifred. 
 
 "Well, you see, we've been partners, and nothing, 
 I hope, can ever make us feel like strangers to each 
 other again. And so I can take this money freely 
 from you if you'll promise me that, in case you should 
 be a little down on your luck at any time, and I was 
 flush, you'd let me lend you something something 
 really worth while just supposing, you know, that I 
 could well afford it." 
 
 Such a contingency seemed at present rather remote, 
 and so for the pleasure of lending him a pound to-day 
 Winifred pledged herself to his condition for other 
 days to come. 
 
 That evening she let him see her off at the station, 
 and he stayed in Brighton for the night (instead of 
 going straight to town to begin work with his spar- 
 ring partner, in preparation for the coming contest), 
 solely for the joy of receiving a letter which Wini- 
 fred had promised to write. 
 
 Next morning the letter came. She had written it 
 before going to bed, in the flat which had once been 
 such a dear home to her and her little mother. Mrs. 
 Gray's relapse had been caused by some bad news 
 about her son, so the girl wrote, though she did not 
 tell what the nature of the news had been; but the
 
 198 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 nurses hoped for the best, and Winifred thought that 
 the sight of her might do her mother good. She 
 was not alone at the flat, she went on to say; her 
 brother Dick was with her, having come to town 
 only a few days before. And, thanks to Winifred's 
 new riches, they should get on comfortably for a 
 while till "something turned up." Of course, as 
 they had had such sharp reverses of fortune, the flat 
 was now much too expensive for them; but they had 
 it on their hands, till it could be sub-let, and so they 
 might better live in it than go elsewhere. If Mr. 
 Newcome came to town while Dick was with her, 
 she hoped that he would call upon his late "partner" 
 and her brother. 
 
 Hope Newcome thought this the most delightful 
 letter that had ever been written or received; and it 
 went into the pocket nearest his heart, where lay cer- 
 tain documents of a very different character docu- 
 ments which had brought him to England. 
 
 Then he wrote to Winifred, telling her that sud- 
 denly arranged business was calling him to London, 
 and that he should be only too happy to call upon 
 her if she would let him. When this letter had been 
 sent off he went to see Macaire at the Metropole, to 
 say that he was ready for work; but Macaire was 
 engaged, and he was kept waiting. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the millionaire was at that 
 moment closeted with a detective in his employ. The 
 man had received a telegram from a colleague in 
 London, with the information that Miss Gray had 
 returned to her flat near Bryanston Square, where 
 she had joined her brother quite openly, and had 
 gone with him to the nursing home in Welbeck
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 199 
 
 Street, where the mother lay ill, to inquire after 
 the invalid's health. 
 
 Her hiding place, meanwhile, had not yet trans- 
 pired, however, and Macaire had some sarcastic com- 
 ments to make upon his employee's methods. 
 
 When he had sent the detective away he saw New- 
 come, and told him that he himself was ready to return 
 to town. He had run down to Brighton for a few 
 days by the sea, as he didn't care to go abroad this 
 year, but, after all, London was best; and they might 
 make the journey together, if Newcome liked. 
 
 All this seemed very good-natured and unaffected, 
 for Newcome's clothing, although not as conspicuous 
 as that in which he had called upon George Ander- 
 son at the Duke of Clarence's, was shabby at best; 
 and handsome and well set up as the wearer was, 
 many men in Macaire's position might not have 
 cared for him for a traveling companion. 
 
 Macaire had his own special car, made after an 
 American model, and it was to accompany him in this 
 gorgeous conveyance that Newcome found himself 
 invited. The millionaire was taciturn at first, appear- 
 ing to be absorbed in singularly engrossing thoughts 
 the grewsome, glazed skin on his forehead twitching 
 nervously from time to time; but after a while his 
 mood completely changed. He talked rapidly, and 
 even picturesquely, about sporting matters in gen- 
 eral, and boxing in particular, seeming vastly keen 
 upon the subject. He described Joe Nash, otherwise 
 Joey the Kid, advising and warning Newcome of the 
 best way to "tackle" so wary and formidable a cus- 
 tomer; and then drifted into talk of the Stock Exchange, 
 growing almost confidential at last, narrating some of
 
 200 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 his own early successes, and illustrating the maxim 
 that "money makes money/' He had had but a 
 moderate fortune to start with, he said, scarcely 
 30,000; but he had been ambitious, and he had 
 had ideas. At the age of twenty-eight or thirty he 
 had made up his mind exactly as to what he wanted 
 in life, and determined to get it. He had speculated, 
 and been phenomenally lucky, and the result had 
 been well, he would not say how much, but all the 
 money he was ever likely to want. Then he deigned 
 to describe one or two of his first great coups, and 
 Newcome listened with attention. 
 
 Only a short rime ago he had not been conscious 
 of high worldly ambitions. He had always been 
 poor, had even known great hardships since reach- 
 ing manhood, and he had expected to remain poor. 
 If he could accomplish the one task to which a 
 beloved woman had solemnly dedicated his life he 
 had thought that he would be satisfied. Afterward 
 it would not matter so much what happened to 
 him, though no doubt he would rub on somehow 
 well enough when he went back to the Southern 
 states, where he was known, and could get some- 
 thing decent to do. 
 
 But now, all was suddenly changed. He was in 
 love, and he wanted Winifred Gray more than he had 
 dreamed it was possible for a man to want anything. 
 Ambition waked with the prospect of the strange 
 adventure in which he was engaging. Talk of money 
 interested him. His heart quickened at the story 
 told by Macaire, and though his face betrayed noth- 
 ing, seeming even indifferent as he listened, without 
 any particular expression, to the tale of how a man,
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 201 
 
 beginning at an age not much greater than his own, 
 had grasped fortune, he missed not one detail of a 
 single anecdote. Macaire, though he fancied himself 
 a student of character, would have been surprised 
 could he have seen into Hope Newcome's mind. 
 
 When the millionaire was tired of telling of his 
 successes and how they had been made, he turned the 
 conversation to the 'duties of rich men. He did not 
 pose as a dispenser of charity, he remarked. That 
 sort of thing he left to the fellows who wanted to 
 get on the soft side of princesses and work for titles. 
 As for him, he thought knighthoods positively vul- 
 gar; they smelt of soap, beer, or groceries, and bar- 
 onetcies weren't much better, unless a chap was born 
 to them. 
 
 "I shouldn't sleep of nights if I didn't feel I was 
 doing some good in the world," he exclaimed, with 
 the well-executed air of frankness which those who 
 knew him intimately recognized at once as leading up 
 to something something for which they had better 
 keep their eyes open. "But I don't go in for chanty 
 in a lump the kind that's meant to get into the 
 papers; presents of Christmas turkeys to 50,000 poor 
 people, or endowing hospitals, or giving gold plate to 
 cathedrals. I like to help individuals, not the regu- 
 lar 'slummers,' though it's well enough to look after 
 them, too, but people who have had hard luck, and 
 want just a 'hand-up' out of the slough. Now, for 
 one instance of what I mean, among many, there's a 
 family called Gray; a nice little woman, whom every- 
 one likes who knows her, and a daughter who's on 
 the stage. By the way, she was to have played here 
 in Brighton, I think, the other day, but there was
 
 202 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 a misunderstanding of some sort I don't know 
 what. I suppose that's what put her and her mother 
 in my mind at this moment. Anyhow, the family 
 has had hard luck lately, I hear, and I'd like to do 
 something for them through the brother, perhaps 
 if I could manage it without its being known. I hate 
 that sort of thing to be talked about. I hate to have 
 people's thanks. Hanged if I know what to say to 
 them, or where to look." 
 
 Hope Newcome's heart warmed to the eccentric 
 and hideous millionaire. He had accepted his queer 
 offer because it suited him, but he had not liked the 
 man. Now it occurred to him that, like the toad 
 which is supposed to hide the jewel of price in his 
 ugly head, Lionel Macaire was better inside than out. 
 He was certainly not snobbish; that was proved by 
 his treatment of a shabby young stranger, even though 
 the stranger served his purpose; and now it seemed 
 that he had a good heart. 
 
 Newcome had had experiences in his twenty-six 
 years which had made him reticent, slow to form 
 opinions of people, and still slower to utter them. 
 This habit of reserve clung to him now; he was not 
 sure of Macaire, but he was inclined to believe him 
 genuine, and his faint suspicions of the man were not 
 increased by his mention of the Grays. On the con- 
 trary, his pulses leaped at the sound of the name, and 
 he was ready to encourage further confidences on the 
 subject, without betraying any special eagerness in 
 drawing them out. 
 
 If Macaire, recalling Newcome's championship of 
 Winifred Gray outside the stage-door of the Duke 
 of Clarence's, watched his face for signs of emotion,
 
 THE JEWEL IN THE TOAD'S HEAD 203 
 
 he must have been disappointed. The young man 
 looked civilly interested, just as he had looked before. 
 
 "You must remember Miss Gray," Macaire went 
 on. "You hauled a man off the driver's seat of her 
 cab the night I saw you. Perhaps you knew her 
 before?" 
 
 "No," said Newcome, calmly, "I'd never seen 
 her till that night. The affair you speak of hap- 
 pened quite by accident." 
 
 "You didn't run across her in Brighton, then?" 
 
 "I wish I had," Newcome answered, with such 
 apparent frankness that no one could have suspected 
 evasion. "I'd have gone to see her act if she'd been 
 playing in Mazeppa." 
 
 "So would I. But as a well-wisher of the family 
 - I can't say a friend, as I hardly know the Grays 
 personally I can't help thinking it's just as well she 
 didn't whatever was the reason that caused her to 
 back out apparently at the last minute. One never 
 knows the rights of these theatrical quarrels. Ma- 
 zeppa, as it was to have been played, judging from 
 the posters, wasn't a piece I should have cared for a 
 daughter or sister of mine to appear in." 
 
 "No," said Newcome, calmly. But there was a 
 spark in his eye at the thought of those posters. 
 
 "A man was telling me a day or two ago that the 
 family are in financial straits," continued Macaire. 
 "The mother's ill, and there's a ne'er-do-well young 
 brother who failed in Ireland with a paper he'd taken 
 shares in." (Macaire had not needed his detective 
 to tell him this; he had had a hand in that little trans- 
 action himself, having been a power behind the editor- 
 ial throne which had toppled.) "I don't want to
 
 204 > THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 appear in the transaction at all; but if you come out 
 ahead in this fight with the Kid, and make your bow 
 in society as a young man of fashion, you might be 
 able to help me do the trick, and others of the same sort. 
 Between us we might get young Gray a berth that 
 would prop up die family fortunes, eh ?" 
 
 "If I can help, you may count on me for all I'm 
 worth," responded Newcome, this time not attempt- 
 ing to cool down the growing warmth in his breast. 
 He liked Lionel Macaire; and now no warning thrill 
 bade him look before he leaped to conclusions.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE LION'S DEN 
 
 LIONEL MACAIRE was giving a dinner to a few 
 friends at his huge palace of a house in Park Lane. 
 Only a dozen men were asked, and there were no 
 women, save those engaged to sing and dance strange 
 new dances, in diaphanous rainbow draperies, while 
 the guests sat over their wine and cigars. But the 
 principal guest was a royal personage, and a rumor 
 had gone round among those present that after din- 
 ner was over the millionaire had a surprise up his 
 sleeve for his friends. 
 
 He was celebrated for his surprises of one kind 
 and another. Sometimes they were of a kind to be 
 mentioned afterward only in whispers by those let 
 into the secret; but they were always notable, not to 
 be forgotten. And perhaps there was not another 
 man in England who entertained with such eccentric 
 magnificence as Lionel Macaire. It was because of 
 this and because, too, of a certain room in his town 
 house or under it that he had got his nickname of 
 Nero the Second. And the room which, though few 
 people had actually seen it, had helped to swell his 
 peculiar fame was called the "Lion's Den." Strange 
 scenes were said to be enacted there sometimes. 
 
 His dining-room was built like a banqueting-hall 
 in an ancient Roman palace. The floor was of white 
 
 205
 
 206 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 marble, and the domed ceiling was of blue and gold 
 mosaic, the pillars supporting its arches were of pink 
 granite, and there were wonderful curtains of Syrian- 
 dyed purple silk, bordered with scroll patterns in gold. 
 Against this purple background statues of beau- 
 tiful nude figures stood out in gleaming white, for 
 Macaire was a patron of the arts, and his tastes were 
 distinctly French. 
 
 Under the open-work embroidery and lace inser- 
 tion of the table cover was cloth-of-gold; and the 
 plate was gold also, glittering under the electric lights 
 that starred the blue vault of the ceiling. In such a 
 room, and at such a table, the men in their modern 
 evening dress looked oddly out of keeping; but none 
 so incongruous as the host himself. 
 
 With the cigars came a gold cigarette case for each 
 guest, with his own monogram in diamonds; and 
 when the last pretty dancer had bowed her lightly- 
 draped figure away behind one of the purple curtains, 
 and no man cared for more wine even Lionel 
 Macaire's wine the host suggested to his most 
 honored guest an adjournment to the "cellar" (as 
 he called it), where something amusing might be 
 expected. 
 
 A quiet smile went round the circle at Nero's way 
 of referring to the "Lion's Den." Every man knew 
 that he was in for some good sport. They left the 
 dining-room, coming out into an immense hall, then 
 through several passages, which led them at last to a 
 fine billiard-room. In one wall was a great cup- 
 board, which held all sorts of odds and ends; and at 
 the back of this was a concealed door which opened 
 with a spring. Its existence would have been difficult
 
 THE LION'S DEN 
 
 207 
 
 for anyone save an expert in such matters to discover 
 unassisted; and only two of the millionaire's most 
 trusted employees were in the secret, though there 
 were whispers in the servants' hall concerning a mys- 
 tery in the house. The architect and the builder 
 had kept their own counsel, as had Macaire's favored 
 guests; and if the millionaire sometimes provided 
 illegal diversions for his friends there was little dan- 
 ger of an interruption from rudely raiding police. 
 
 When the concealed door had retired into the wall 
 as magician fingers touched the hidden spring, a 
 flight of marble stairs could be seen, illumined by 
 electric lights set on either side. At the bottom of the 
 steps was an open space floored and walled with 
 marble. Here were two closed doors of oak. One of 
 these Lionel Macaire opened, and his guests, led by 
 Royalty, filed into a curious room. 
 
 It was, as he had said, in the cellar, but it had no 
 connection with the other cellars under the huge 
 house. It could be entered by two doors only; one 
 through which the party had just come, and another 
 opening into an adjoining apartment. 
 
 The room was forty feet square at least, and as 
 plain as the rest of the house was elaborate. Round 
 the walls were rows of cushioned seats of walnut 
 wood, sloping upward in tiers. They would have 
 accommodated a hundred people, instead of the dozen 
 here to-night. These seats walled in a conventional 
 roped "ring" a square about twenty feet in dimen- 
 sion. At each corner of this square was a big silver 
 punch bowl, in lieu of a basin, a silver jug filled with 
 scented water, and a great, bloated-looking sponge. 
 
 At sight of these preparations the guests at once
 
 208 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 knew what sort of entertainment was in store for 
 them. Even those who were familiar with the Lion's 
 Den had been uncertain till this moment, for the only 
 permanent furnishings in the place consisted of the 
 rows of seats along the wall. Even-thing else could 
 be changed according to necessity. 
 
 Close to the ring were two chairs, and as Macaire 
 and his friends entered two men rose from these, 
 bowing slightly. Their faces were known to several 
 of the guests. One was a well-known referee, the 
 other a man appointed to act as time-keeper in 
 the anticipated sport. The former had just come in 
 from the nsxt room, where the principals in the scene 
 about to be enacted had stripped for weighing, and 
 might soon be expected to appear. 
 
 When one of the front rows of seats had been sparsely 
 occupied, all eyes turned toward the closed door of 
 that next room. 
 
 Presently it opened, and three men came slouching 
 in. One of was middle age, or near it, with closely 
 cropped carrot-red hair, thick and bristly, a straight 
 line of auburn eyebrow meeting across a pugnacious 
 nose; fierce, deep-set little eyes like those of an angry 
 pig; a protruding chin that locked the lips above it 
 tightly together when they were shut; and the chest 
 and arms of a giant. He wore loose white drawers, 
 canvas shoes that made no noise when he moved; and 
 as he came forward he grinned at the audience, sug- 
 gestively clinching his hammer-like fists and swelling 
 out his biceps so that the muscles rose like springs of 
 iron under the dark, hairy skin. 
 
 This was Joey the Kid, and the two with him 
 would see him through the fight.
 
 THE LION'S DEN 209 
 
 The trio took their places at one corner of the ring 
 and a moment later another three came in at the 
 door left open. 
 
 A tall, slim young fellow, dressed as the Kid was 
 dressed, entered with his second and a trusted servant 
 of Macaire's, who had performed many a queer office 
 in this room. The newcomer looked, compared with 
 Joey the Kid, like Antinous beside Hercules, or David 
 with Goliath. Stripped to the waist, his face and 
 throat bronze, his body marble, he seemed hardly 
 more than a youth; but the eyes eagerly criticizing 
 his form could find no fault with it. A Greek sculptor 
 of old, in search of a model for a young athlete, would 
 have seen in him perfection. Yet, beautiful as his 
 body was to the eye, it appeared a monstrous injustice 
 to match his youthful strength against the brawny 
 bulk of the big professional prize-fighter. 
 
 Macaire himself made the necessary announce- 
 ment. He told his guests that the match was to be 
 under list. iolb., and was between Joe Nash, whom 
 they knew as Joey the Kid, and an amateur, who, having 
 no name in English sporting circles, claimed the right 
 to remain anonymous until after the fight. He (Mac- 
 aire) vouched for him, and guaranteed that his record 
 was no more than it professed to be. Nash had just 
 now been weighed at eleven stone nine in the weighing- 
 chair in the next room, his opponent touching ten stone 
 eight. The conditions of the fight were the best of 
 twenty three-minute rounds with two-ounce gloves. If 
 it ran to the full length it would be decided by points. 
 
 Having given this information, he put in a flatter- 
 ing word for the referee, who looked pleased, and the 
 prologue to the play was over; the act about to begin.
 
 2io THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 The slim young man and the hairy giant came 
 forth from their respective corners and grasped each 
 other's hands, the former's second (who had been his 
 sparring partner) eyeing the pair furtively, his face 
 eager. 
 
 By this time each man in the audience had iis 
 favorite. Note-books were out, and bets had been 
 recorded. Few believed that the unknown amateur 
 had a chance against the Kid, and Hope Newcome 
 felt adverse opinion hanging heavy in the air, oppres- 
 sing his chest. 
 
 He was half ashamed of himself for what he was 
 about to do, yet nothing on earth would now have 
 induced him to draw back. It was all for Winifred. 
 Already he had been able to help her. If he could 
 win this fight, and, winning it, step into the place 
 which Lionel Macaire had promised him, he would 
 tell Winifred the truth about the mission which had 
 brought him to England, and ask her if, in spite of 
 all it entailed upon him, she would promise to be his 
 wife. He dared not think that she loved him, but 
 she had been heavenly sweet, and it might be that 
 she had learned to care just a little during the days 
 that they had been "partners." With money he 
 could at least try his luck. For, if he got it, it would 
 be his money, honestly though strangely earned. He 
 was going to do all he knew to earn it now. 
 
 Newcome and Joey the Kid had never seen each 
 other until they had walked out, half stripped, from 
 the partitioned spaces which they had used as dress- 
 ing closets in the next room. 
 
 He had heard all that could be heard of the big 
 man's record from his own sparring partner, and
 
 THE LION'S DEN 211 
 
 that all was not encouraging to him. He had expected 
 to see a giant, but the Kid had proven even more 
 formidable to look at than Newcome's fancy had 
 painted him; and the younger man, having so much to 
 gain or lose, had experienced a qualm of misgivings 
 as his eyes and the little pig-eyes of the noted prize- 
 fighter had met. 
 
 Now, however, with the touch of the other's hand, 
 all nervousness went. Never in his life had Hope 
 Newcome felt more cool, more confident in himself. 
 Realizing fully the almost desperate task to which 
 he had pledged himself, he trusted that if he could 
 not win the fight, at least his own splendid condition 
 would make him no despicable foe for the hero of 
 the ring against whom he was pitted. His muscles 
 were like elastic and steel, his nervous energy thrilled 
 in every fibre of his being. He had carefully trained 
 for this fight, and his shining skin, the clear whites 
 of his eyes, showed him to be in the height of physi- 
 cal condition. As he moved his arms the muscles 
 rippled under the skin or shot out into smooth swell- 
 ing contours, hard as ivory, as he clenched his fists 
 and fell easily and lightly into fighting position. 
 
 Joey the Kid had the mottled skin, the bagginess 
 under the eyes which tell of a man who drinks hard 
 and lives hard; and, looking at the brutal face and 
 little sullen eyes, Newcome told himself that his only 
 change of success lay in making the fight, on his side, 
 one of strategy, in avoiding as far as possible the smash- 
 ing blows of those blacksmith arms, toughened by 
 many an encounter in the ring. 
 
 The first round was mere experimenting. Each 
 man was studying the other. Joey was clearly rather
 
 212 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 disdainfully wondering why Macaire had pitted him 
 against this slim youth, whom he thought, in the 
 pride of the bully, that he could "fight with one hand." 
 Yet he did not want to be led into a trap. There 
 might be more science in the youngster than he knew 
 of. So he stood at first mainly on the defensive, let- 
 ting Xev.-corr.e begin the attack: then suddenly made 
 one of the rushes that had often brought disaster to 
 his antagonists. The young man saw his danger; 
 dodged Kke lightning, ducking quickly under the 
 other's arm, breaking to the left, breaking to the right; 
 until, just as time was called, he got in a smacking 
 blow on the Kid's low forehead, which made him 
 shake his head like an angry bull. It was a case of 
 honors divided, but the dashing round of three min- 
 utes was enough to prove. to Newcome that he must 
 call on all his science, all his strength, if he were to 
 even hold his own with this formidable antagonist. 
 
 The next few rounds were keenly, warily fought. 
 There was a quick pattering of feet on the sawdust, 
 an occasional vicious grunt from the Kid, as he struck 
 a heavier blow than usual, the sullen thud of the 
 gloves. 
 
 So far Newcome had been successful in the game 
 of strategy he had set himself to play. He began to 
 think that his task might be easier than he had sup- 
 posed it. He had broken with his guard, or avoided 
 by his quickness the most dangerous blows that had 
 been aimed at him, and he had got home several 
 slapping blows on Joey's face. For an instant he 
 lost his head, and, enticed by his opponent's apparent 
 listlessness, he rushed in recklessly. 
 
 Next moment he repented, for he received a ter-
 
 THE LION'S DEN 213 
 
 rific upper cut that jarred his spine, and sent him 
 reeling across the ring. Joey was after him in a 
 flash trying to pin him in a corner and settle him; 
 but Newcome had still strength to dodge this way 
 and that, escaping with another sounding blow on the 
 ribs. It was almost a disaster, and when time was 
 called he could barely stagger to his stool, gasping 
 like a newly landed fish. 
 
 The flood of cold pungently-scented water squeezed 
 over his head from the great sponge brought his fac- 
 ulties more under control. He took a sip of brandy; 
 his legs lost their numbness. As he rose for the next 
 round, game still, though tottering a little, there was 
 a murmur of encouragement from the spectators, 
 hushed to breathlessness as Joey rushed joyously in to 
 finish his victim. 
 
 But Newcome was not to be easily caught again. 
 He dodged and ducked, dexterously avoiding the 
 dangerous corners into which his antagonist would 
 have driven him, and came scathless, but giddy, through 
 the round. Another minute's rest, another spong- 
 ing of the head and sip of brandy, and he was able 
 to face his man again. But he was weak from the 
 tremendous battering he had received, and the prize- 
 fighter seemed determined to finish the fight there and 
 then. The pace was getting too hot; the Kid's breath 
 came and went in hissing gasps. He wanted to 
 knock out his man before the latter's youth, better con- 
 dition, and extreme quickness could turn the scale 
 against his own greater strength. Grinning viciously, 
 he rushed on his haggard opponent, and Newcome 
 needed all his agility to save himself from the mad 
 fury of the attack. Just at the end of the round
 
 214 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 die prize-fighter landed a straight right-hander on 
 Newcome's throat, and the young man, lifted from 
 his feet and buried across die ring, seemed to the 
 excited spectators to have received the knock-out 
 blow which they all had feared must come sooner 
 or later. 
 
 Actually the impact of the blow was less severe 
 than it seemed, and Newcome, while appearing to 
 fall like a log, had realty practised something like a 
 stage fall. He let it seem that he was badly hurt, 
 allowed his seconds to support him to his chair, and 
 lay back panting, with his eyes dosed. No one who 
 looked at him believed that he could go through 
 another round; Macaire, sulkily disappointed, and 
 Macaire's guests considered the fight practically over. 
 
 Newcome was thinking to himself much the same. 
 He knew that he was over-matched in strength, in 
 mere brute hitting power, if not in skill and science; 
 and he bitterly realized that at any instant the end 
 might come. One device only was left to him, and 
 
 ^> J 
 
 that he resolved to put into practice at once. When 
 time was called he rose languidly, and staggered 
 toward the center of the ring. A pang of pity for 
 a victim pluckily determined to fight it out to the last 
 against desperate odds softened die eyes of the spec- 
 tators. The Kid's attack seemed irresistible. Exasper- 
 ated at the long resistance, furious that so many 
 rounds had been fought without victory declaring her- 
 self in his favor, he rushed at his young antagonist 
 like an angry bulL But in die passion of the assault 
 die prize-fighter, counting now on certain triumph, 
 relaxed his caution. It was the chance for which 
 Newcome had watched and waited and schemed.
 
 THE LION'S DEN 215 
 
 Calling on his final reserve of energy, summoning 
 his last ounce of strength, he shot out a clean, tre- 
 mendous blow, the full weight of the body behind it 
 and it caught the giant full on the point of his square, 
 resolute jaw. The Kid's hands whirled up help- 
 lessly, he fell crashing down, full on his back, his 
 limbs twitching, a low moaning coming from his 
 parted lips. Newcome stood over him, wondering at 
 what he had done, fearing that the giant would rise 
 again to renew the fight, but the time-keeper's monot- 
 onous voice crying the seconds from one to ten, while 
 still the prize-fighter lay helpless and unconscious, 
 told his benumbed brain that the victory was his 
 a victory jealously snatched from the jaws of defeat. 
 
 He hardly saw the limp body of his unconscious 
 opponent carried away to the next room. Voices 
 drummed in his ears like the buzzing of bees. Half- 
 dazed still, he realized that Macaire was shaking his 
 hand, that others were crowding near. 
 
 "After such a triumph you can be anonymous no 
 longer," the millionaire was saying. "Gentlemen, I 
 want to introduce you to my friend Baron von Zell- 
 heim, a name you must all have heard, a man you 
 will all be glad to meet/'
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 
 
 THE oaa news which had prostrated Mrs. Gray 
 just as she had been pronounced out of danger was 
 from Dick. In a reckless moment he had staked most 
 of the money sent by Winifred to buy himself out of 
 the Army on a horse concerning which he had had a 
 "sure rip." The horse had disappointed expecta- 
 tions Dick swore he had been drugged the money 
 was lost; and Dick still a wearer of His Majesty's liv- 
 ery instead of being the happy possessor of ten rimes 
 the original sum sent him, as he had hoped. 
 
 This disaster had been kept from Winifred, "lest 
 it should worry her"; and because the poor little 
 invalid had had to worry all alone she had slipped 
 back almost to death's door. Had she dreamed of 
 her daughter's new trouble in Brighton she would 
 probably have died outright; but she had not been well 
 enough even to read the cautious letter sent by the 
 girl from Mrs. Purdy's. And meanwhile things had 
 mended with Dick, though exactly why a certain piece 
 of luck had come his way remained a mystery. 
 
 A lieutenant in his regiment, indifferent, even over- 
 bearing before, had suddenly appeared to take a 
 fancy to him and on learning through questions 
 that Dick was die brother of Miss Gray, the actress, 
 invited further confidences, and finally lent the 
 
 216
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 217 
 
 young private the money necessary to procure his 
 freedom. 
 
 All this had happened before Winifred ventured 
 out of her hiding-place to boldly return home, where 
 she found Dick already established, and very little 
 ashamed to tell the tale of his folly, his misfortune 
 and his rescue. 
 
 The end of the story alarmed Winifred. Not only 
 was her pride hurt that the brother for whom she 
 had worked so hard in vain should be under obliga- 
 tions to a stranger impossible at present to repay, but 
 she was pricked with fear lest Macaire's hand had 
 been in the business. For the officer who had come 
 to Dick's aid was said not to be rich; indeed, Dick in- 
 formed her as part of the mystery that the young man 
 was supposed to be deeply in debt. 
 
 The girl could do nothing, however, toward repay- 
 ing the loan. The money she had left from her anony- 
 mous present must be used for her mother and 
 for current expenses, which were increased by Dick's 
 presence at home. Again the weary struggle to find 
 an engagement began; but, though the law-suit she 
 feared was not begun, the affair in Brighton, from 
 the enemy's point of view, was known far and wide 
 in theatrical circles, and the few managers wishing to 
 engage actresses did not want Miss Winifred Gray. 
 
 She had been exactly a fortnight in London when 
 a new blow fell. The officer who had lent Dick the 
 money for his discharge wrote that he must ask for 
 immediate repayment, as he found himself in unex- 
 pected difficulties. Previously he had assured the 
 young fellow that he might pay when he liked, or not 
 at all it mattered nothing to him.
 
 218 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Winifred, to whom Dick instantly came with the 
 letter, was at her wits' end. There was no one whose 
 advice or help she could ask. Her mother must not 
 be told, and Dick had shown himself weaker than a 
 child in business affairs. She thought of Hope New- 
 come, as she had thought many times during the past 
 two weeks, with a grieved pang because, though in 
 London, he had never called or even written. She 
 did not want material help from him, but poor, and 
 shabby, and down on his luck as he was, her feeling 
 for him was such as a damsel of old might have cher- 
 ished for a knight, who had ridden up and rescued her 
 from murderous thieves in the forest. He had none 
 of this world's goods; but of courage, and strength 
 and chivalry he had more than any man she had ever 
 known; and just to talk with him of her troubles as 
 they had talked when they were "partners," under 
 their masks, would have been like having a strong 
 staff to lean upon in her weariness. 
 
 It was late one afternoon that she sat thinking 
 of Hope Newcome, wondering why he kept away, 
 and whether he had already forgotten. She had 
 Dick's letter from the officer in her hand, and had 
 been trying to concoct an answer, until the image of 
 Hope Newcome had beckoned her thoughts to a dis- 
 tance. Darkness was falling, but gas cost money, 
 which Winifred had not to spend. When Dick came 
 in they would have a lamp; but Dick had gone down 
 to Fleet Street directly after their luncheon of bread 
 and milk, hoping to place a story he had written, 
 and had not yet come home. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of the door-bell broke into her 
 thoughts. It did not ring very often now, for the
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 219 
 
 girl who had been billed so brazenly for Mazeppa 
 was in disgrace with her friends. Since she had 
 returned from Brighton no one had called to see her. 
 
 Winifred's nerves were in such a state that when 
 anything unexpected happened she was frightened, 
 and her heart beat fast. Suppose a man with a "sum- 
 mons" against her for breach of contract had come 
 at last ? Suppose Dick had got himself into some 
 new dilemma, and she were to hear of it now ? She 
 had been with her mother in Welbeck Street that 
 morning, staying as long as the nurse allowed; but 
 supposing word had come of another relapse ? 
 
 There was no servant in the little flat in these days. 
 Winifred did all the work herself; and it was part 
 of her work to answer the bell. She went to the 
 door now, in the half-darkness, quivering and throbbing 
 with vague terrors of what she might have to see or hear. 
 
 But there on the threshold stood Hope Newcome, 
 and her relief was so intense that she gave a little cry 
 of joy, and held out both her hands. 
 
 "Oh, partner, it's you!" she exclaimed. "I'm so 
 glad!" 
 
 He caught her hands and gripped them tightly - 
 so tightly that it hurt; but Winifred was in a mood 
 to be glad of such a hurt as this. 
 
 "You've been a long time in remembering your 
 promise," she said, suddenly feeling confused, and 
 thankful for the darkness that hid her eyes and cheeks. 
 "But come in. I'm sorry my brother's out. Per- 
 haps, though, he will be here presently." 
 
 With such conventional words she led him into 
 the drawing-room a very different room from that 
 in which they had had their talks at Mrs. Purdy's,
 
 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 yet only a mockery in its dainty grace to the emptiness 
 of the family purse. 
 
 "Did you really believe I hadn't remembered?'' 
 Newcome asked, in an odd, tense voice, as if he were 
 keeping back an army of words eager to press for- 
 ward. 
 
 "What else could I believe ? Unless that yon were 
 too busy ?" She had her back to him, and was busily 
 lighting a lamp on the table. It was so dark that 
 they had hardly seen each other yet; still, she did not 
 appear to be hurrying over her task. 
 
 "Busy! As if being busy would have kept me 
 away from you, after you had said I might come. 
 No, it wasn't that. Mayn't I light the lamp for you ? " 
 .In a moment die room was full of light. She must 
 look at him now, and meet his eyes; which she turned 
 to do, with the beginning of a smile; but the smile 
 changed to surprise before it had reached perfection. 
 
 " Why, you you I hardly know you. But how 
 :.. :.-: : ~-.~ ' ~ - " 
 
 Hope Newcome laughed out boyishly. "You mean 
 that from a 'busker' I've turned into a 'swell.* Please 
 don't you think you oughtn't to have shown that 
 you were astonished. I should have been disap- 
 pointed if you hadn't. Is it an improvement ?" 
 
 It certainly was. A Bond Street tailor had done 
 his best for the splendid, youthful figure. What 
 Newcome had lost in picturesqueness by this trans- 
 formation he had more than gained in distinction. 
 But, remembering him so vividly as he had been at 
 Brighton, it was certainly a shock to behold him in 
 the smartest of frock coats, with a tall, shining hat 
 in his hand.
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 221 
 
 "I hardly know yet," stammered Winifred. 
 "You're quite like the prince in a fairy story " 
 
 "If I'm not a prince, at least I pass as a baron," 
 he answered, still laughing. "May I introduce Baron 
 von Zellheim, at your service ? I don't hold out this 
 hat for silver. Luckily, there's no need. I'm a sort 
 of male Cinderella; only my clock won't strike the 
 fatal hour of midnight, for well, I hope for some 
 time to come. But, dear Miss Gray dear 'partner,' 
 if you'll let me call you that still joking apart, I've 
 been waiting until I knew whether I was going to be 
 a poor seedy beggar such as I was when I knew you 
 first or almost a rich man before I would permit 
 myself to come and see you. The reason of that was, 
 I wanted so very much to say certain things to you 
 which I had no business to say if I were to be unfor- 
 tunate, that I dared not trust myself near you till 
 my affairs were more settled. But oh! the struggle 
 it's been to keep away." 
 
 Winifred did not answer. She could not if she 
 would. A flame seemed to run through her veins. 
 She knew what were the things that he wanted so 
 much to say to her she thought that she knew. And 
 she was sure suddenly very, very sure that she 
 knew what she would wish to say in return. 
 
 They had been standing, but the girl sank down on 
 the sofa which had been sacred to her mother. 
 
 "May I sit by you and tell you all about every- 
 thing that I can tell ?" he said. 
 
 A look answered him, and he took the vacant place 
 on the sofa. 
 
 "I've come into some money," he began to explain, 
 hesitating a little. " Perhaps, if you knew how I'd got
 
 222 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 it, you wouldn't approve. It isn't - - well, it isn't 
 quite ideal, certainly. But I don't think it's dis- 
 honorable." 
 
 "Of course not, or you wouldn't have taken the 
 money," said Winifred. 
 
 " Do you trust me for that not knowing ?" 
 
 "Yes, absolutely, partner." 
 
 "Thank you, a thousand times. I should like you to 
 know the whole story, but I'm bound for a time not 
 to tell that to anybody. Still, there's the money; it's 
 mine to do what I like with. If I keep my head I 
 need never be poor again, and I mean to keep it. Just 
 at present I'm being rather extravagant, but that's 
 part of the plan! I only knew that everything was 
 going to be all right for me a few days ago; and already 
 I've taken rooms at Walsingham House, and have 
 bought a horse, and done all sorts of things that would 
 have seemed as far out of reach as the moon a few 
 weeks ago. You remember I told you that I'd come 
 to England a few months ago on a mission ? Well, 
 now I'm in a fair way to accomplish it if it's to 
 be done at all." 
 
 Winifred listened with excitement and deep inter- 
 est; yet there was a queer little pain in her heart. 
 He had said nothing yet of what she had guessed that 
 he meant to say. Perhaps she had been mistaken. 
 Perhaps he had intended something quite different. 
 
 " Before I can talk of what is nearest my heart, far 
 nearer now than the mission for which I was brought 
 up," he went on, "I must confess to you what the 
 work is I came here to do. It was to bring a mur- 
 derer to justice to revenge the ruin he wrought in 
 two lives. It is that for which I have lived, until
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 223 
 
 lately. But now another interest has pushed it aside 
 - perhaps it's a sin to let it do that but I can't help 
 it. The new interest is too strong for me stronger 
 than my soul. Has a man a right to love a woman 
 and tell her so while there is such a burden on 
 his life?" 
 
 "A burden of revenge?" Winifred asked, slowly. 
 " Must the man bear it ? Can revenge ever be en- 
 nobled ?" 
 
 "Yes, a thousand times, yes!" he cried, almost 
 fiercely. "Even for love it couldn't be given up, for 
 that would be a wrong to the dead." 
 
 "It isn't revenge for the man's own wrongs, then ?" 
 
 " For those who gave him his life his father and 
 his mother. Do you say that he must not tell a woman 
 of his love while he has such a mission to work out ? 
 If you do say so I shall know that you are right." 
 
 "No I don't say that; I can't say it," whispered 
 Winifred. 
 
 'Then you know, don't you, what I long to ask ? 
 You're all the world to me, and heaven too. Is it 
 possible that you could learn to care for me a little, 
 that you could forgive me the dark things I must 
 keep in my mind - 
 
 "I have learned already," the girl broke in, "to 
 care not a little, but more than I can tell. I learned 
 when we were partners. Since we first saw each other 
 you have been my knight. Even at the very begin- 
 ning I thought differently of you from any other man." 
 
 "It seems impossible," cried Newcome. "That 
 you such a girl as you should even think of a 
 shabby beggar - 
 
 "You were a gentleman. What can a man be
 
 224 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 more ? Oh, I wish you'd told me that you liked me 
 in Brighton." 
 
 "What a brute I should have been if I had! It's 
 bad enough now. You ought to marry a millionaire." 
 Winifred shuddered, and drew away a little from 
 the arms that held her tight. " Oh don't speak to 
 me of millionaires!" 
 
 Newcome was quite willing not to. There were 
 only two persons in the world worth talking of at that 
 moment herself and himself and they talked of 
 those two unceasingly, until Dick was heard at the 
 door, and they began hastily to speak of the weather, 
 or the first subject that came into their heads. Not 
 that Winifred meant the wonderful things which had 
 just happened to her to be kept a secret from Dick, 
 at least for long, but her mother was to know first; 
 and even she was not to be told until she was a little 
 stronger. Any excitement, even happy excitement, 
 was forbidden to her now. 
 
 New T come and Dick were somehow introduced to 
 each other, though it was clear that Dick did not at 
 all understand who Baron von Zellheim was. They 
 had not had many w r ords together when Winifred's 
 lover turned to her with a look that only she could 
 read. "There was so much to talk of at first," he 
 said, "that I forgot something important. But as 
 it concerns your brother, perhaps it's just as well I 
 waited till he came. Now he can answer for himself. 
 Mr. Gray, I've heard from your sister that you write. 
 I don't know whether it's in your line, or whether you 
 haven't something you like better to do; but, any- 
 way, I can offer you a secretaryship, if you'll have it, 
 with a salary of seven guineas a week."
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 225 
 
 Winifred flushed with pleasure and surprise. Here 
 was a fairy prince indeed! His change of fortune 
 was still something of a mystery to her, and he had 
 left another mystery between them as well; but in 
 the bright white light of their newly acknowledged 
 love she had no thought to bestow upon dusky cor- 
 ners. She was happy for the first time in so long, 
 that she could hardly believe happiness was real, and 
 she held it closely, loving her lover all the more because 
 he had thought of poor Dick, of whom she had spoken 
 so seldom at Brighton. 
 
 "By Jove, that is good of you!'* exclaimed Dick, 
 who had a hearty and pleasant manner, which en- 
 deared him to strangers. "I'll be only too thankful 
 to make it 'in my line,' and do the very best I can, 
 for I've had beastly luck lately, as maybe Winnie has 
 told you. Is it you who offer me the position?" 
 
 "No," said Newcome, flushing a little, as Wini- 
 fred remembered afterward. "It's a friend of mine, 
 a richer man than I am a very good fellow, not 
 young. It would be a desirable berth for anyone, 
 I think; the hours are not long, the work not too hard, 
 and no doubt the salary would be increased." 
 
 "I suppose you asked him to have Dick," exclaimed 
 Winifred. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, it was the editor of an Irish 
 paper that's lately stopped who spoke of him so my 
 friend said recommending him highly." Newcome 
 explained, still with a slight air of embarrassment, 
 which Winifred in her excitement did not consciously 
 notice at the time. "Then I mentioned knowing you 
 (though, of course, I gave no details), and he asked 
 if, when I called, I would invite Mr. Gray to meet
 
 226 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 him. He's engaged to-night, I'm sony to say. But 
 will you dine with me to-morrow evening at the Savoy 
 Hotel at eight, and go round with me to my rooms 
 afterward?" 
 
 "Delighted!" cried Dick, thankful that he had not 
 pawned his evening clothes, as he had been tempted 
 to do lately. 
 
 "And I wonder if you would both dine with me 
 somewhere to-night?" went on Xewcome, "just we 
 three alone. Do say yes. Miss Gray." 
 
 Winifred did say yes, with joy. It was so wonder- 
 ful, so almost unnatural to feel joy. She basked in it, 
 she revelled in it, thrusting all the old troubles aside 
 as if they had ceased to exist. Presently Dick left 
 them alone together, and Newcome ventured to say 
 something which had stuck in his throat before. 
 \\ ouldn't Winifred let him lend her money heaps 
 of money? It was for that he had rejoiced in his 
 luck. If she would not take it, what he had would 
 be worthless to him. She had given herself to him 
 now, and surely he had some rights over her. Besides, 
 she must remember their compact. He had bor- 
 rowed from her because she had promised to do 
 the same from him when he should be in a position 
 to lend. That time had come now; he had thou- 
 sands, and he would claim her promise. 
 
 Of course Winifred said no; but Newcome would 
 not accept her refusal. He was urging his point 
 when Dick came back, and had succeeded so far as to 
 make the girl consent to think it over. 
 
 They dined together at a quiet place, and even the 
 presence of a third person could not damp their happi- 
 ness. They looked into each other's eyes while
 
 HOPE NEWCOME'S LUCK 227 
 
 Dick ate the first good dinner which, he announced, 
 he had tasted for an age. 
 
 Next morning came flowers for Winifred. She 
 had never loved flowers so well before. Some she 
 took to her mother, kissing their sweet faces before 
 she parted with them; but others she wore when Hope 
 Newcome came to her again in the afternoon. She 
 was alone, as on the day before, and her lover helped 
 cut bread and butter for tea; and they called each 
 other "partner," as they had in the strange days at 
 Brighton. 
 
 That night Winifred sat up to wait for Dick when 
 he should come home from his dinner at the Savoy, 
 and the engagement at Newcome's rooms afterward. 
 She longed to hear all about what had happened, 
 and what sort of a man her brother's employer had 
 turned out to be.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 
 
 HALF-PAST eleven came, and still no Dick. But 
 just as the clock of St. Mary's Church struck twelve 
 the door of the flat was flung open, and Dick entered, 
 whistling the latest music-hall air. Winifred ran to 
 meet him. "Oh, Dick, you'll wake everybody in the 
 house," she said warningly. 
 
 "Well," he echoed, "my appointment's all right. 
 And I'm to live in the handsomest house in this old 
 village." 
 
 " What you won't be at home ? Oh, mother 
 will be disappointed. Still, it can't be helped. Any- 
 way, you'll be in London." 
 
 "For a while. And then I'm going abroad with 
 him. Guess who. You've heard his name a thou- 
 sand times. Think of one of the most important 
 men in England. By Jove, von Zellheim has some 
 swell friends." 
 
 "Is he a great politician ?" 
 
 "No; financier; sporting man all round good fel- 
 low, I'll bet. And, by Jove, he may do something 
 for you. Seems he's interested in theaters. Got so 
 much money he doesn't know where to put it all. 
 But guess, Winnie." 
 
 The girl had grown suddenly pale. "I can't," she 
 faltered. " For heaven's sake, tell me quickly." 
 
 228
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 229 
 
 "Well, I'm private secretary, if you please, to no- 
 body less than Mr. Lionel Macaire." 
 
 With a cry Winifred sprang to her feet. "No, 
 Dick no!" she gasped. "Say you're only joking." 
 
 "Then I should tell a lie. I'm in dead earnest. 
 What makes you look so queer ?" 
 
 The girl stood still, pressing a hand against each 
 temple, her bright hair pushed back. "Did you say 
 that Lionel Macaire was Hope Newcome's Baron 
 von Zellheim's friend ?" she asked. 
 
 " Rather. They're no end of chums. Macaire 
 calls von Zellheim 'my dear boy/ and pats him on 
 the shoulder. He thanked von Zellheim for bring- 
 ing us together, which it seems had all been arranged 
 between them for some time before it came off. And 
 I can tell you I have to thank von Zellheim, too. This 
 will be the making of me, Win." 
 
 "It will be the undoing of us all," she moaned. 
 "Oh, my God, to think that he should be false, too!" 
 
 Dick stopped in his walk and stared at her. "I 
 don't know what you are driving at, Sis," he said. 
 
 She seemed to be looking at him, though her eyes, 
 dark with pain, saw nothing save Hope Newcome's 
 face, which rose before them as if to mock her with 
 its sham nobility, its sham truth, its sham love. But 
 it was not for Dick to know the bitter anguish, the 
 shame that made her writhe. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," she answered him dully, almost 
 sullenly. "You can't possibly be Mr. Macaire's 
 secretary, Dick that's all." 
 
 "Can't?" he repeated. "My dear girl, you must 
 be mad. The thing's settled. I go to work early 
 to-morrow morning. Some time this winter he and I
 
 230 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 are off to the Riviera and Monte Carlo together; 
 think of that!" 
 
 "I can't think of it. It won't bear thinking of. 
 For heaven's sake, sit down and write a letter saying 
 that that you accepted the offer under a misappre- 
 hension anything only make it dignified and firm. 
 I tell you, Dick, the man's impossible." 
 
 "What nonsense!" Dick ejaculated, crossly. "He's 
 a splendid fellow. I always fancied from what I'd 
 heard he was a bit of a bounder, in spite of his money; 
 but he isn't at all, and even if he were I'm not too 
 proud " 
 
 "You will be too proud when you know that he 
 has insulted your sister. Oh, Dick, listen to me! 
 The worst trouble I have ever known has come from 
 this man. He has persecuted me. You weren't told 
 because, though you're older than I am, you're very 
 young in many ways, and it seemed best not. Even 
 mother doesn't know nearly alL Because I wouldn't 
 listen to his hateful love-making " 
 
 "What?" broke in Dick. "He made love to 
 you ? I didn't know you'd ever met him. For 
 goodness' sake, why couldn't you take him ? He's no 
 beauty, but, by Jove, I shouldn't have thought there 
 was a girl in England who wouldn't have snapped 
 at the chance of being Mrs. Lionel Macaire." 
 
 "I would not have taken that chance," said Wini- 
 fred. "He is a horrible man. But it was not offered 
 to me. Rumor says there is a Mrs. Lionel Macaire 
 a woman he married long ago for her money, and 
 perhaps drove mad, for she's said to be in an asylum." 
 
 "You mean, then " 
 
 "Oh, Dick, don't ask me what I mean!"
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 231 
 
 Dick began walking up and down again, but his 
 face was very grave, even sulky. He looked as he 
 felt, personally injured by his sister's explosion. 
 
 "I'll bet anything you were mistaken," he said. 
 "Girl's are so morbid, they're always imagining 
 queer things especially girls on the stage. They're 
 always thinking men want to insult them. I don't 
 believe poor old Macaire meant anything of the sort. 
 He's old must be nearly sixty not a bit that kind. 
 And why should he pick you out, anyhow, when there 
 are such a lot of girls in the world ?" 
 
 "Why, indeed?" echoed Winifred. "But whether 
 you defend him or not, you certainly won't put me 
 and yourself into his power by " 
 
 "Now you're talking like the heroine of a melo- 
 drama," exclaimed Dick, flushed with vexation, and 
 looking very boyish, very handsome. "Tell me 
 straight out how he injured you." 
 
 "He was furious because I spoke my mind to him, 
 if you must know. I told him I loathed him 
 that he was horrible. He induced Mr. Anderson to 
 discharge me - 
 
 " How do you know that ? Did Mr. Anderson 
 or anyone else tell you so ?" 
 
 "No. But I am sure - 
 
 "Ah, there it is. Just as I thought. What's the 
 next indictment?" 
 
 " He I believe now that he tried to kidnap me 
 by hiring a man to bribe the driver of my cab one 
 night, and 
 
 Dick burst into scornful laughter. "That's good 
 enough for the Surrey side, but it won't do for West 
 End drama !" he sneered. " Next, please."
 
 232 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "What is the good of telling you things if you won't 
 believe me. Oh, Dick, I swear to you I'm not mis- 
 taken. Lionel Macaire is cruel as the grave. If he 
 ever cared for me he hates me now, and he will never 
 rest until he has had revenge. He said he would 
 'bring me to my knees.' For weeks he has been 
 plotting against me. That company I joined in 
 Brighton so pleased because I was to have such a 
 splendid salary and a lot in advance was really 
 his " 
 
 "How did you know that? Did he tell you so?" 
 
 "No. But the manager did. He told me that 
 Mr. Macaire was the backer. And it was all got up 
 on purpose to humiliate me. If you were anyone but 
 my brother you would have heard the gossip, you 
 would have known about the wicked posters pretend- 
 ing to be pictures of me. It would have killed mother 
 if she had seen them. I ran away because I would 
 not play the part and now that way has failed. 
 Lionel Macaire is trying another. Just what he 
 means I can't tell yet, but somehow he expects to 
 hurt me through you." 
 
 "You seem to think yourself a young person of 
 some importance, my dear," retorted Dick, "that one 
 of the biggest millionaires in the country should be 
 fretting himself sick to get you 'in his power,' as 
 you call it. If this is all a plot against you, and I'm 
 a mere figurehead, why, your Hope Newcome von 
 Zellheim is in it pretty thick, too." 
 
 The taunt was a sword in Winifred's heart, \\ith 
 a moan, like a dove wounded to death, she covered 
 her face with her hands and sobbed. Dick regarded 
 her gloomily.
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 233 
 
 He honestly believed that she was making a tre- 
 mendous fuss about nothing; and, being a young man 
 with a very good opinion of himself, he was nettled 
 that she should put him aside as a mere dummy, a 
 catspaw by which a chestnut was to be dragged out 
 of the fire. Besides, he had been half frantic with 
 delight in the thought of so splendid an engagement, 
 and he simply could not give up the radiant prospect 
 which for the last few hours had dazzled his youth- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 He thought Winifred a pretty girl, and clever enough; 
 but, being her brother, he was unable to realize the 
 fascination she might possess for other men, and he 
 was sure that she flattered herself far too much in 
 fancying that a man like Lionel Macaire should be 
 at such desperate pains either to win or punish her. 
 
 "I'll ask von Zellheim to come here, and you can 
 talk to him," he said when Winifred continued to cry. 
 
 "No!" she ejaculated quickly. "He must not 
 come here. I never wish to see him again. I shall 
 write to him myself to-night, and tell him so." 
 
 "And the reason, too." 
 
 "He will understand that well enough, without 
 explanation. Dick, you will write to Mr. Macaire, 
 won't you ? Even if you think I'm mistaken, do this 
 for love of me. Oh, you could not go to him you 
 could not shame me by living in his house, taking his 
 money!" 
 
 "By Jove, what it is to talk business with girls!" 
 groaned Dick. "They fly into hysterics. I've given 
 my word to Macaire to begin his work to-morrow. 
 He's written to lots of chaps who were dying for it 
 to say the matter's settled. I must have money
 
 234 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 somehow, for mother's sake and yours, as well as 
 my own - 
 
 "Do you think I'd touch what you had from that 
 man, or let mother touch it?" the girl flung at him. 
 
 Dick let the question pass. "I've debts to pay 
 more than you know of. I shall never get such another 
 chance. Macaire hinted that if I did well he might 
 think of me as editor of one of the papers he owns " 
 
 "The one that told lies about your sister, per- 
 haps!" cried Winifred desperately. Never had she 
 been really angry with Dick before, through all the 
 trying episodes of their youth together, but she was 
 trembling and white with anger now. 
 
 "Maybe, if there were lies, that's the reason he'll 
 get rid of the present editor," retorted Dick. "Any- 
 way, my whole career's at stake, and I'd be a fool to 
 give it up for a girl's morbid prejudice. I don't 
 believe " 
 
 "Don't repeat that again," she commanded, her 
 eyes blazing. "I have told you the truth. You do 
 not believe me. You do believe my worst enemy. 
 I can say no more as to that. But I do say, Dick, 
 that if you go to his house you must not come back 
 here not while you are in his pay. And you may 
 tell him why your mother and sister will not see you." 
 
 "Speak for yourself!" exclaimed Dick. 
 
 " Mother and I will be one in this. We've only each 
 other left in the world now." 
 
 Winifred slept not at all that night. She told her- 
 self that never before had she known what real unhap-
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 235 
 
 piness was. She could have borne to give up her lover, 
 but to know him unworthy to believe him, to whom 
 she had surrendered her whole confidence, her whole 
 heart, in the plot against her perhaps from the 
 very first, seemed more than she could bear and live. 
 
 Early the next morning she heard Dick stirring in 
 his room, which was next to hers. At first she hoped 
 that he had risen betimes to come and tell her that 
 he was sorry for last night, that he had made up his 
 mind, if only for her sake, not to go to Lionel Macaire's. 
 But she soon found out her mistake. Dick was pack- 
 ing. He did not even come to her door before he 
 went, though he passed it, dragging the box, which he 
 would leave in the hall outside, for the janitor of the 
 flats to carry down. 
 
 "If only he tells Lionel Macaire why I have refused 
 to see him my own brother while he lives under 
 his roof!" she thought. At least she would like to 
 feel that Macaire had little upon which to congratu- 
 late himself. 
 
 But Dick had no intention of telling his new employer 
 anything of the kind. If, as he argued, he "went 
 blabbing" to Macaire all Winnie's silly fancies, prob- 
 ably he should soon find himself out in the cold. 
 Naturally, Macaire would not wish to keep for his 
 secretary a young man whose sister imagined that he 
 entertained a wild passion for her, and plotted for 
 her undoing. He had decided not to say anything 
 to young Baron von Zellheim either, for what von Zell- 
 heim heard Macaire would hear also, as they appeared 
 to be such intimate friends. Winnie had said that 
 she would not explain; von Zellheim "would under- 
 stand" why he was forbidden to see her, without
 
 236 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 that; and whether he did understand or no was not 
 Dick's business. Winnie and von Zellheim could 
 fight their quarrel out between them. 
 
 Dick was rather unhappy for a few hours, for he 
 was fond of Winifred in his way, and was sorry to 
 have gone against her, though he did not for a mom- 
 ent really regret what he had done. But established 
 in his new quarters at Macaire's beautiful house, far 
 more magnificent than anything he had ever seen, his 
 spirits bounded up again. Macaire treated him 
 right royally, and Dick was more indignant than ever 
 that Winnie should cherish such unjust suspicions 
 of so good a fellow. 
 
 He found that he was not Macaire's only private 
 secretary. There was another, an elderly man of a 
 retiring disposition, who apparently loved work for 
 its own sake; but he was on a different footing in the 
 big household from that on which Dick was at once 
 placed. Either from his own choice or because Ma- 
 caire preferred it, this person had his meals served 
 in the room where he attended to his correspondence 
 and he was seldom seen outside it, except when tak- 
 ing instructions from the millionaire; while, on the 
 contrary, Dick was constantly in request. His daily 
 task, apparently, was to do nothing more arduous 
 than sending out or answering notes of invitation to 
 entertainments, though even that bade fair to occupy 
 him for a couple of hours each morning. 
 
 The first day in his new berth he lunched with 
 Macaire and half a dozen rich city men, who had been 
 asked to the house. He drank a great deal of cham- 
 pagne, smoked several cigars, which he thought fit 
 for Olympus, and was excited and happy, contrast-
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 237 
 
 ing the present with the past in scorn of the latter. 
 The man who sat next him at the table took him 
 quite seriously, despite his youth, and talked so allur- 
 ingly of the stock markets that Dick resolved as soon 
 as he could scrape enough sovereigns together to go 
 in for a little plunge of his own. 
 
 That afternoon he went with Macaire to the park 
 to try a pair of 2,ooo-guinea horses. Not a word 
 was said about Winifred who seemed to vanish into 
 the background, appearing of less and less importance 
 among so many really big interests in her brother's eyes. 
 
 Macaire was dining out in the evening, but a din- 
 ner was served for Dick such as could have been pre- 
 pared at only a very few of the best London hotels; 
 and that the millionaire's famous chef, whose salary 
 was 1,500 a year, should exert himself for the insig- 
 nificant second secretary was flattering. 
 
 Dick was just finishing a bottle of Nuits St. George, 
 which filled his veins with a tingle as of electricity, 
 when a footman of whom he stood somewhat in awe 
 informed him that Baron von Zellheim was anxious 
 to see him. "Ask him to come here and have a 
 coffee and liquor with me," commanded the young 
 man with his lordliest air; and two minutes later 
 Newcome, still in morning dress, was shown into the 
 dining-room, looking pale, even haggard. 
 
 "Nothing at all for me, thanks," he said, impa- 
 tiently brushing Dick's hospitality away with a ges- 
 ture. "Do you mind having in what you want and 
 sending the servants away?" 
 
 Dick did mind the strain of dismissing such stately 
 beings, but he managed it with the best grace he 
 could, and he and his guest were left alone.
 
 238 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "I don't know that I ought to have come to you,'* 
 said Newcome, "but I couldn't resist. If you think 
 I have done you a good turn in introducing you to 
 Macaire, for heaven's sake be frank with me, and 
 tell me if you know what I have done to offend Miss 
 Gray." 
 
 This was exactly what Dick did not wish to do. 
 He would have given a good deal if Xewcome had 
 begun the attack in a less straightforward way, but he 
 determined to hedge. 
 
 "Is she offended?" he inquired. "I haven't seen 
 her to-day. I er left home before she was up." 
 
 "I had a letter from her this morning forbidding 
 me to attempt to see her again or to write, and offer- 
 ing not a word of explanation. Of course, I could 
 not sit still under that. I did go to see her imme- 
 diately. But the door was not opened." 
 
 "Perhaps she was out," suggested Dick. "There's 
 no servant in the house; though, of course, that and 
 many things will be different now that I'm making 
 money." 
 
 "She was at home. The janitor told me that before 
 I went upstairs. She must have been firm in her 
 resolve not to see me. I then sent her a letter by 
 messenger, imploring her to tell me what I had done, 
 to give me a chance at least of defending myself. 
 The letter was returned to me unopened in an envel- 
 ope addressed by her. I am absolutely at a loss to 
 understand it. The only thing left was to come to 
 you. For God's sake, don't keep anything back if 
 you know what my offense is." 
 
 Dick reflected for a moment, and his forehead, 
 under the boyish rings of hair, grew moist. He
 
 BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER 239 
 
 could not tell this man of the monstrous treachery 
 of which Winifred accused him and Macaire together. 
 No man would stand it. He (Dick) would only be 
 breaking a wasps' nest about his own ears, without 
 doing good to anybody, as far as he could see. 
 
 "Winnie doesn't often confide in me," he said at 
 last. "She thinks I'm too young to be much good. 
 I've been racking my brains as to what you can have 
 done; but you know what girls are, especially actresses. 
 They pride themselves on being whimsical and capri- 
 cious; I believe they fancy it's fascinating. She's like 
 all the rest. Perhaps by to-morrow she'll be sorry, 
 and will write you a sweet little note, just as if noth- 
 ing had happened " 
 
 "She's not like that," said Newcome. "She must 
 have heard something which has turned her against 
 me, though I'm unconscious of no sin which deserves 
 such punishment." 
 
 " Maybe she's brooding over something you said 
 to her," suggested Dick, "and feels differently about 
 it from what she did at first." 
 
 A spark leapt up in Newcome's dark eyes. "Ah!" 
 he exclaimed, and gave no hint to Dick of what was 
 in his mind, though it was Dick who had struck out 
 the spark. His thoughts had gone back to three 
 nights ago, when he had told Winifred of his mis- 
 sion, which was to wreak vengeance upon a mur- 
 derer. That confession had made the one rift in the 
 lute that had played the sweet music of love. Dick 
 had inadvertently hit upon the explanation, perhaps. 
 The rift had widened, and the music was to be for- 
 ever mute.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 
 
 WEEKS went on, and life pressed hardly upon 
 Winifred Gray. The one comfort she had was that 
 her mother, though still frail and very, very weak, 
 was no longer in danger, and that they were together 
 again. 
 
 The flat was given up, for Winifred had had a 
 chance to let it furnished, and, though the amount 
 paid by the new tenants was ridiculously small, that, 
 with Mrs. Gray's pension, was something to depend 
 upon. When the invalid was strong enough they 
 moved into cheap lodgings in Westminster, and Win- 
 ifred tried again to find an engagement. 
 
 The girl was driven at last from the theatrical 
 agents to those who made a specialty of engaging 
 music-hall artistes, and strove to persuade her mother 
 that she was delighted when she was given a chance 
 to sing a ballad at a "hall" on the Surrey side. 
 
 For this she received two guineas every Saturday 
 night and as she did not know that she had been 
 engaged on the strength of the Mazeppa reclame, 
 rather than for her charming young face, her repu- 
 tation as an actress or her genuine talent as a singer, 
 she made the best of the new life, never telling her 
 mother of the coarse things she often had to see and 
 hear behind the scenes at the hall. 
 
 240
 
 THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 241 
 
 Mrs. Gray had had to be told the truth about Dick, 
 however, as soon as she was well enough to hear it, 
 for her questions had called for answers which could 
 not be denied. And after he had replied almost 
 harshly to the one appealing letter she wrote him, 
 he had to be left to go his own way. Once he sent 
 home money but this was promptly posted back again, 
 and his mother and sister heard from Lionel Macaire' s 
 secretary no more. 
 
 But Macaire was not in ignorance of Winifred's 
 movements, and they all coincided well enough with 
 his wishes. The only thing he did not know of her 
 doings was the episode of the masked minstrels, and 
 her brief "partnership" with Hope Newcome. He 
 saw no reason to believe that her acquaintance with 
 Newcome had been more than his new protege 
 admitted a few words of gratitude for championship 
 of her cause near the stage-door of the Duke of Clar- 
 ence's Theater, so long ago, and perhaps a meeting 
 when Newcome had found his way to the flat, to 
 engage Dick Gray as his secretary. 
 
 This method of securing Dick had been carefully 
 planned by Macaire, however, so that, in case Win- 
 ifred had remembered handsome, picturesque New- 
 come with admiration, he would be stained black in 
 her eyes forever. 
 
 The millionaire knew her feelings toward himself 
 well enough to be sure that if Newcome were asso- 
 ciated with him in her mind, he would at once become 
 hateful to her. He had exacted Newcome's promise 
 to preserve the secret of their bargain, so that their 
 acquaintance should not be prematurely known; and 
 then, Dick once engaged as his secretary, he had opened
 
 242 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the bag with a malicious chuckle, that the cat might 
 spring out. 
 
 Once or twice during the short interval that Win- 
 ifred was left alone in the flat, between her brother's 
 going and her mother's homecoming, the desire for 
 a desperate coup had haunted him, beating about 
 in his head like a great moth round a flame; but he 
 had put it away for three sufficient reasons. In the 
 first place, Winifred would at such a rime, after her 
 late experiences, be on her guard; in the second, the 
 failure of such a scheme would be fatal to others in 
 the future; while in the third, and most important 
 place of all, the purpose for which he had taken Dick 
 to live in luxury in his house was in a fair way of 
 being accomplished; and its successful accomplish- 
 ment would surely give him Winifred, revenge and 
 triumph, all in the grasp of one outstretched hand. 
 
 Meanwhile he amused himself by throwing bait, 
 which Dick Gray was the unsuspecting fish to snap 
 at, and in watching the Baron von Zellheim's suc- 
 cesses in society. He laughed in his sleeve to see how 
 people took up the handsome young man whom he 
 had introduced, and at the romantic stories regard- 
 ing him. He laughed to see how well the new Baron 
 played the part, and, more than all, he laughed at 
 the thought of the surprise he had in store for even-- 
 body, including his protege, at the end of the stip- 
 ulated six months. 
 
 With all his wealth Macaire had not been able 
 to gain an undisputed foothold in the most exclu 
 set, though he had lent money to lesser Royalties, 
 and in consequence secured them for his dinner par- 
 ties. But Baron von Zellheim was more fortunate in
 
 THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 243 
 
 this regard. In a few months he did what Macaire 
 had not been able to do in years. A great lady who 
 tolerated the millionaire took a fancy to the young 
 Baron von Zellheim, and his way was made easy. 
 His title, but an insignificant one, though the pride 01 
 an old German family, was not disputed, or, if dis- 
 puted, only enough talked about to make him a piquant 
 personality; and he was invited everywhere to many 
 houses, indeed, where Macaire had never been asked 
 until the handsome young man, in his gratitude, 
 obtained him a welcome. 
 
 Nobody, not even Macaire himself, dreamed of 
 the true reason of the "Baron's" insatiable fond- 
 ness for society, his eagerness to make new acquaint- 
 ances among the mighty ones of the land. But there 
 was such a reason beneath all the young man's actions 
 deep under the surface as some currents in the sea, and 
 as darkly hidden. If it had not been so he would not 
 have had heart or courage, after the loss of his love, 
 for the life into whose vortex he had thrown himself. 
 
 He went wherever it was fashionable to go, wher- 
 ever he was likely to meet people intent on the spend- 
 ing of much money for their own pleasure, and he 
 stayed nowhere long; he seemed possessed by the 
 spirit of restlessness. Sometimes he was in London; 
 sometimes in Scotland; sometimes in Paris, in Rome, 
 or on the Riviera; but his visits (save one to Germany 
 on private business) were only long enough to see 
 for himself what personages of importance were amus- 
 ing themselves in a place, and the personages in whom 
 alone he appeared interested were English, or at least 
 English-speaking. 
 
 Baron von Zellheim had the reputation of being a
 
 244 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 very rich young man, not because he had ever said 
 that he was rich, but because he lived luxuriously and 
 was a great friend of Macaire, who found society 
 of most poor men too dull; and because Macaire had 
 hinted at his protege's wealth. 
 
 And this was another cause of laughter to Macaire; 
 for he had the best of reasons for knowing exactly 
 what the Baron's income was, on what it depended 
 and how long it would last. He rather liked Hope 
 Newcome, though he was jealous of his strength, his 
 youth, and his good looks; nevertheless, he looked 
 forward to the day which he had set for the great 
 crash the day on which society should see how it 
 had been fooled; the day on which "F. . Z*s" "friend" 
 would learn what the early folly of "F. . Z." had 
 done for him. 
 
 Though the scheme in which Dick was the leading 
 marionette worked welly it worked slowly, and to 
 hurry it on, Macaire at last decided that the long- 
 talked-of trip to Monte Carlo should be undertaken. 
 
 The night before starting he invited a number of 
 very young men in a fast set to dine with him, and he 
 entertained them afterwards by what he called "slum- 
 ming." Having plied his guests with so much wine of 
 many kinds that the world floated before their eyes 
 in a haze of rainbow colors, he took them to a box 
 at Winifred's music-hall, where they behaved so 
 uproariously that they would have been turned out by 
 the police had they been persons of less importance. 
 
 When Winifred appeared, Macaire led the applause, 
 which his friends kept up so stormfly that the poor girl 
 was obliged to stand sflendy waiting for it to cease, 
 conscious that Macaire was staring at her and that all
 
 THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 245 
 
 the audience saw him stare. If Dick had not been at 
 home in Park Lane getting ready for the journey next 
 day, even his anger might have been excited against 
 the man who could do no wrong. 
 
 The trip to Monte Carlo was to be made in Macaire' s 
 steam yacht, which was supposed to be the second 
 largest, the second handsomest, and the first in speed, 
 on the seas. The millionaire took with him a party 
 of a dozen friends, besides his highly favored secretary, 
 and among these were several women more conspicuous 
 for beauty than dignity, and not too particular to flirt 
 a little with Dick Gray when for the moment there was 
 no better way of keeping their hands in. 
 
 Every night after dinner they played poker, or 
 bridge, or ecarte, in the beautiful cabin of the yacht, 
 and stakes were high. Dick was asked to join, and 
 could not bear to refuse. Fortunately for him Macaire 
 had made him one or two presents, and besides, luck 
 was often with him; still, to play as the others played 
 subjected him to a severe nervous strain. 
 
 Then came Monte Carlo, and the beginning of 
 the end. Life for Dick Gray began to be a brilliant 
 dream, a delirium. Where everybody had plenty of 
 money, he lost his head, and fancied that he had 
 plenty, too. Macaire encouraged him in the fancy 
 and finding that the gambling rooms fascinated his 
 secretary, he told him to "go in and win, and be a 
 good-plucked one." Beginners were always lucky. 
 Who knew but Dick would break the bank, like that 
 chap Wells a few years ago ? What was a sovereign 
 here or there, when there was any fun to be had ? 
 He would see that Dick didn't come to grief. 
 
 Thus cheered into the thick of the fray, Dick let
 
 246 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 himself go, and ceased to resist the maddening excite- 
 ment which sang in his veins a wonderful song. 
 
 Rouge et Noir was the game which held him its 
 willing slave, for he had evolved a system which 
 worked well for a time. He won two hundred pounds 
 in a couple of days, and as Macaire seemed to have 
 forgotten that Dick was merely his secretary, and not 
 a guest with the others, there was plenty of time to 
 spend in testing the system. But one night it failed 
 failed unaccountably. The two hundred pounds 
 melted away like gold in a furnace. Dick's small 
 savings from what he had made on board the Diavola 
 followed, until, with his last three pounds, luck began 
 again to change. He staked on red, and red won; on 
 black the same thing happened. He grew excited, 
 and lost his all, but he was sure this was because, in 
 his confusion of mind, he had forgotten the system. 
 If he only had something to go on with ! 
 
 Then he remembered that in his pocket was an 
 uncommon trinket of Macaire's, which the million- 
 aire had tossed to him that afternoon, carelessly ask- 
 ing if he would take it to be repaired. It was sup- 
 posed, his employer had said, to bring luck to its 
 possessor, and he was rather superstitious about the 
 thing, having carried it with him in his pocket for 
 years. Still, judging from Macaire's tone and indif- 
 ferent way of handing it over to him for repairing, 
 Dick did not believe that the millionaire really attached 
 great importance to the fetich. 
 
 The young man searched in his pocket, and brought 
 out in his hand a very curious jewel. 
 
 It was an exact representation of the sphinx's head, 
 exquisitely carved from a single large Egyptian moon-
 
 THE MOONSTONE SHPINX 247 
 
 stone, holding in its depths a marvelous blue light, 
 radiant, elusive, like a soul imprisoned in the stone 
 and striving to escape. Underneath was a small gold 
 screw, by which the luck-giving talisman could be 
 fastened into the coat or the pocket of the wearer, for 
 safety; and it was the screw which had been broken. 
 
 "I wonder if the bank would lend me anything 
 on this ? " thought Dick. " I could get the thing 
 back in a few minutes, for I feel I should have luck, 
 if I only had the chance. And supposing I should 
 muff it, why, I need merely pretend that the jeweler 
 hadn't finished his work, till I could reclaim it. 
 Macaire' s such a good-natured fellow he wouldn't cut 
 up rough at a little delay." 
 
 Dick regretted the roll of bank-notes with which 
 Macaire had entrusted him the day before to buy 
 various more or less useless odds and ends that the 
 millionaire fancied he wanted. The secretary had 
 had forty or fifty pounds of his employer's in his 
 pockets when he walked into the Casino last time, 
 and, indeed, now he thought of it, Macaire had often 
 thrust money upon him since coming to Monte Carlo. 
 He had always faithfully disposed of it by carrying 
 out the commissions, and last night's case had been no 
 exception to the rule, for he had expended the money 
 according to instructions, the first thing in the morn- 
 ing. But now, he wished that he had not been in 
 such a hurry. 
 
 Macaire had encouraged him to try his luck at the 
 gaming tables, and had said that he wouldn't "see 
 him come to grief." Very likely he had meant his 
 secretary to have plenty in his pocket in case of 
 emergencies, and had been too tactful to speak out
 
 248 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 bluntly. At all events, Dick thought now, in his 
 almost frenzied desire to go on, that he would have 
 "chanced it," had the money still been in his possess- 
 sion. In all probability he would have been able to 
 replace it at once with his own winnings, and if not, 
 he could have gone frankly to Macaire, confessing 
 that he had borrowed something which he would 
 repay out of his salary. 
 
 With the moonstone sphinx, of course, it was dif- 
 ferent. If he could pledge it, and obtain a few pounds 
 to go on with now, and should be so very unfortunate 
 as not to be able to redeem it to-night, he would not 
 care to confess what he had done to Macaire. He 
 would get it back when he could, which would certainly 
 be soon, at worst, for it did not seem to him a thing worth 
 more than seven or eight sovereigns at most. 
 
 He was shy of doing what was in his mind to do, 
 not knowing whether he might be rebuffed or not; 
 but as he stood not far from the table where he wished 
 to be, gazing doubtfully at the moonstone and cal- 
 culating its value, a voice addressed him in French. 
 Looking up with a start, he saw that the speaker 
 was an elderly Parisienne, with bistre under her sunken 
 eyes, rouge on her haggard cheeks, and a handsome, 
 poppy-red evening dress emphasizing the emaciation 
 of her figure. 
 
 Dick was not a French scholar but he had learned 
 the language with Winifred when they had both been 
 children, and he could understand enough to hold 
 his own in an ordinary* conversation. 
 
 "Pardon me, Monsieur, but that is a very charm- 
 ing ornament you have there," the lady in poppy 
 color was remarking. "Quite unique. Will you allow
 
 THE MOONSTONE SPHINX 249 
 
 me to look at it more closely ? My great fad is uncom- 
 mon jewels of all sorts." 
 
 Dick held out his hand, and a dyed head, spark- 
 ling with diamond combs and pins, was bowed over 
 it. The lady did not attempt to touch the moon- 
 stone, as he had feared she might, but peered at it 
 through her lorgnettes as it lay in his palm, crying 
 out at its beauty. "It is for luck, Madame," Dick 
 informed her. 
 
 "I thought it must be a fetich," she responded. 
 "Intrinsically, perhaps, the jewel may not be worth 
 more than 500 francs" (Dick was astonished at so 
 high an estimate), "yet the workmanship is perfect, 
 and the stone has a rare light. How I wish that 
 your talisman were for sale, Monsieur! I would give 
 you in reason what you liked to ask, that I might 
 add it to my collection and also use it as a rival to 
 my lucky pig" (laughing, she held out a golden pig, 
 with ruby eyes), "which has basely betrayed me 
 to-night." 
 
 "I don't see how I could very well sell it," stam- 
 mered Dick, "though I was just wondering if I could 
 raise money on the thing." 
 
 Perhaps the lady's experienced eyes had read some 
 such purpose in his before addressing him. 
 
 "That would, I fear, be impossible here," she 
 said. "I know the rules well I confess to being an 
 old habituee. Monsieur, if you will sell me the moon- 
 stone alone (I do not care for the gold screw with the 
 initials; you can keep that), I would give you, this 
 minute, 1,000 francs. It is far more than you could get 
 from a jeweler." 
 
 Dick's face flushed, and he bit his lips, his eyes
 
 250 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 traveling wistfully to the pocketbook, stuffed with 
 gold and French notes, which the lady in red was 
 producing from a brocaded silk bag that hung at her 
 waist. 
 
 Suppose he did sell the moonstone ? He could tell 
 Macaire that he had lost it, and Macaire would believe 
 him, especially if he kept the screw, which would be 
 good evidence that the sphinx' s-head had come off. 
 Macaire would not mind much; he would be sure to 
 forgive, and say, "It doesn't matter." 
 
 With 1,000 francs to stake, all the bad luck of 
 the evening could be retrieved. Something told him 
 that it would be so. 
 
 "All right; you can have the sphinx," he said, 
 abruptly. And the deal was closed. The lady had 
 the jewel; Dick had the money; and the "some- 
 thing" which whispered hopefully of luck to come, 
 did not add that with the changing hands of the moon- 
 stone his future, his sister's future, and the future of 
 two others would be changed as well.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 
 
 DICK'S spirit of prophecy had been a deceiving 
 spirit. He lost his thousand francs. 
 
 Next morning Macaire said: "By the way, that 
 moonstone sphinx-head I gave you to have repaired. 
 When will it be ready ?" 
 
 The question came so abruptly, and the million- 
 aire's look, to his secretary's stricken conscience, 
 seemed so keen that Dick grew confused, and instead 
 of saying that he had lost the moonstone, and apologiz- 
 ing as he had intended, he stammered that the jeweler 
 could not do the work for a day or two. 
 
 "Next time you're out just step in and tell him it 
 will be a favor to me if he can let me have the thing 
 to-morrow. The fact is, I feel quite lost without it," 
 said Macaire; and Dick felt a sensation of coldness 
 and weight in his breast. 
 
 Last night nothing had seemed of importance, 
 except to get money; and his employer had appeared 
 to care little more for the moonstone than for fifty 
 other valuable odds and ends which he flung reck- 
 lessly about or even gave to Dick or his valet, if the 
 mood seized him. Dick was very much frightened, 
 and could settle himself to nothing all day. 
 
 In the afternoon Macaire asked him if he had been 
 to the jeweler's yet. 
 
 251
 
 252 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "No," faltered Dick. "The fact is, I " he 
 
 was on the point of beginning his made-up tale con- 
 cerning the loss of the jewel when the millionaire 
 broke in, for the first time in his secretary's experi- 
 ence of him, showing anger. 
 
 "By heaven!" he exclaimed, "I can't get anybody 
 to remember my wishes, \\hat jeweler has the stone ? 
 I'll go to him myself." 
 
 Dick grew hot and cold. "No, no, Mr. Macaire," 
 he implored. " I haven't forgotten, really. I was busy. 
 I will go at once." 
 
 He went out into the street, not knowing what he 
 should do. He had cut the ground away from under 
 his own feet now, committing himself to the statement 
 that he had made. Next time they met, if he could not 
 satisfy Macaire that he had been to the jeweler's, the 
 millionaire would insist upon having the man's name, 
 and Dick would stand discredited. Something must 
 be done at once, but what what ? 
 
 Suddenly he thought of the woman who had bought 
 the jewel. If he could offer her the thousand francs 
 she had paid, and at the same time throw himself upon 
 her compassion, she might be induced to sell the moon- 
 stone back again. But first, he must get the thousand 
 francs, and then he must find the lady. 
 
 Having accomplished no more than evolving this 
 plan, he returned to the hotel, where Macaire had 
 taken several of the best suites for himself and his 
 friends, since it had not been considered convenient 
 to spend the nights on board his yacht. 
 
 "Well, have you been to the jeweler?" Macaire 
 called from his private sitting-room, as Dick would 
 have passed the door.
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 253 
 
 "Yes," answered the young man, desperately. 
 " He will try to have the sphinx-head ready by to-mor- 
 row night." 
 
 Ten minutes later Macaire went out, having shouted 
 a request that Dick would write three or four letters 
 for him while he was away. 
 
 Dick knew what his employer wished him to write, 
 and sat down at the desk in the sitting-room, which 
 Macaire had left open. The millionaire was noted 
 for his careless ways, and to-day he had left lying 
 on the desk a roll of English bank-notes. 
 
 Dick looked at them, fascinated, then drew the roll 
 toward him and began counting it over. 
 
 There were twenty ten-pound notes, six five-pound 
 notes two hundred and thirty pounds in all. Macaire 
 was certain not to have taken the numbers, he had 
 never been known to do such a thing; and money 
 flowed like water through his hands. In all proba- 
 bility he was not aware how much this fat roll con- 
 tained. If several notes were abstracted he would 
 not be the wiser; even if he did discover his loss, 
 after leaving the money lying out on his desk he would 
 not know whom to blame. One of the hotel servants 
 would be suspected; but it would be unfair, in such 
 circumstances, to make an accusation. 
 
 Feeling faint and sick, Dick selected five ten-pound 
 notes, huddled them away in his pocket, and pushed 
 the roll back into place where it had lain. Luckily, 
 he had finished the letters first, for it would have 
 been impossible for him to concentrate his mind upon 
 writing a single line. 
 
 He had taken the first step; now for the second. 
 And, hurrying out, he went to the Casino, hoping to
 
 254 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 find there the purchaser of the jewel, who had seemed 
 to be a keen gambler, and had said that she was an 
 "old habituee of Monte Carlo." 
 
 To his joy, he presently spied her, absorbed in the 
 game. His heart leaped up as he saw on the table 
 beside her winnings the sphinx's head, evidently in 
 use as a fetich. 
 
 He tried to speak, but she motioned him away; 
 she was not to be interrupted. Again and again 
 he implored her attention for a moment, but she 
 flashed out at him in angry French that she would 
 complain; she would have him removed if he dis- 
 turbed her. 
 
 She was quite capable of keeping her word, and 
 fearing a scene, Dick was forced to wait upon her 
 convenience. Time dragged on, while he despaired; 
 but at last Madame was satisfied, and thought, per- 
 haps, of her dinner. Gathering up her winnings, 
 which was considerable, she turned from the table 
 and to Dick. She was a different woman now soft 
 and agreeable in manner as if she had never threat- 
 ened vengeance. What was it that Monsieur wanted ? 
 Had he another jewel to sell ? 
 
 Dick explained that his desire was to the contrary 
 effect. But at the first words the hard, painted face 
 grew harder. The lady was sorry that Monsieur 
 regretted disposing of the fetich, but she could not 
 think of giving it up. Already it had brought her 
 great luck. No there was no price he could name 
 for which she would change her mind. 
 
 m 
 
 The unhappy young man poured arguments upon 
 her; he had reason to believe the jewel had been 
 stolen by the person who gave it to him; there would
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 255 
 
 be trouble for Madame. But Madame would risk 
 it so she replied with a smile, and the glint in her 
 eyes caused Dick to regret this last suggestion. He 
 feared that she might leave Monte Carlo. 
 
 Nothing that he could say would move her, and 
 she airily remarked that if Monsieur persecuted her 
 by following to her hotel she would certainly appeal 
 to the police. 
 
 Dick was in a worse plight than before, for now 
 he was doubly a thief and a failure. He determined 
 that he would replace the money he had taken, since 
 it had not availed his purpose, and would concoct the 
 best story he could about the loss of the moonstone, 
 saying that he had not confessed at first, hoping to 
 find it. 
 
 By this time Macaire and his guests would be 
 dining, for Dick was very late. Feeling certain of 
 this, he went straight to the millionaire's sitting- 
 room, which was apparently deserted and in semi- 
 darkness. It was now the last of April, but as it 
 was past eight o'clock, the night was falling in deep 
 blue dusk. 
 
 Dick stepped softly into the room, and groping 
 his way to the desk which was near the window, felt 
 for the roll of bank-notes, upon which if it was in 
 the place he had first seen and left it he knew 
 exactly where to put his hand. But suddenly the room 
 was flooded with electric light; and, dazzled and 
 blinking, Dick saw Macaire standing with a finger 
 and thumb on the electric button which he had just 
 turned. 
 
 On the man's hideous face was a look which Dick 
 had never seen before a look that was devilish.
 
 256 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "I was right then; you are the thief," he said. 
 " You whom I have made my friend. You have stolen 
 my money." 
 
 Dick could not speak. His lips fell apart, his 
 eyes stared. 
 
 "When I went out this afternoon I left on this 
 desk a roll of bank-notes which I intended to devote 
 to a certain purpose," Macaire went on. "There 
 were two hundred and thirty pounds exactly. I had 
 not been gone an hour when I remembered the money 
 and where I had put it. I should have thought it was 
 safe, as I knew you would be writing letters at the desk, 
 had I not heard while I was out a thing which gave 
 me a shock and opened my eyes. You told me that 
 you had taken my moonstone to a jeweler's, but a 
 friend of mine who knew what it was like saw it at the 
 Casino in the hands of a Frenchwoman, who was using 
 it for luck. Knowing that I valued the thing, he asked 
 the woman where she had got it, and was informed that 
 she had bought it last night of a young Englishman 
 who wanted money for the game. Now, Gray, what 
 have you to say to that ?" 
 
 "I I - stammered Dick, like a schoolboy 
 arraigned by the master, " I meant to tell you. It was 
 done in a moment of impulse." 
 
 "A moment of impulse!" sneered Macaire. "And 
 it was in a moment of impulse that you took fifty pounds 
 from the roll of money on my desk, relying on my 
 carelessness, or meaning perhaps to put the theft on 
 a servant?" 
 
 "Who who has dared to say that?" 
 
 "No one has said so. But you should have thought 
 of your mother and sister."
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 257 
 
 "I must have been mad. For heaven's sake, have 
 mercy." 
 
 "None of that conventional cant, if you please. 
 But you speak of your mother and sister. On one 
 condition, and one only, will I spare you the punish- 
 ment you deserve." 
 
 Dick's eyes, strained and bloodshot in his agony, 
 grew bright. 
 
 "Tell me what it is, and I'll do it I'll do any- 
 thing." 
 
 "It is not for you to do. I'll give you time to write 
 home and get an answer by telegraph. If Winifred 
 Gray cares enough for her brother to save him, 
 she can." 
 
 "You want her to intercede for me?" 
 
 "I want her to buy you off." 
 
 Dick grew pale. "You mean " 
 
 "I mean this. A fortnight from to-day I intend 
 to be in London. I give a dinner on that night at 
 nine o'clock to friends at my house. If she tele- 
 graphs you that she consents to come to that dinner 
 you can go to England with me a free man. No one 
 but ourselves need know what has happened. If she 
 refuses you go to jail, and I stay on only long enough 
 to see you through the court, and make sure you get 
 the sentence you merit. Then I go, and leave you 
 to think over your ingratitude in prison." 
 
 "Oh, if that is all!" cried Dick, "she would do 
 that, and more, for me, I know for mother's sake, 
 if not mine. But it is so strange that you should 
 wish " 
 
 ''That's my affair and hers," broke in Macaire. 
 "Write now; tell her what you have done, and what I
 
 258 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 mean to do. Tell her I will only wait to act until she 
 wires her answer. Whether you are disgraced for life, 
 as you richly deserve to be, or whether you are spared, 
 depends entirely upon her decision. Sit down now and 
 write. Make this clear to her. And when you have 
 written your letter I will read it." 
 
 Dick half fell into the chair at the desk to which 
 Macaire pointed, and, taking up a pen with fingers 
 that shook almost too much to hold it, he began to 
 write. As he wrote, bowing his face over his task, 
 a tear or two fell on the letter, raising round blisters 
 on the thick, creamy paper. He had always had the 
 gift of writing, and now, after the first effort of begin- 
 ning, he became eloquent, impassioned, in his appeal. 
 He painted a terrible picture of his future as it would 
 be if Winifred failed him, and he strove to show what a 
 small thing, after all, was exacted of her by the eccentric 
 whim of Lionel Macaire. 
 
 When he had signed himself her repentant and dis- 
 tracted brother, loving her, hoping alone in her, while 
 on the verge of madness, he gave the letter to Macaire, 
 who read it slowly. 
 
 "That will do," the latter pronounced at last. 
 "She will get this the day after to-morrow. The 
 same day you ought to receive her telegram. Mean- 
 time, I advise you to have an illness and keep to 
 your room." 
 
 "You will allow me to do that?" Dick stammered. 
 
 "Till the wire comes; then we shall see. But I 
 warn you, there is no use thinking of giving me the 
 slip. The 'invalid' will be watched too carefully 
 for that. And an attempt would only make matters 
 worse for you in the end."
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 259 
 
 "There will be no such attempt," said Dick. "I 
 promise." 
 
 Macaire sneered at him. "As though I'd take 
 your word after what's happened! I shall have more 
 than your promise to depend on. I'll post this 
 letter. Now go to your kennel, like the whipped 
 dog you are." 
 
 All Dick's blood seemed tingling in his face. His 
 impulse was to strike and avenge this last insult; but 
 his hand fell even as it clinched for lifting. The 
 awful look in Macaire's narrowed eyes cowed him as 
 if, indeed, he had been a whipped dog. 
 
 Turning without another word, he went to his 
 room, Macaire following as far as the first threshold 
 to watch him down the passage. 
 
 In quietness and darkness, with his door locked, 
 he walked to the window that looked out upon the 
 garish brightness of the rock-set town, blazing like 
 a triple necklace of jewels against the blue velvet 
 and gauze of sea and sky. If he chose and dared 
 -he might throw himself headlong out, and all 
 would be ended. But no, he would not do that. He 
 did not wish to die, leaving such a legacy of shame 
 to his mother, for whom he longed now with a boy's 
 home-sick longing. She loved him dearly still, in 
 spite of all, and there was nothing she could not for- 
 give. That was the way with mothers. And Wini- 
 fred would rescue him Winifred, who had been 
 partly right about Macaire, after all. 
 
 As he stood gazing miserably out upon the crowds 
 of light-hearted people, whose merriment mocked 
 him, there came a quick knock at the door. Dick 
 went to it and listened for a few seconds, expecting
 
 26o THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 he scarcely knew what; then in a low voice he demanded 
 who was there. 
 
 "It's I von Zellheim," came the answer; and with 
 a hopeful leap of the heart Dick unlocked the door. 
 
 "Thank heaven you're here!" he exclaimed, when 
 Hope Newcome was with him and the key turned 
 again. 
 
 It was dark in the room, but Dick switched on the 
 light, and Newcome uttered an ejaculation at sight 
 of the younger man's face. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" he asked. 
 
 "Haven't you heard anything from Macaire?" 
 
 "No. I haven't seen him yet. I'm just from the 
 train straight from London. I asked for the num- 
 ber of your room, for I wanted to talk with you before 
 I saw anybody else. You look rather queer. I hope 
 you aren't ill, or have had bad news from home." 
 
 There was something so strong, and dependable, 
 in the personality of this tall, dark young man in 
 traveling dress, that Dick's miserable, home-sick heart 
 went out to him. The need of confession, the des- 
 perate longing for someone to stand his friend, broke 
 down the barriers of shamed vanity which would have 
 hedged round the secret of his guilt; he blurted out 
 the story of his own folly, leaving nothing untold 
 save only the condition that Macaire had made. In- 
 stinctively he knew what Newcome's feeling would 
 be at having a girl like Winifred dragged in. He 
 was afraid that Newcome might even try to prevent 
 Winifred from accepting Macaire's terms. 
 
 "Macaire threatens to call in the police and charge 
 me as a common thief," he said, "and all for sheer 
 spite. He's got his money; and as for that wretched
 
 WHAT THE LIGHT SHOWED 261 
 
 bauble, who would have dreamed, with all the jewelry 
 which he throws about, that he cared a rap for it ? 
 But oh, von Zellheim, if there was any way of getting 
 the thing again! You used to be friendly with Winnie. 
 You'd take some trouble for her sake still, perhaps, 
 though she's treated you so badly, if only to show 
 that you don't bear malice. You're such a good-look- 
 ing chap, and have such a way with you, that you can 
 do anything with women. For heaven's sake try to 
 see this old hag who made a fool of me, and get the 
 moonstone sphinx-head - 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Newcome, with a sudden 
 start. " Macaire's jewel that you sold is it a blue 
 moonstone carved into a sphinx-head, with a gold 
 screw underneath, engraved with the initials ' F. E. Z.' ?" 
 
 "You've seen it then?" cried Dick. 
 
 "No; but I'd give much to see it. Have I described 
 it rightly?" 
 
 "It's exact. The screw with the initials in little 
 letters at the top is in my pocket. The she-fiend didn't 
 care for it." 
 
 "Let me look," said Newcome, "And I'll promise 
 you to get that sphinx's head if I move heaven and 
 earth to do it." 
 
 "God bless you!" ejaculated Dick. 
 
 "I hope He will. But it's a selfish wish. I came 
 to England to find the man who had that sphinx- 
 head. I came from England to Monte Carlo to see 
 if Lionel Macaire was that man."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 
 
 HALF an hour after knocking at the door of Dick 
 Gray's room, Hope Newcome went out again. Dick 
 had been instructed not to mention his arrival. Down- 
 stairs the name of the gentleman who had inquired for 
 Mr. Richard Gray, of Mr. Macaire's party, was not 
 known. 
 
 Those few words of Dick's the allusion to the 
 sphinx's head had sent flashes of lightning through 
 Newcome's veins. The mission which had brought 
 him through strange vicissitudes and over many thou- 
 sands of miles had seemed no further advanced, though 
 for months his whole life had been given to it. Then, 
 one day, a man had begged of him in Park Lane near 
 Lionel Macaire's house, and Newcome had given the 
 man half a sovereign because he was an American, 
 speaking with a strong nasal accent. And the beggar, 
 who was grateful and loquacious, began telling him a 
 queer, rambling story. 
 
 For very few ears would it have struck a keynote; 
 the narrator himself knew not the value of his utter- 
 ances, still less of his silence, or he would not have 
 been begging in the street, because the person from 
 whom he had expected a gift was absent. But Fate 
 had ordained that his tongue should make music in 
 the ear which could understand. 
 
 262
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 263 
 
 Newcome took the man to a restaurant and gave 
 him a meal, much as Macaire had done with him 
 nearly five months ago in Brighton. Indeed, the 
 thought of that occasion was printed in strong black 
 and white upon his mind. In the midst of the wild 
 elation for which he could have shouted aloud, there 
 was loathing of the memory that he had broken bread 
 with Macaire not once, but many times. He was living 
 on money which came to him from Macaire, also; and 
 if it had not been for the secret which had darkened his 
 life since boyhood, this reflection would have half 
 maddened him believing what he had begun to 
 believe of the millionaire. 
 
 But with the knowledge of that secret before him, 
 the money became far more than ever his own. It 
 never had been Macaire's. He now had a right to 
 it, every penny and more, which he might, but did 
 not mean to claim. 
 
 Without letting the loquacious beggar guess that 
 he was a person of importance, Newcome offered to 
 support his countryman until he could get work. The 
 shabby American was to be paid a pound at the end 
 of every week this, of course, rendering it necessary 
 that "Baron von Zellheim" should be kept in touch 
 with him and in possession of his address. 
 
 When this matter was satisfactorily settled New- 
 come made certain inquiries about Macaire which he 
 had never had the curiosity to make before. He 
 ascertained, apparently in a casual way, when the mil- 
 lionaire had first become known as a millionaire, and 
 traced back his career to a time before he had settled 
 in England. 
 
 All this would have been nothing without the clue
 
 264 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 which a beggar in the street had supplied; and the 
 clue itself was only a broken thread. To find the 
 other end and match both together Newcome had 
 traveled to Monte Carlo. 
 
 There again Fate had played into his hands through 
 the ingenious deviltry of Macaire himself (for even the 
 most astute of men make mistakes sometimes), and the 
 folly of Dick Gray. 
 
 The clue was supplied yet at the same time it was 
 missing; and Newcome made up his mind that since 
 the work he had come to do must be done without 
 bungling, what he had waited for so long he must 
 wait for still. After all these years, what was a day 
 a week a month ? 
 
 From Dick he had the description of the woman 
 who had bought the moonstone, but he was not as 
 fortunate as Dick had been in his quest for her. He 
 could not find her at the Casino. 
 
 He did not wish, as things had turned out, that 
 Macaire should know of his presence in Monte Carlo; 
 yet he haunted the gaming-rooms for hours that night, 
 running the risk that Macaire himself, or one of 
 Macaire's friends, might stroll in and see him. 
 
 When it was close upon eleven o'clock, however, 
 and Newcome had seen no one resembling the pic- 
 ture which Dick had graphically sketched for him, he 
 passed on the description to one of the men at the 
 doors. This person thought he recognized it. The 
 lady whom Monsieur desired to meet was probably 
 the Comtesse de Silbery, who was well known at 
 Monte Carlo, coming at least once every twelvemonth 
 for the past ten years, and staying a month or six 
 weeks. She had been at the Casino all the afternoon,
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 265 
 
 and usually came again in the evening after dinner, 
 staying late; but to-night was an exception. The 
 Comtesse had not appeared. At what hotel she was 
 staying he could not say. But he was obliged for the 
 coin unobtrusively slipped into his hand; and he 
 thought that Monsieur would not find it difficult to 
 ascertain the Comtesse's address. 
 
 Newcome bought a paper with the list of visitors 
 at the various large hotels. The Comtesse's name 
 was not there. But at the Cafe de Paris he learned 
 something from a waiter. The Comtesse de Silbery 
 often lunched there. She was a well-known character 
 at Monte Carlo. She was said to be very rich, but 
 she did not patronize the large hotels. She stopped 
 at a pension, and lunched out or dined out when she 
 wished. 
 
 Then Newcome turned his attention to the com- 
 paratively few pensions of Monte Carlo. He got a 
 list of the principal ones, and, late as it was, called 
 at several. At the last the Comtesse had been stay- 
 ing for some rime, but had left that very evening. 
 She had received news which called her away at 
 once, and, packing in a hurry, she and her maid had 
 left almost within the hour. The proprietor of the 
 pension knew, or pretended to know, nothing of her 
 movements, save that the train by which she had 
 departed went no farther than Cannes. Whether she 
 would go on immediately, or whether, indeed, her 
 destination for the present were between Monte Carlo 
 and Cannes, he could give no information. 
 
 Newcome took the last train which left Monte 
 Carlo that night for Cannes. His theory was that the 
 Comtesse would proceed to Marseilles and Paris,
 
 2 66 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 in which latter place, it appeared, she lived. But 
 there was one doubt in his mind which made him fear 
 that after all he was starting upon a wild-goose chase. 
 
 Supposing the Comtesse were but a pawn on 
 Macaire's chessboard ? If he were the man whom 
 Newcome sought he might be credited with a hidden 
 motive for nearly every act of his life; and though New- 
 come had not thought of it until he was in the train, 
 it was not impossible that Macaire knew the Com- 
 tesse, and had commissioned her to buy the jewel if 
 Dick Gray could be induced to sell it. This would 
 have been a way of testing Dick's integrity, if Macaire 
 had any reason for wishing to break it down; and 
 it would be maddening if, after following the woman 
 across half France, he had to learn at last that 
 the moonstone sphinx had never really been out of 
 Macaire's reach. 
 
 There was nothing to do now but go on, however, 
 and hope for the best. 
 
 At the station in Cannes Newcome made inquiries. 
 A lady answering the description given had been seen 
 there, but had already gone on to Marseilles by a 
 slow train. 
 
 Newcome had to wait with what patience he could 
 muster until morning. Then the chase began again. 
 At Marseilles he could learn nothing of his quarry, 
 but he was so sure now that Paris was to be the Com- 
 tesse's ultimate destination that he proceeded accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 At the end of the thirteen hours' journey came 
 another night of enforced idleness; but next day he 
 found out the flat where the Comtesse de Silbery lived 
 in a semi-fashionable quarter. He called at' the
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 267 
 
 house, only to be told by the concierge that Madame 
 and her maid had returned but for half a day, depart- 
 ing he knew not where. They had gone away in a 
 voiture; yes, with more luggage than they had brought 
 home; so much the concierge divulged, and then ceased 
 to be communicative, despite a bribe. 
 
 Newcome resigned himself to more wasted hours, 
 and advertised for the driver of the cab who had 
 called at such and such a house, on such a date, to 
 take a lady and her maid to the station. 
 
 He had but a day to wait, for on the morning of 
 the paper's issue came the answer he wanted. Hav- 
 ing learned the station whither the Comtesse had 
 been driven, it was comparatively simple to obtain 
 the information later that she had gone to Brussels. 
 
 To Brussels Newcome followed, only to lose the 
 scent and pick it up again at last, with the intelligence 
 that, after visiting a friend, the Comtesse de Silbery 
 had departed for Spa. 
 
 Though it was discouraging to chase a flitting will- 
 o'-the-wisp, the news that the lady had chosen Spa 
 was satisfactory to Newcome. He saw in it an indulg- 
 ence of an overpowering love for the gambling-tables; 
 and he told himself that she had hurried away from 
 Monte Carlo for fear of losing her beloved fetich, but 
 was consoling herself at Spa. If she had acted in col- 
 lusion with Macaire she need not have fled from her 
 Mecca to a lesser Paradise; and Newcome was inclined 
 to think that if Dick had not hinted at the jewel having 
 been stolen, and the vexation for her certain to ensue, 
 all his troublesome journeyings might have been spared. 
 
 The season at Spa was only just beginning, but one 
 could gamble. That was the principal thing.
 
 268 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Newcome found out at what hotel the Comtesse 
 de Silbery was staying, and went there also. But it 
 was in the gambling rooms that he saw her first. He 
 could not have failed to recognize her from Dick 
 Gray's description, for, as it happened, she wore the 
 same poppy-red dress she had worn on the night when 
 the moonstone changed hands; and in her dyed 
 auburn hair were the same diamond pins flashing like 
 fire-flies as she moved her head. But had these signs 
 failed he must still have known her, for on the table 
 almost under her hand was the sphinx's head, close 
 to the little pile of gold which its magical influence 
 was to increase. 
 
 Newcome stood close to her, and risked a few sov- 
 ereigns. He lost steadily; she as steadily won. Being 
 too striking and handsome a figure to pass unnoticed, 
 the Comtesse saw him, and pitied his bad luck. "If 
 you but had my fetich, Monsieur!" she said, laughing, 
 to show a bleak gleam of false teeth. "If you like, I 
 will lend it to you. Now, try again." 
 
 Newcome's hand thrilled as he touched the moon- 
 stone. At that moment he might have escaped with 
 it through the crowd and she could not have detained 
 him. But the woman had trusted him, and meant 
 kindness. He would not, even in playing for such 
 high stakes as governed the game he played in secret, 
 have betrayed the trust. 
 
 He would have wished to lose, rather than win, so 
 that the Comtesse might see her talisman was not infalli- 
 ble, and value it the less. Nevertheless, as luck 
 would have it, he won; and with thanks said that he 
 would no longer rob the lady of her fetich. He would 
 play no more that night.
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 269 
 
 Next evening he was purposely late for dinner, and, 
 seeing the Comtesse at a small table, he drew near, 
 as if to be seated at the next which was available. 
 As he advanced their eyes met; she gave him a half- 
 bow, which he answered so impressively that, with a 
 gesture, the elderly Frenchwoman beckoned him to her. 
 If he chose, he might sit at her table. She would explain 
 to him her system, and if he took her advice he need 
 no longer throw his money away as he had done 
 last night. 
 
 "But Madame has the wisdom of the Sphinx to 
 assist her," he said, smiling, as he joyfully accepted 
 the lady's invitation. 
 
 This brought up the subject of the moonstone, and 
 Newcome's heart sank as every word the Comtesse 
 spoke betrayed the fantastic value she set upon the 
 jewel. 
 
 It was not until they had been on friendly terms 
 for three days, dining together every evening, that 
 he ventured to take advantage of the favor with which 
 he was evidently regarded. The Comtesse, always 
 ready to talk of the moonstone, had been drawn on 
 to tell him that she had paid a thousand francs for 
 it to a mad young Englishman at Monte Carlo. 
 
 "Fancy selling it!" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Would you not sell it, Comtesse ? " Newcome 
 questioned. 
 
 She laughed. "Try me." 
 
 "Suppose I took you in earnest and offered you 
 a thousand pounds instead of a thousand francs ?" 
 
 "Do you mean it ?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "No, then, my dear Baron von Zellheim. Not
 
 270 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 for two thousand pounds. Not for twice two thou- 
 sand. For, you see, I am fortunate enough not to 
 be in need of money." 
 
 "Is there anything that you do happen to be in 
 need of, Comtesse ? If there is anything you want 
 that I could get for you, I will get it provided that 
 you pay me with the sphinx's head." 
 
 "I will exchange it for the Koh-i-noor. Can you 
 get me that?" 
 
 "I might. But it would take time. Will you lend 
 me your talisman?" 
 
 "I have never yet lent anything I valued, not even 
 a book, until I lent you the moonstone the other 
 night without your even asking. I don't know why 
 I did it, unless it was your eyes, I suppose. I am 
 of a certain age, and I can safely tell you that." 
 
 "Will you lend it to me again for a few days?" 
 
 "For the tables you mean, as I use it?" 
 
 "No, Comtesse, to carry away to London. I 
 should be only too pleased if you would come too." 
 
 "I never knew so impudent a young man!" said 
 the lady. "Neither I nor my moonstone will go to 
 London." 
 
 "It is really my moonstone, if it comes to that," 
 Newcome said on a sudden impulse, speaking with 
 far more coolness than he felt. 
 
 The Comtesse's face changed, and she sat down her 
 champagne glass to stare at him. "Your moonstone ?" 
 she did not know but that he led up to some jest. 
 
 " Mine by inheritance. It was stolen from - 
 someone very near to me." 
 
 " Oh ! " she paused thoughtfully. " Then your com- 
 ing here our acquaintance is not an accident?"
 
 THE QUEST OF THE MOONSTONE 271 
 
 " Comtesse, you led me a terrible dance from 
 Monte Carlo to Paris, from Paris to Brussels, from 
 Brussels to Spa." 
 
 "Great heavens! You are one of those detective 
 people!" 
 
 " If I had been, I should have found you sooner." 
 
 "And now that you have found me, mon cher ami, 
 jt will do you no good. Possession is nine-tenths of 
 the law. You would have to prove that my moon- 
 stone was your moonstone. To do that you might 
 have difficulty. And if it were done, I am still a 
 woman. I should find some way of evading the 
 law." 
 
 "I don't intend to appeal to the law. But I think, 
 that because you are ' still a woman,' if it be against 
 your principles to lend me the sphinx's head, and you 
 will not sell, that you will give it." 
 
 "I would make a big wager that nothing you could 
 say or do would induce me to give up my fetich of my 
 own free will." 
 
 "What would you wager the moonstone itself?" 
 
 "Good heavens, what an idea!" 
 
 "Yet if you are so sure of yourself, why not 
 stake it?" 
 
 His handsome eyes compelled hers. He was 
 
 twenty-six, and she was sixty; but he was a man, and 
 
 - as she had said she was " still a woman." So 
 
 she laughed excitedly, and the gambling spirit rose 
 
 within her. 
 
 "Yes, I will wager the moonstone itself. If you 
 are clever enough to make me want to give it to you, 
 you shall have it. But do you remember one of the 
 tasks that Venus set for Psyche ? how the great piles
 
 272 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 of mixed grain had to be sorted, each kind to itself, 
 between sunrise and sunset? You have as hard a 
 task, and there are no grateful ants to help you, Baron." 
 
 " There are my own wits and there's your sense 
 of justice; your womanly sympathy." 
 
 No one had talked in this way to the lady of dyes 
 and paints for many a long year; yet she listened, and 
 laughed, and was not displeased; but she knew that 
 she would never give up her talisman.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 
 
 "AND how do you propose to make use of my 
 sense of justice with your wits?" the Comtesse de 
 Silbery asked. 
 
 " By telling you a story," said Hope Newcome. 
 
 " Is that all ? An exciting one, I hope, or I shall 
 remember that in half an hour it will be my usual 
 time for beginning a little game." 
 
 "I shall try to make you forget," replied New- 
 come. " It is exciting enough at least, it was to the 
 actors. For it is a true story that I shall tell you. 
 A story of treachery and murder." 
 
 " Oh ! you are sensational ! " 
 
 "Real life is sensational. There are true things 
 stranger than any fiction which people would dare to 
 write. My story begins a long time ago, and I should 
 be afraid it might bore you at first were not my heroine 
 one of the most beautiful women who ever lived. 
 And the love element of the romance comes in early." 
 
 " Are you the hero, my friend ? " 
 
 "No. I am only a walking gentleman. But to 
 begin, or you'll be impatient for the green baize. 
 Once upon a time there was a beautiful young actress, 
 with whom every man who saw her fell in love. Her 
 name was German, for her father was a German 
 nobleman who had married an Englishwoman against 
 
 273
 
 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 the wish of his family; but she had been born and 
 brought up in England, and, as her name was so 
 foreign sounding and so long, her admirers made a 
 diminutive out of her three initials. She was always 
 called by them, and as she grew famous they grew 
 famous; too. She had the right to a title of her own 
 if she had cared to use it, but she did not, and very 
 few people in England knew much about the German 
 family from which she was descended. 
 
 "When she was still quite a girl she had a very 
 tempting offer to go to America and act, and the offer 
 was accepted. On the ship she met a young man on 
 his way to California to make his fortune, or rather 
 to improve it, for he had about ten thousand pounds 
 which he had just inherited, and wanted to invest in 
 some profitable way. He had had a dreadful mis- 
 fortune, shooting a friend by accident, and though it 
 was more the friend's fault than his, and he had been 
 acquitted of any blame except carelessness, he could 
 not bear his old life, and had determined to begin 
 again in a new country. 
 
 "There you have the hero and the heroine on the 
 stage together; for, of course, the young man fell 
 in love with the actress, and for the first time in her 
 life she found herself in love, too. He implored her 
 to marry him and leave the stage, for he thought his 
 ten thousand pounds quite fortune enough to marry 
 upon. But the girl loved the stage, and she had been 
 extravagant, and spent her money as fast as she had 
 made it. Besides, she was under a contract to the 
 man who was her manager for two years more, and 
 was decidedly afraid of him. He had taught her all 
 she knew about the stage, and fancied he had a right
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 275 
 
 to order her private as well as professional life, since 
 her parents were dead and she was alone in the world. 
 This manager disapproved of actresses marrying 
 while they were in the heyday of youth and success, 
 for he believed as most managers do that unmar- 
 ried girls on the stage are more of a 'draw' than 
 when they become matrons. 
 
 "She had someone else to be afraid of, too, poor 
 girl, though she did not tell that to her lover. She 
 knew he would laugh that fear to scorn. Only a 
 man she had flirted with a little, because he was so 
 horribly in earnest that he had been amusing a 
 Byronic sort of person with a handsome, fierce face, 
 and a deformed foot. When it came to his insisting 
 on marrying her she had refused, and he had sworn 
 by all his gods if he had gods to kill any man she 
 ever dared to make her husband. 
 
 "Somehow, the threats of this saturnine individ- 
 ual, who had followed her to England from Australia, 
 where she played one year, had made a very strong 
 impression on her mind, and that impression revived 
 when she fell in love with somebody else. Once in a 
 while he sent her a souvenir of his continued existence; 
 and the last packet she had received from him a year 
 ago had been posted from some place, the name 
 being indistinguishable in America. 
 
 "So my heroine refused my hero, and really thought 
 she would be able to part with him; but when they 
 reached New York and she found that she couldn't 
 keep him dangling about her, she relented. They 
 were privately married, the secret not to come out at 
 the earliest until her contract with her manager expired 
 at the end of two years. After a week or so of stolen
 
 276 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 meetings she sent him away, as her love was interfering 
 with her professional work; but they didn't expect their 
 separation to be for long, as the company of which she 
 was the star was slowly going West. Her destination 
 was to be California; and when she came near enough 
 they would meet again. Meanwhile, they wrote to 
 each other. 
 
 "My hero didn't find any investment to suit him 
 at first, so he put his money in a Californian bank, 
 that it might be handy if he wanted it, and as there 
 was a sensation about a newly discovered gold region, 
 he went out there and tried his luck. 
 
 "But his luck was not good. He saw others round 
 him doing well, while Fortune kept a closed hand 
 for him. Months passed, and at last a letter told 
 his wife that he had found exactly the right thing. 
 A man he had met a splendid fellow, very clever, 
 though eccentric had bought land, and in prospect- 
 ing had found gold. But he hadn't money enough 
 to do anything with it, or he would have kept the 
 secret to himself. As it was, he hadn't told a soul, 
 except my hero, giving him the chance of a partner- 
 ship in what would probably prove a tremendous 
 fortune for both. One was the owner of the land, 
 the other would be the financier; and they would 
 share and share alike. The fellow had shown my 
 hero some wonderful specimens, and they were already 
 chumming together. At the end of the letter my hero 
 told his wife the name of his new friend. It was that of 
 the man who had loved and threatened her in Australia, 
 and from whom she had heard a year ago in America. 
 
 "Here was a development; and, as you can see, 
 Comtesse, the villain of the piece is on the stage.
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 277 
 
 "The poor girl was sick with forebodings. Her 
 husband had a miniature of her which he always 
 wore; and he had also a curious jewel which she had 
 given him an heirloom of her family. It was a 
 blue moonstone, cut in the shape of the sphinx's 
 head, which had been given to an ancestor of her 
 father's by an Egyptian princess. She had had it 
 mounted on a small screw, with her famous initials 
 engraved on a tiny flat piece of gold, and had made 
 it a present to her husband before they parted, 'for 
 luck." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the Comtesse, "at last you have 
 come to the moonstone." 
 
 She had laid the sphinx's head on the table, and 
 had been toying with it as she listened. Hope New- 
 come's eyes and hers were upon it now, and the spirit- 
 light imprisoned within the stone sent up one of its 
 elusive gleams, like an eye answering their glances. 
 
 "If I believed in ghosts I should believe that stone 
 was haunted," Newcome said in an odd, low voice. 
 For an instant he had lost the thread of his narra- 
 tive, but quickly he took it up and went on again. 
 
 "My heroine knew that the man who had threat- 
 ened her had seen the moonstone in old days. Even 
 without the initials he would have recognized it as 
 hers, for she had said to him, laughingly, on the day 
 he had seen it, that she was keeping the talisman as a 
 wedding-gift for her husband if she ever had one. 
 This had been before any stormy scenes between 
 them, but she believed that he would not have for- 
 gotten. 
 
 "Her only hope was that the name might be a 
 mere coincidence, and she wrote asking her husband
 
 278 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 to describe his new friend. But the description, when 
 it came, brought no comfort. The man looked 
 rather like Byron, her husband answered. He had 
 a deformed foot, and the miners around about called 
 him, in their rude slang, 'Cloven Hoof.' 
 
 "Quickly she wrote again, telling the whole story, 
 which she had kept from her husband before, warn- 
 ing him to be careful; whatever he did, he must not 
 let the other dream that they were married, or c 
 knew each other, if it were not too late for that. And 
 she begged that in any event the partnership might 
 be dissolved. She had a presentiment of evil to come. 
 
 "But many days passed, and she got no an- 
 to her letter. She could not sleep at night for terrible 
 dreams; and, at about this time, another great per- 
 plexity had come to her. She knew that she was to 
 be a mother. 
 
 "All her anxieties made her ill; her tour had to 
 be interrupted in the midst, and engagements can- 
 celled. Then one night she had a dream more horri- 
 ble than any which had tortured her before. She 
 dreamed that she saw the man with the deformed 
 foot digging a grave for the dead body of her hus- 
 band, whom he had murdered, and hoped to hide 
 away forever, with all traces of the crime. 
 
 "She told me afterward for I heard this story 
 from her own lips that she must have been half 
 mad. She hardly knew what she was doing until 
 she found herself in the train, traveling alone from 
 Chicago where she had been taken ill on the way 
 to California and the place where her husband was 
 living with his 'friend/ Without a word to anyone 
 she had stolen away in the early dawn. Had she con-
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 279 
 
 fessed the truth to her manager, and told him what she 
 wished to do, he would have tried to prevent her 
 from going to her husband, and, in her weak state 
 of health, would probably have succeeded. As it 
 was, he would have followed, no doubt, had he guessed 
 her destination; but she left a note which put him 
 upon the wrong track, and not only did she contrive 
 to disappear but, as a matter of fact, the mystery which 
 surrounded her disappearance was never cleared up. 
 Circumstances which came afterward made her desire 
 to remain behind the veil she herself had dropped, 
 and it was never lifted. 
 
 "The nearest railway town to the place my poor 
 heroine wished to reach we'll call it Caxton; it's 
 very like the real name was thirty miles away. 
 When she got there the whole country was aflame 
 with excitement, and hardly had she been five minutes 
 in the small, rough hotel when she heard a strange 
 story. 
 
 "It seemed that two young men who had come 
 out from the East to this part of California had mys- 
 teriously vanished within six or seven weeks. They 
 were both well off, and had had a good deal of money 
 sent to them by their friends, who, anxious at not 
 hearing from them for a long time, caused inquiries 
 to be made. They were traced to the neighborhood 
 of Caxton, but no farther. Matters had reached this 
 stage when another man also disappeared the very 
 man whom the poor girl had feared might murder 
 her husband. Yet, judging from the tale she was 
 told, her dream was a contradiction; for her husband 
 had been arrested, and was now held on suspicion of 
 having murdered his partner.
 
 280 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "He, her lover-husband, had been grievously 
 wounded, lying unconscious when he was found; but 
 in a pocket of his coat was a diary which coolly recounted 
 in a cipher, easily read by experts, the details of the 
 two murders already accomplished, even jotting down 
 a memorandum of the spot where the bodies of his 
 victims (the young men who had recently disappeared) 
 were buried. 
 
 "Instantly the girl knew that there had been a 
 terrible plot, but even she could not guess the whole. 
 She had given in the office of the hotel a common 
 name, calling herself 'Mrs. Smith/ or something of 
 the sort, and her face, pale and haggard with illness, 
 anxiety, and the fatigue of her long, hurried journey, 
 was not as striking in its beauty as it had been before. 
 
 "She said that she was a distant relative of the 
 suspected murderer, who had been brought to Caxton 
 only that morning to lie in the infirmary attached to 
 the town jail, awaiting his trial. She begged for an 
 interview with the prisoner, and as there was little 
 difficulty in the far West, in those days, about grant- 
 ing such a request to a pretty woman, she obtained 
 her wish. 
 
 "The poor fellow had been badly wounded, but 
 he was conscious, and was between joy and sorrow at 
 the sight of his wife. They were not allowed to see 
 each other alone, but the thought that she had come 
 to him and loved him, believing him despite the evi- 
 dence which others accepted almost without question, 
 gave new strength and courage. He determined that 
 when he had to stand his trial for murder he would 
 make a brave fight for his life. 
 
 " But that very night an infuriated mob who believed
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 281 
 
 him guilty and feared that he would not be hanged 
 after all, broke open the jail, and took the prisoner 
 out to lynch him. His wife heard the noise, and learned 
 what was going on from the landlord's son, a reckless 
 fellow who was for hurrying out to see the fun. She 
 had brought with her on her journey several thousand 
 dollars which she had saved, and she offered the young 
 man half if he would rescue the prisoner and help him 
 to escape. It was a big bribe for him; and by raising 
 an alarm that the soldiers were coming from a military 
 garrison not many miles away, the trick was done. 
 The mob was robbed of its victim, the rescuer let the 
 lady know that her * relative' was safe, and in a few 
 days aided her to join him. 
 
 "But the great excitement and exertion brought 
 on a relapse, and for weeks her husband lay at death's 
 door. They lived in a rough cabin, with scarcely 
 the necessaries of life, much less the delicacies needed 
 by an invalid; still, love and faithful nursing pulled 
 him through to a pale semblance of returning health. 
 And there at that little cabin their child was born 
 a son." 
 
 "You were the child!" exclaimed the Comtesse, all 
 her affectations forgotten in her interest. 
 
 "Yes, you have guessed it. I was the child. And 
 before I had lived a year my father was dead but 
 not before he had told the true story of the ending 
 of that fatal partnership to my mother. 
 
 "His partner and he slept in the same room, and 
 he could hear the other saying strange things in his 
 sleep. His suspicions were roused against the man 
 he had believed in, and he began to associate him with 
 the mysterious disappearances which were so much
 
 282 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 talked of in the neighborhood. The man said some- 
 thing in his sleep about a 'grave under the red trees/ 
 and my father happened to know that in a lonely 
 spot not far from the mine which was yet to be worked 
 there was a group of pines with peculiarly red trunks. 
 He determined that he would go to the place one day 
 and make a search. 
 
 "Perhaps it would not have occurred to him to 
 do this, had he not begun to fear that his partner had 
 lied to him about the gold discovered on his property. 
 Gold he had seen, but he had reason to believe it had 
 been brought from a distance and placed where he had 
 seen if for the purpose of tricking him into putting 
 down his money. But it was not yet too late to dis- 
 solve the partnership. 
 
 "One day 'Cloven Hoof went away, and my 
 father took advantage of his absence to pay a visit 
 to the red trees. Close by there was a cave, and in 
 a hole in the cave, under a great bank of sand and 
 debris, he found not one body, but two. The skulls 
 had been broken in behind with some heavy, sharp 
 instrument, like an ax, and the bodies had been huddled 
 into the hole dressed exactly as they had died. Their 
 blood-stained clothes had not moldered away like their 
 flesh. Probably the murderer's courage had failed 
 him before emptying his victims' pockets, or else he had 
 felt so certain the bodies would not be discovered that 
 he had not thought it necessary to do more than hide 
 them; for (determined to be sure that the accusation 
 he meant to make was well founded) my father searched 
 the pockets of the dead men's coats. It must have 
 been a grim task, but it was rewarded by the finding 
 of letters from the murderer upon one of the bodies,
 
 THE STORY OF THE MOONSTONE 283 
 
 proving beyond doubt that he had been the man to lure 
 the young stranger from the East to his doom. Just 
 such promises as the fiend had held out to my father 
 had he given to his predecessor. 
 
 "My father took the letters and thrust them deep 
 into a pocket of his own coat. Then he went back to 
 the house, where he meant to confront the murderer 
 with his knowledge of the double crime. But his 
 partner's journey had been a pretense. The wretch 
 had only gone a short distance, meaning to return 
 unexpectedly, and, taking my father unawares, kill 
 him as he had killed the others. Afterwards my 
 mother found that all my father's money had been 
 withdrawn from his bank by means of a forged letter; 
 and this having been accomplished, the sooner he was 
 out of the way the better. No doubt the murderer 
 meant this to be his last crime, and intended in any 
 event to fly with the spoils, throwing suspicion on his 
 latest victim. 
 
 "As my father was walking back to the house, 
 someone leaped at him from behind, but he sprang 
 aside in time to avoid the full force of the blow. He 
 told my mother that somehow he felt no surprise at 
 sight of his partner, with the lust of murder in his 
 eyes, and they fought together a desperate fight, each 
 man for his life. 
 
 "Once my father got his enemy down, and panted 
 out what he had learned; but the r fiend wriggled him- 
 self free, and struck my father with a knife, which 
 pierced his breast, touching the lungs. It was this 
 wound that finally resulted in his death. 
 
 "While he was unconscious his enemy must have 
 placed in his pocket the diary in cipher, which had
 
 284 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 evidently been prepared expressly for the purpose. 
 My father knew that he had wounded his would-be 
 murderer, nevertheless, the wretch escaped; and it was 
 supposed that my father had killed him and hidden 
 the body before falling down in a faint induced by 
 his own wound. 
 
 "As for the letters, which must have shown con- 
 clusively who was guilty, they had disappeared my 
 father and mother believed that they had been stolen 
 by the murderer. The moonstone sphinx and my 
 mother's miniature were also missing, and it was not 
 difficult to guess where they had gone, though the 
 treacherous brute had no means of knowing what his 
 victim had really been to the girl they both loved. 
 
 "The letters being lost and the murderer gone, 
 there was no absolute proof that my father had not 
 committed the crimes of which he had been accused ; 
 and my mother begged that he would remain with her, 
 hidden and safe, while he lived. Such an existence must 
 have proved impossible for a man of spirit, had he not 
 died within a year; but I think that, in spite of all, they 
 most have known some hours of happiness together. 
 
 "When he was gone my mother lived only for me, 
 and the hope not ideally Christian, but natural 
 that one day I should seek out the man who had 
 robbed and lolled her husband, and avenge their 
 wrongs. While I was a boy I was left in ignorance 
 of her sorrows, and we lived somehow on the little 
 money she had left. But when I had grown to be a 
 man she sent for me one day (we had moved from 
 California to Kentucky by this rime), and I found 
 her pale and quivering with passionate excitement. 
 She had made an astonishing discovery."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE WINNING OF THE WAGER 
 
 "THE moonstone sphinx!" broke in the Comtesse. 
 
 " No," Hope Newcome answered, " the letters which 
 my father had taken from the body of the murdered 
 man. All these years she had kept the coat he had 
 worn in jail and when he escaped, for it was stained 
 with his blood. And sometimes she took it out and 
 wept over it, recalling the past. The letters had not, 
 after all, been stolen by the murderer. He could not 
 even have seen them, for when my father thrust them 
 deeply into his pocket they had been pushed down 
 between the coat and the lining, which was ripped 
 not torn; and somehow the opening and the letters 
 had remained undiscovered till that day. 
 
 "It was then my mother told me the story, and 
 made me promise that I would give my whole life to 
 tracking down the murderer, if he still lived. 
 
 "She believed that he would be found in England 
 under an assumed name, and that with the money 
 he had stolen from his three victims he would have 
 made himself rich. Long ago, when they had known 
 each other in Australia, he had told her that his great 
 ambition was to be a millionaire and spend his money 
 in London the 'capital of the world,' he had called 
 it. My mother was certain that he had realized his 
 ambition, and now that I was armed with the letters 
 
 285
 
 2$6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 I should be able even at that late date to bring him 
 
 O 
 
 to justice if I could find him. I was to know him 
 by the description she gave, and above all by his 
 deformed foot; for whatever else was changed by time 
 that could not change. And she was certain also that 
 he would have kept the sphinx's head. 
 
 "But to find him was the great task, and to do so 
 I must live in the world of rich people. I must get 
 money enough to live upon, so that I should have my 
 time to myself for the search. 
 
 "When my mother told me this story of the past 
 she was already an invalid. She would have no nurse 
 but me, even had we been able to afford it. She suf- 
 fered continually, and could not be left alone for long, 
 so that my ways of earning a living were precarious. 
 A few months after she died I took the first step toward 
 keeping my promise to her. I sailed for England 
 a steerage passenger. Exactly what my life was after 
 that adds no interest to my tale, but it had its ups and 
 downs, mostly downs, until a fortunate whim of fate 
 tossed into my hands what once would have seemed 
 to me a great fortune. I made a queer bargain, with 
 a clause at the end of it which was left vague; but I 
 was ready to do almost anything, not dishonorable, 
 for money. 
 
 "Only for one brief interval of madness did I lose 
 sight of my object; but, though I thought of nothing 
 else, worked for nothing else, I never seemed to be 
 nearer to my goal. Often I followed false clues; 
 they always led me back again to the starting place, 
 until one day I met a shabby fellow in the street who 
 begged of me with an American accent. He was 
 near the house of a rich man whom I knew very well,
 
 THE WINNING OF THE WAGER 287 
 
 and he had been there, hoping to see the millionaire, 
 whom he stated that he had known long ago; but as 
 the master was abroad, he was turned away by the serv- 
 ants, who refused to believe in the alleged friendship. 
 
 "I gave the fellow something, more because he 
 was an American than for any other reason, but a 
 few words let carelessly drop interested me for another 
 more selfish one. I stood him a dinner, with a little 
 good wine, and he poured out confidences. He had 
 lived in the Western states, and had owned a piece 
 of land thirty years ago with several houses upon it. 
 One of these houses was unlet and had stood empty 
 for some time, when it began to have the reputation of 
 being haunted. People in the neighborhood heard 
 queer chattering noises at night, and were afraid to 
 go near the place. But the owner was not afraid. He 
 went in and found a terrible wreck of manhood there 
 a poor wretch with his face so burned with vitriol that 
 it was more like raw meat than a face; and, still more 
 horrible, he lacked a foot, which had been lately ampu- 
 tated, literally hacked off, as if by the hand of an 
 amateur. 
 
 "The sufferer was raving with fever, and almost 
 dead. How long he had been there or how he came, 
 the owner of the house could not tell, but he was 
 more than half starved, and in his delirium said 
 strange things strangest of all, that he had deliber- 
 ately worked the evil upon himself for motives untold. 
 He was tended and cared for as well as possible in 
 that lonely neighborhood, where there was not a doctor 
 within thirty miles; and a marvelous constitution pulled 
 him through, horribly disfigured and lame though he 
 must be to the end of his days.
 
 288 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "When he was able to speak coherently he told 
 a story of a fire in the nearest town, in which he had 
 all but lost his life, saying that, as the foot was nearly 
 burnt off, he had himself cut bone and flesh away, 
 lest mortification should set in. After that he pro- 
 fessed to have no recollection of anything which hap- 
 pened; and as he had plenty of money in a belt he 
 wore next to his skin, the owner of the house was 
 not too pressing in his curiosity. He was well paid 
 for his care, and it was not until after his mysterious 
 guest had vanished as unexpectedly as he had come 
 that he found out there had been no fire of importance 
 in the town mentioned for many months. 
 
 "Years passed on, and brought troubles to my 
 American friend. He lost his money and had various 
 mishaps, finally going to South Africa. There he 
 heard of the great millionaire with the scarred face 
 and hobbling limp, which his intimates whispered was 
 caused by wearing an artificial foot. At that time 
 the millionaire in question was in Kimberley, visiting 
 Mr. Rhodes. The American tramped there, only 
 just in time to see the man getting into the train at 
 the railway station. But he recognized the hideous 
 face, and was bitterly disappointed at losing the 
 chance of claiming help as a reward for what he had 
 done in the past. 
 
 "Somehow he managed, after a few months more, 
 to get to England, and determined to make a good 
 sum out of his former services, perhaps get a start in 
 business. But he only arrived to find his quarry had 
 slipped away again. 
 
 "You can imagine, Comtesse, that this story set 
 me thinking. If a man had the fearful courage to
 
 THE WINNING OF THE WAGER 289 
 
 disfigure himself in a way so horrible, so painful, it 
 could only have been because he must choose between 
 losing his identity or his life. Such grim pluck, such 
 iron self-control might almost win admiration, were 
 it not the desperation of a moral coward, ready to 
 sacrifice all that makes existence precious for the sake 
 of the bare chance of escaping death. 
 
 "Needless to tell you that I have the American 
 where I can put my hand upon him when I want 
 him. When I had arranged this, I followed the mil- 
 lionaire, with whom I had actually been on terms 
 of friendship, feeling as if I had dreamed the months 
 of intimacy with him, months which I had wasted in 
 vain search, my eyes everywhere save on the one 
 man who should have held them. 
 
 "Fate had already played me some strange tricks, 
 but none stranger than that which put me on the 
 track of the moonstone sphinx, in the very moment 
 of reaching the end of my journey. He had had it 
 for years, and the clue seemed complete; but the moon- 
 stone was gone out of his possession for the first time. 
 I could neither hope to find it with him nor to obtain it 
 myself, and confront him with it in the hour of his 
 downfall, unless 
 
 "Unless I give it back to you!" exclaimed the 
 Comtesse. 
 
 "Exactly. Or even lend it. What I want is to 
 hear him claim it as his own." 
 
 Her answer was to snatch up the stone from the 
 table and impulsively place it in Newcome's hand. 
 "It is yours, as it has always been. You have won 
 your wager, and I pay my debt."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY 
 
 WINIFRED GRAY did not deceive herself. She 
 knew what she was doing in going alone to the house 
 of Lionel Macaire. She knew what his reputation 
 was; she knew how, since she had shown the loathing 
 she felt for him and his insults, he had built up, stone 
 by stone, his scheme of revenge. 
 
 Sometimes a stone had fallen with the dull ring 
 of failure for him; but he had set it up again with 
 another piled upon it; and when she went to keep 
 the appointment at his house, the shameful structure 
 he had planned would be complete. 
 
 Still, if she hesitated in telegraphing her reply to 
 Dick's imploring letter, it was not for long. Poor, 
 foolish Dick! he had been but a catspaw from the 
 first, as she had warned him; yet she would not remind 
 him now of that warning. She would save him, 
 and if she could not save herself when the time came, 
 she must die. 
 
 To those who did not know of the silent battle waged 
 for so many months it would seem a small, almost 
 absurdly small, sacrifice to make, that she should 
 dine at the house of a man whom she disliked, when 
 by doing so she could keep her brother from going to 
 prison and spare her invalid mother a blow which 
 might crush out her life. 
 
 290
 
 THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY 291 
 
 But Winifred knew, when she made the promise, 
 that it meant far more than a dinner at a house where 
 she would have preferred not to go. 
 
 If Hope Newcome had been to her the man she 
 had once thought him, she would have hesitated 
 longer before sacrificing her reputation to save her 
 brother from prison. She would have belonged to 
 her lover, and would have had no right to put Dick 
 before him. But the girl believed that she had done 
 forever with love and lovers. Since the only man 
 to whom she had given her heart had been able to 
 hide his baseness with seeming nobility, Winifred 
 had lost faith in all men, and told herself that she 
 hated everyone. Except for her mother, it mattered 
 little enough what became of the rest of her spoiled life. 
 
 She did not sleep much before the night when she 
 would be called upon to keep her promise. The 
 thought of what she must do was like a waking night- 
 mare. It was always before her, whether her eyes 
 were closed or open. Her imagination conjured up 
 a hundred different methods by which Macaire might 
 seek to entrap her; and the hours she should have 
 slept were spent in striving to think how, while she 
 kept her word to the letter, she might still contrive 
 to thwart the ultimate design which she suspected. 
 
 Winifred did not tell her mother of the trouble 
 which had befallen Dick nor of her promise to Macaire. 
 If all were well, Mrs. Gray never need know; if not, 
 there was time enough for her to be made unhappy. 
 
 As the girl went out every evening soon after seven 
 to keep her nightly engagement at the Salisbury, her 
 mother would believe that she was absent upon her 
 usual errand. It would only be necessary to say, "I
 
 292 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 shall be later than usual" for the dinner was to be 
 at nine and Winifred, after keeping her hateful 
 bargain to the letter, to reach home before midnight. 
 Only there was such terrible indefiniteness in her 
 hope. She did not know what danger she might be 
 going to meet at Macaire's house, and unless Dick 
 were there she would have no one to protect her. 
 
 At half-past seven she left the dismal lodging- 
 house which was "home" now. She had kissed her 
 mother even more tenderly than her wont, and clung 
 to the little frail woman yearningly for a moment, 
 that was all; and Mrs. Gray suspected nothing. Win- 
 ifred had made her promise not to sit up, as she must 
 be late, but the girl knew that her mother would 
 not sleep until she was safely back again. "Safely 
 back again!" how much there was in those simple 
 words! What would be her thoughts when she 
 returned to the dull little rooms, which appeared desir- 
 able in her eyes to-night for the first time ? What 
 would the next five hours hold of fear and humilia- 
 tion for her ? 
 
 Winifred put on a very simple evening dress, which 
 she covered with a long cloak even from her mother's 
 eyes; for she was in the habit of walking to the Salisbury 
 in a coat and short dark skirt. Her "turn" was one 
 of the first on the long programme, a position not 
 considered desirable by the artistes, since the nearer 
 their names to the middle the more unmistakable 
 the hall-mark of their importance; but on this particular 
 night it was convenient for Winifred to finish early. 
 
 By half-past eight she had sung her song and satis- 
 fied the audience with a couple of encores. There 
 was just time to change her stage dress for the evening
 
 THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY 293 
 
 gown she had worn, and drive to Park Lane; and 
 as the hour drew near the girl's heart grew cold as 
 ice. She dared not be late, she dared not wish that 
 some accident might delay or prevent her going, lest 
 Dick should be made to suffer. 
 
 She dressed with speed, and at twenty minutes to 
 nine she was in a hansom on her way to Park Lane. 
 How sickeningly her pulses beat as the cab drove into 
 the courtyard and stopped before the great brilliantly 
 lighted house! Her knees trembled, and she almost 
 fell as she stepped down to the pavement. The huge 
 doors looked to her like the doors of a prison. If 
 only Dick had written if only she found Dick inside ! 
 But there had been no word from him save a few 
 lines of thanks after receiving her telegram. 
 
 She paid the cabman, and then slowly in spite of 
 herself moved toward the door, which she feared 
 might open before her knock. The hansom was 
 driving away; it was all that she could do not to call 
 after it and tell the man to stop she had changed 
 her mind, and would go back. 
 
 As her eyes wistfully followed him a voice spoke, 
 almost in her ear. "Winnie! I've been waiting for 
 you this last half-hour." 
 
 "Dick!" she thankfully exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes. We've only a minute to speak together. 
 I can't go in I'm not wanted inside that house any 
 more, and I don't want to be there, heaven knows, 
 except for you. But I had to see you. Lucky for us 
 your cab had rubber tires and didn't make much 
 noise, or the door would be open now, and you going 
 in. I couldn't have got a word. Look here, Winnie, 
 I am beginning to be afraid you were right about
 
 294 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Macaire. He certainly is a villain bad enough for 
 anything, and the more I've thought of it the more 
 I believe he did lay the trap to get us both to fall 
 into it." 
 
 "I've never doubted that for an instant," said the girl. 
 
 "Yet you're here, Winnie. I'm a brute to let you 
 come, but I didn't see it this way at first, when I wrote 
 begging you to consent. And how could I go to prison ? 
 For mother's sake, how could I go ? I was sure I 
 should be on hand to look after you and see that you 
 came to no harm, so I let things slide when I began to 
 realize that Macaire meant worse mischief. But I've 
 been turned from the house, and told that if I tried 
 to force my way in I should be pitched out by the foot- 
 men. I pretended to go, but I sneaked back here to 
 wait for you, and give you a word of warning. I would 
 say, don't go in after all, no matter what happened to 
 me- 
 
 "You needn't, Dick," Winifred broke in. "Noth- 
 ing that you tell me comes as a surprise. I shall go 
 in and keep my word. It would not be true to say 
 I am not afraid of Lionel Macaire, for I am hor- 
 ribly afraid. And I hate him, and shudder at him. 
 But I do believe that God will protect me from him, 
 as He has before." 
 
 " If ever a girl deserved such protection, it's you," cried 
 Dick, " for you've been an angel to me and I a devil 
 to you. But listen; I was going to say that I'd tell 
 you not to go in in spite of everything, if it weren't 
 for von Zellheim. He'll be here at Macaire's to-night. 
 I know that." 
 
 "Baron von Zellheim?" repeated Winifred bitterly, 
 giving her lost lover the full title which he had claimed.
 
 THE PRICE SHE WAS TO PAY 295 
 
 "What help can his presence give me ? It only makes 
 it all a thousand times worse, that he should see me 
 here in the house of the man he was bribed to aid, in 
 hunting me down." 
 
 "Winifred, I swear to you that von Zellheim never 
 did that," Dick asserted. "You must trust him. He's 
 true as steel." 
 
 "So you once said of his master," retorted the girl, 
 stung to desperation. "Oh, if this is all you have 
 to tell me, let me go and get this horrible night over 
 quickly however it is to end." 
 
 Dick caught her arm and held her back, when she 
 would have fled up the three marble steps that led 
 to the door of old green bronze. "You must hear 
 me!" he ejaculated. "It was all my fault that you 
 distrusted von Zellheim. I'll stake my life he'd have 
 killed Macaire rather than be his friend, if he'd guessed 
 what a villain he was. He didn't even know that you 
 and Macaire were more than the merest acquaint- 
 ances I'd swear that. If you had seen him, half a 
 dozen words of explanation would have made every- 
 thing right. But you refused he couldn't understand 
 why, or what he had done to offend you, and he was 
 half mad. He's been a changed man since older and 
 graver in his ways. If I'd chosen I could have brought 
 a reconciliation about, but I didn't want von Zellheim 
 to know what you thought of Macaire. If he did 
 know, I was certain there would be no end of a row, 
 and I'd lose my chance as secretary. I couldn't give 
 that up. And I was so sure, you see, that you were 
 mistaken about Macaire." 
 
 "To keep your place you let me insult the man I 
 loved!" cried Winifred. "You let me break my
 
 296 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 heart; you spoiled my life. Yet you are not ashamed 
 to call on me to save you." 
 
 "For God's sake, Winnie, don't look at me, don't 
 speak to me like that! I am ashamed I'm in the 
 dust with shame. And I didn't dream you cared for 
 von Zellheim except as a friend. If I had I hope 
 I'd have been decent enough to do differently. But 
 it's too late for that now. And I see I've ruined 
 myself with you. Do as you like. Don't go into the 
 house. I'll run away be off somewhere, I don't 
 know where, and escape from that fiend's anger when 
 he finds that he's been tricked." 
 
 "No. You couldn't escape. I will go in heaven 
 help me!" said Winifred, with a breaking voice. 
 
 "You will? God bless you, then. But some- 
 time, before long, I hope, von Zellheim will be here. 
 He doesn't know that you are to be in the house; 
 but he wrote, sending me his address, and I wired, 
 telling him that he must come if he would save me 
 from shame. Already he has been helping me and 
 he will be here to-night without fail. I am as sure 
 of it as if I had his promise. You'll trust him now, 
 Winnie, won't you?" 
 
 "If I have accused him falsely he will never forgive 
 me," said the girl hopelessly. And then, without 
 another word to her brother, she went up the steps, 
 and lifted the mailed glove which formed a knocker.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 NERO'S DINNER PARTY 
 
 INSTANTLY the doors flew open. Winifred saw 
 a great hall, blazing with lights, which dazzled her 
 eyes after the darkness. A footman in purple and 
 gold livery showed her to a corridor, branching off 
 the main hall, and there she was met by a maid, who 
 took her into a room which at first glance seemed 
 walled with mirrors. Everywhere Winifred saw her 
 own reflection a slim little figure in a plain, long 
 gray cloak, looking strangely incongruous against a 
 background of such magnificence. 
 
 The maid helped to remove the cloak, and Win- 
 ifred was thankful to see a collection of exquisite 
 wraps belonging to other women. One of her fears 
 had been either that she was to dine with Macaire 
 alone, or that she would find herself the only woman 
 among a crowd of men in the fast, reckless set which 
 Macaire was said to lead. Courage came back to 
 her at sight of those dainty evening wraps, which 
 suggested the inner heart of Paris. 
 
 She left the mirrored dressing-room, and gave her- 
 self again to a footmen's guidance. Never had 
 Winifred seen so marvelous a house, but she was 
 scarcely conscious of admiration or surprise. Her 
 nerves were tensely keyed for what might be 
 coming. 
 
 297
 
 298 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 "What name?" inquired the big footman, with a 
 veiled glitter of impertinence under supercilious lids. 
 
 " Miss Winifred Gray," the girl answered mechan- 
 ically, and then wished that she had refused to give 
 any name at all. 
 
 A door was thrown open, and -a chatter of voices 
 suddenly buzzed in her ears. They were not sweet, 
 gently modulated voices, but loud and vulgar in every 
 note, though they were the accents of women. 
 
 The air was heavy with the scent of lilies, almost 
 deadly in their keen sweetness. The room, which 
 was all white and gold and palest pink, was decorated 
 in the style of Louis Quatorz, and Winifred remem- 
 bered how she had heard that each room in Macaire's 
 town house was furnished after the fashion of a 
 different nation and period. 
 
 Before her mind had had time to receive any other 
 definite impression, save that there were a number 
 of men and women in the room, the latter gorgeously 
 dressed and blazing with diamonds, Macaire himself 
 came forward, holding out his hand. 
 
 "We've been waiting for you." he said. "I'd 
 begun to be afraid that you weren't coming after all." 
 And this sentence he spoke with meaning. 
 
 "I had promised, and I never break my word," 
 answered Winifred haughtily, trying in vain to avoid 
 his hand, which pounced upon and imprisoned hers 
 like a hawk seizing a dove. " But you need not have 
 waited for me." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Macaire, "not wait for the 
 guest of the evening ? Perhaps you didn't realize 
 that this little dinner is being given in your honor. 
 I've invited friends who have been especially anxious
 
 NERO'S DINNER PARTY 299 
 
 to meet you ever since last Decemoer, when you were 
 playing Mazeppa." 
 
 "I never did play Mazeppa/' Winifred answered 
 him in a clear, distinct voice, that could be heard at 
 the other end of the large room. 
 
 " Didn't you ? Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought 
 you did. But that is a detail, isn't it, since you're 
 here to-night ? And that our dinner may be no 
 formal, conventional affair, like those of ordinary 
 society that doesn't know how to enjoy itself, I want 
 to introduce you and my other friends who've come 
 especially to meet you, to each other." 
 
 Still holding her hand so tightly that she could 
 not wrench it away, Macaire led her further into the 
 room, nearer to the group of men and women, who 
 had stopped in their conversation to listen and look at 
 the newcomer. 
 
 The men were already on their feet, but the women 
 remained seated. Four or five painted faces, under 
 hair bleached golden or dyed to the sheen of copper, 
 stared up at her with bold, laughing eyes. Winifred 
 shrank back with a horrified catching of her breath. 
 She was an innocent girl, who had known little of the 
 world until she began to earn her living on the stage, 
 but instinct rather than knowledge told her with one 
 blinding flash of enlightenment what these women 
 were whom Lionel Macaire had asked her to meet. 
 
 Some of the men she had seen before, though not 
 to one had she ever spoken. There was a French- 
 man with royal blood in his veins; there was a great 
 city magnate; there was a young English earl who 
 had lately been made bankrupt; there was a man 
 better known on the race-course than in drawing-rooms.
 
 300 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 A word from Macaire to the Frenchman brought 
 him to be introduced to "Miss Gray, of whom he had 
 so often heard." He bowed, with a broad compli- 
 ment, and looked at Winifred from. head to foot as 
 no man had ever looked at her before. 
 
 " Dinner is served," announced a footman. Macaire 
 pulled Winifred's resisting hand under his arm, and 
 held it firmly as he made her walk by his side across 
 the room. The girl was deadly pale, but she did 
 not cry out, as Macaire' s watchful eyes told that 
 he half expected her to do. 
 
 They reached the marble dining-room, with its 
 purple hangings, its pink granite pillars and blue- 
 domed ceiling. Winifred's place was by Macaire's 
 side, and she sank into the chair which a footman 
 offered her. She must drink her cup to the dregs, or 
 Macaire would say that she had not kept to the bar- 
 gain. Having gone through so much she must endure 
 to the end, or she might better never have come to 
 this horrible house. She could only hope that she 
 knew the worst now. And perhaps, she told herself, 
 even this was better than to have been forced by her 
 promise to dine with Macaire alone. 
 
 "Why don't you eat?" asked Macaire when she 
 had let several courses go by untasted. 
 
 "I do not wish to," she answered in a low tone, 
 lost in the babel of hilarious voices. 
 
 "Then I shall not consider that you have kept 
 your word. To dine with a man is not merely 
 to sit at his table, but to eat his food and drink 
 his wine. If you can't bring yourself to do that 
 in my house I am freed from my half of our 
 bargain."
 
 NERO'S DINNER PARTY 301 
 
 Desperately Winifred made a feint of eating some- 
 thing from her plate, not even knowing what she ate. 
 
 "That is better. Now drink some wine. I insist, 
 or you know the consequences. Surely it isn't much 
 to ask. I don't often have to urge my guests to touch 
 the wine that comes from my cellars." 
 
 Champagne, in a jeweled Venetian glass, was 
 sending up from its depths to the golden gleaming 
 surface a stream of bubbles. Winifred raised her 
 glass to her lips and drank. As she did so her tor- 
 tured eyes met Macaire's, and the glint of satisfaction 
 that darted from his, though he would have hidden 
 it, startled her. She set down the glass quickly. What 
 had that look meant? Was he pleased that she had 
 drunk his wine only because of his triumph in compell- 
 ing her to obedience, or was there a more subtle reason ? 
 
 Her heart knocked against her side, and her hands 
 grew cold as her gaze traveled questioningly from 
 one hard face to another. Was there one in this 
 strange company who would sympathize or help her 
 if she went down on her knees to implore it ? She 
 did not believe that there was one. And Baron von 
 Zellheim had not come. 
 
 Fearful lest she had made a serious mistake, she 
 watched her own feelings. Had she experienced any 
 different sensations, she asked herself anxiously, since 
 she had drunk those few sips of wine ? 
 
 At first she hoped that her excited fancy alone 
 conjured up the imagined difference, but slowly she 
 was obliged to acknowledge that she felt a slight 
 giddiness, a weakness in the limbs of which she had 
 not been conscious before. Her eylids drooped, and 
 she lifted them with an effort. There was a faint
 
 302 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 prickling in the palms of her hands and the soles of 
 her feet. The beating of her heart, which had been 
 like the wild fluttering of a bird against the bars of 
 a cage, slowed to a heavy, measured throbbing at 
 longer intervals. The shrill laughter of the women 
 at the table sounded metallic, unreal and far away. 
 A mist rose between her and the faces to which a few 
 minutes ago she had turned a vainly appealing gaze. 
 
 How the dinner went on she did not know, for she 
 was like one in a dream. Macaire had talked to 
 her and forced answers at first, but now he let her 
 alone, well pleased, perhaps, with the progress of 
 events. Some of the guests who appeared to know 
 each other well had addressed a remark to her now 
 and then, but when she scarcely replied they turned 
 their attention elsewhere. 
 
 "I've been drugged, I've been drugged," Wini- 
 fred kept saying to herself, as if the repetition of 
 the startling words must rouse her failing energies 
 to some supreme effort. But, though her mind strug- 
 gled with creeping lethargy, the body would not answer 
 the call to arms. 
 
 As the champagne went round the laughter grew 
 louder, the women bolder. Strange jests were made, 
 such jests as Winifred had never been forced to hear 
 even behind the scenes at the Salisbury, nor did she 
 hear them now. The words drummed upon her 
 ears without conveying a meaning. All the voices 
 seemed to join in a wild babble, inarticulate as the voice 
 of a river fed from many rushing brooks. 
 
 Winifred was going to sleep, and so dulled were 
 all her faculties that she no longer cared. 
 
 Her head, with its crown of bright, waving hair
 
 NERO'S DINNER PARTY 303 
 
 so different from the artificial structure of her neigh- 
 bors' - - nodded on the slender throat, like a lily 
 shaken on its stem by the wind. Her lashes fell. 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Macaire. "See, our Miss 
 Ingenue is missing her beauty sleep! She would have 
 us believe that she's in bed every night at ten." 
 
 "You've plied her with too much champagne, O 
 generous host!" cried one of the women. 
 
 "Perhaps," confessed Macaire, while everybody 
 laughed. " The child must not have any more to-night. 
 Next time you meet her I warrant she'll do better. 
 In a month she'll hold her own with any of you." 
 
 "To the next meeting!" Glasses were lifted, and 
 much champagne was drunk. 
 
 " Poor little dear, she doesn't look very comfortable!" 
 giggled a lady in many diamonds and a small allowance 
 of bodice. " She won't be able to sit up with us bigger 
 children for dessert." 
 
 "I'll give instructions for her to be taken away 
 where she can have her nap out in peace," said Macaire, 
 his eyes viciously bright. He nodded to a footman, 
 who moved forward respectfully to take his master's 
 order; and at this instant, without being announced, 
 Hope Newcome came into the room. 
 
 "Von Zellheim!" exclaimed one of the men. 
 
 Winifred's closing eyes opened wide for the fraction 
 of a second. They were no longer bright, but dull 
 and curiously glassy. "Help!" she whispered rather 
 than spoke, straining to make her voice heard as one 
 strives to scream and break the cold spell of a night- 
 mare. Then her head fell forward again, and she 
 would have slipped from her chair to the floor had 
 not Macaire caught her.
 
 304 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 It was the movement, not the scarcely audible 
 whisper, which drew Hope Newcome's eyes to the 
 drooping figure in white; and, seeing the lovely, 
 pallid face of Winifred Gray, he sprang towards 
 her, his eyes blazing incredulous horror at her pres- 
 ence here.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE EYE OF THE MOONSTONE 
 
 'THIS is a pleasant surprise, my dear von Zell- 
 heim," said Macaire, his expression somewhat belying 
 his words. "Your pardon for one moment while I 
 see to Miss Gray's comfort, and a place shall be 
 made for you. Our young friend's head is not as 
 strong as it might be, and she has been overcome by 
 a little more champagne than she's been accustomed 
 to taking." 
 
 For an instant Hope Newcome had lost self-con- 
 trol; but in the short interval occupied by the mil- 
 lionaire's excuses he had regained it. He knew Wini- 
 fred Gray; and he knew Macaire at last! Never 
 in his life of vicissitudes, perhaps, had he received 
 such a shock as the sight of Winifred Gray at Macaire's 
 house, dining in this company, had given; but, though 
 he was absolutely ignorant of the circumstances which 
 had led up to her coming, it took him no longer than 
 a second to divine that she was the victim of some plot 
 - possibly not the first web which this cunning spider 
 had spun for her undoing. And at the end of that one 
 second he had made up his mind how to act. 
 
 "Whatever has caused Miss Gray's indisposition 
 it is certainly not due to champagne," he said in a 
 loud, cold voice, to be heard by everyone. "I know 
 her well enough to vouch for that, since she is to be
 
 3 o6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 my wife. And as she is to be my wife, it is my place 
 to take care of her. I will relieve you of the trouble, 
 Mr. Macaire." 
 
 As he spoke, he stepped forward as if to remove 
 her from Macaire's arms. 
 
 It was the first time that the millionaire had 
 touched Winifred Gray more familiarly than to take 
 her hand. The fragrance of her yellow-brown hair 
 was intoxicatingly sweet in his nostrils; he had been 
 half drunk with the joy of success at last; and with 
 an oath he drew back from the younger man who 
 had just announced himself his rival. There was no 
 reason for holding his fierce temper in, so far as he 
 knew, and he loosed it savagely. 
 
 "How dare you?" he demanded. "She's noth- 
 ing to you, you liar. She's mine, or she wouldn't be 
 here to-night." 
 
 Newcome did not answer, but, grasping Macaire's 
 wrist with one of his brown, strong hands, he twisted 
 it back so that the joint cracked in its socket, and the 
 millionaire gave a shrill, irrepressible squeal of pain. 
 
 Quietly Newcome took Winifred from him, hold- 
 ing her against his shoulder, and defying Macaire 
 with the cold menace of his dark eyes. 
 
 Always hideous, the red, glazed face of Nero the 
 Second was appalling in his rage. At sight of it the 
 women sprang up from the table, pale under their 
 paint. Glasses were overturned, and eyes that had 
 gazed on many a strange scene opened wide to behold 
 something of more than common interest. 
 
 "You dog; you common cur that I took from the 
 gutter!" shrieked Macaire. "You puppet that I 
 hired with my money to dance at my bidding. You
 
 THE EYE OF THE MOONSTONE 307 
 
 thought you might presume on your brute strength 
 to come here and insult me in my own house, I suppose, 
 since our contract wasn't out yet. But it's got hardly 
 a month more to run 
 
 "We'll call it cancelled now," said Hope New- 
 come. "You and I will have no more contracts 
 in future." 
 
 "Everyone here shall know who you are," Macaire 
 went on furiously. "All the world that I've been 
 laughing at shall know to-morrow, and where will 
 you be then ? Why, kicked back to your kennel 
 by the women who've made you their pet." 
 
 "My kennel's rather a nice one," said Newcome. 
 "Schloss Zellheim, on the Rhine. It is no longer a 
 ruin. I have had it restored in these last few months. 
 I hope to take Miss Gray there; only she will then 
 be the Baroness von Zellheim, and any man who has 
 told lies about her will have been horsewhipped into 
 publicly apologizing." 
 
 " Schloss Zellheim ! " sneered Macaire. " The money 
 you've saved out of what I flung to you wouldn't 
 have bought it." 
 
 "The ruined castle has been the property of my 
 family for years, though they were absentees, and 
 too poor to restore it. That has been my privilege." 
 
 "Pshaw!" laughed Macaire hatefully. "These 
 friends will know how much to believe of that, and 
 what to tell in their clubs to-morrow, when I say 
 that you've no more right to the name of von Zellheim 
 than I have. I gave you the name, to make sport 
 for myself, and sport I've had, but there's better 
 to come. For six months your pay for breaking 
 Joey Nash and being at my beck and call was to
 
 3 c8 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 continue good pay, a thousand pounds a month, to 
 say nothing of the sum you got down, to start with 
 
 "It's trebled now," cut in Newcome coolly. "You 
 gave me such excellent advice as to speculations. I 
 took it, and succeeded beyond my best hopes. That's 
 the one thing for which I have to thank you.'' 
 
 "There speaks your dog's ingratitude. But many 
 a servant's got rich in his master's service; and you're 
 my servant or you're bound by your own word 
 to be at the end of the six months, and everybody 
 shall know it; everybody shall hear the great joke 
 now and laugh with me. You bound yourself in 
 your gold-greed, to do anything I exacted of you when 
 the six months should be up. What I meant to make 
 of you was a groom in my stables, a place you're well 
 fitted for, and you can't refuse it without breaking 
 your pledge, the same as obtaining eight thousand 
 pounds on false pretenses. How will Miss Gray 
 fancy being the wife of my groom ? We must ask her 
 when she wakes up from her fainting fit." 
 
 "Let me first ask you a question," said Newcome. 
 "Whose property is this?" 
 
 He supported Winifred's slender, white-clad body 
 with his left arm, and pressed it close against his 
 heart. With his right hand he held up a moonstone 
 cut in the shape of a sphinx's head. As he raised it 
 aloft the light touched the stone, and struck out a 
 strange blue gleam, like an eye that peered through 
 a cloud, searching, searching for something that 
 sooner or later it would find. 
 
 "That is mine!" cried Macaire, and sprang toward 
 it. But Newcome lifted the stone beyond his reach. 
 
 "You are sure it is yours?" he asked again.
 
 THE EYE OF THE MOONSTONE 309 
 
 "I've had it for years, till it was stolen from me. 
 Unless you want to be called 'thief as well as dog 
 and liar you will hand it back." 
 
 "You have had it for years?'* Newcome echoed. 
 "I thought so. It was you who stole it from Harold 
 Norman." 
 
 For once in his life Lionel Macaire visibly quailed. 
 His hideous face seemed literally to wither, his body 
 to shrink; but in a moment he was himself again, all 
 traces of emotion gone, save for a quivering of the 
 nostrils, a slight twitching of the marred eyelids. 
 
 "I don't know the name," he said. 
 
 Hope Newcome turned a sudden blaze of hatred 
 and contempt upon him. "You know it as well as 
 that of Leland Marmion, the California murderer!" 
 he flung at the millionaire. 
 
 Speechless, Macaire stared at him, with mouth 
 falling open, jaw dropped down. Then, his voice 
 coming back, he gasped: "You devil!" 
 
 "I am Harold Norman's son," answered the man 
 who had called himself Hope Newcome. "His son, 
 and the son of *F. E. Z/ I am Harold Norman's 
 namesake, and I have lived for this night, lived to 
 be his avenger." 
 
 "Good God!" he heard Macaire mutter, beneath 
 his panting breath. Even for that iron self-control 
 the stubborn courage that could inflict horrible self- 
 mutilation, for bare life's sake and safety's sake, was 
 broken. But again it was only for a moment. 
 
 "I wonder if you know what you are talking about ?" 
 Macaire sneered, his voice shaking, yet coming back 
 to steadiness. "I only know that you seem to be 
 threatening. Take care, or I will have you arrested."
 
 3io THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 Hope Newcome or Harold Xorman laughed. 
 "Try it," he said. "You will never have so good a 
 chance. The police are outside now, for they have 
 seen certain letters found long ago, but not too long 
 for justice, in the pocket of a dead man one of 
 those whom you, Leland Marmion, murdered/' 
 
 As the last word leaped like a sword from the 
 accuser's lips, a strange thing happened. The women 
 at the table cried out in terror, and in the same instant 
 utter darkness fell. The brilliant lights that had made 
 vivid the blue and gold and purple and marble-white, 
 vanished like a burst bubble, and the room was black as 
 a night of plague. The screams and the sudden darkness 
 came together. The quickest eye and ear could not 
 have sworn with certainty which was first. 
 
 Someone had turned off the electric lights how, 
 nobody knew. There was a soft fluttering and rust- 
 ling of women's dresses, hysterical exclamations, and 
 the crash of breaking dishes and falling chairs as 
 people pushed away from the table, blinded and con- 
 fused by the black darkness. 
 
 Only Hope Newcome did not move. Even if he 
 lost his revenge, he would not put Winifred away to 
 recover the chance slipping from him. She was wak- 
 ing from her stupor, and clung to him, murmuring 
 the name by which she had known him. And, stoop- 
 ing closer, he thought he heard her whisper: 
 
 "Partner, partner, if you could forgr-
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE MILLS OF THE GODS 
 
 NEVER for one moment had Lionel Macaire been 
 unprepared for the possibility of the blow which had 
 fallen to-night. 
 
 He had not expected it; he had told himself a thou- 
 sand times that it would never fall upon him that 
 it could not fall. Still, he loved life, and he had 
 worked hard to make it worth living. He had shed 
 blood to make it worth living, and he did not mean 
 that Nemesis should strike him from behind. 
 
 The millionaire had not a house, nor a room in 
 one of the houses, where all electric lights could not 
 be turned off by means of a single button. His steam 
 yacht, waiting his orders in harbor, was always ready 
 to start at ten minutes' notice. Once he would have 
 had to depend upon horses for a dash to the sea, 
 but now he had the means by which he could out- 
 distance the fastest horse on earth. 
 
 In his stables stood a racing Panhard auto-car of 
 fifty horse-power, though its seating capacity was but 
 for two persons. Like the yacht, it was kept ready 
 by its engineer for an instant start, filled with petrol 
 and water, its machinery oiled. 
 
 To-night as he switched off the lights from the 
 dining-room, he flung himself at a swinging door 
 behind the purple drapery a door by which the ser- 
 
 3"
 
 3 i2 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 vants entered through a passage leading to die huge 
 kitchens. The door moved noiselessly, and Macaire's 
 artificial foot limped over the thick felt, with which 
 the floor was covered, faster than it had ever done 
 before. 
 
 Half-way down the passage was a door which 
 opened near the stables. A moment, and Macaire 
 was in die room where the motor-car was kept, for 
 the key was on his chain, and only the engineer, absent 
 now, had a duplicate. 
 
 Macaire sprang to the car and lit the acetylene 
 lamps, his heart pounding in his ears, for the great 
 crisis had come, and he was working for life or 
 death. 
 
 True, Hope Newcome might have lied; he might 
 suspect, yet not have the proofs he hinted at. But 
 it would not do- to risk his having lied. If Macaire 
 could reach Gravesend, where the Diavola lay (he 
 hoped that few knew she was there), before the police 
 of London had warned the police of Gravesend by 
 telegraph, there was a chance for him still. He would 
 trust the yacht to show her heels to anything afloat. 
 The seas were wide. There were countries where 
 he could hide himself; and there was money on board 
 the Diavola money and thousands of pounds* 
 worth of diamonds, which he kept there in a safe 
 in case of such necessity as had arisen to-night. 
 He would be comparatively poor, yet he would 
 want for nothing, and he would at least have defied 
 the hangman. 
 
 In two minutes the car was ready to start, the 
 stable doors flung open. By this time those whom 
 he had left groping in the dark would have light
 
 THE MILLS OF THE GODS 313 
 
 again. The police would be in, if the dead man's 
 son had told the truth but they were not here yet. 
 
 He ran limping from the open doors back to the 
 car and climbed on board. Then, with a rush and 
 throbbing of its machinery, the Panhard tore into 
 the street. 
 
 Let them come now if they would. What did he 
 care ? Who could catch him now ? What was there 
 fast enough to follow even so far away as to guess 
 at his destination ? 
 
 Out in the street he put on the fastest speed, reck- 
 ing nothing of the law, for none could stop him. 
 
 With his two acetylene lamps like great white 
 dragon-eyes blazing in the night, the Panhard tore 
 through the streets at the rate of thirty miles an hour. 
 People flung themselves wildly out of the way, shriek- 
 ing for the police, shouting that here was a madman 
 on a motor-car; cabmen lashed their snorting horses 
 up side streets to avoid destruction, or drove in 
 desperation on to the pavement, the wheels of 
 their vehicles here and there smashing a window, 
 adding the keen, high treble of crashing glass to the 
 uproar. 
 
 Policemen yelled to the hatless man bent forward 
 over the steering-wheel, bidding him stop on pain of 
 desperate penalties, but Macaire only laughed. Rain 
 had begun to fall, and the wind, and the water, spray- 
 ing against his hot face cooled his brain, giving him 
 a sense of devilish power and exhilaration. He felt 
 like juggernaut, and longed for victims for the 
 wheels of his rushing car, which flew faster than 
 the flying minutes, bearing him out of danger to 
 a new life.
 
 3 i4 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 He did not think of all that he had left behind, 
 all that he must sacrifice, for that way madness lay. 
 Yet Winifred's sweet girlish face would rise before 
 him. He would not have had this thing happen 
 until he had crushed the butterfly under his heel, and 
 broken its wings so that it must lie forever in the 
 dust. And Hope Newcome, the son of the man he 
 had done to death; he would fain have sent him after 
 his father. 
 
 "To think that she should have been Harold Nor- 
 man's wife, and I never guessed it! Fool fool!" 
 he railed madly against himself. 
 
 He had passed the suburbs now at last. London 
 and London's lights would soon be left behind. He 
 would do the trick. The Panhard and his Dia^ola 
 would save him yet. 
 
 Suddenly it was as if a figure rose out of the earth 
 before him, flitting in front of the car, as it rushed 
 along a white ribbon of winding road. It was radiant 
 with a strange pale radiance, and out of a faint golden 
 mist gleamed a face the face of " F. E. Z." 
 
 "I'm mad!" he cried. "I'm mad. It's not there 
 it's a delusion." 
 
 Yet the eyes looked at him from the pale, lovely 
 face that he had seen in countless dreams, that he 
 had fancied he saw duplicated in Winifred Gray's, 
 and he could not run it down. 
 
 In another instant the face would have been under 
 his wheels, crushed out of all semblance of beauty. 
 With a jerk of the steering-wheel he swerved the car 
 to the right. The movement was too sudden for the 
 tremendous speed at which the car was going, and, 
 with a crash, the Panhard leapt from the road into
 
 THE MILLS OF THE GODS 315 
 
 the ditch at the side, turning over as it fell. Macaire 
 was flung off, and with a grinding, rending pain in 
 his leg, fell into unconsciousness. 
 
 Then came dreams, a changing kaleidoscope of 
 dreams, with flashing lights and the booming of can- 
 non. He was dragged back by sheer physical agony 
 to consciousness again. 
 
 At first he hoped, well-nigh prayed, that this wak- 
 ing was the false waking of a dream. He dreamed 
 or was it true ? that the car had fallen on him, 
 pinning him underneath, writhing and helpless, in an 
 agony of pain. He dreamed or was it real ? that 
 the whole sky was bright with the weird, pale light 
 from a pillar of flame that shot far up into the purple 
 night, up, straight up, higher than the tree-tops. 
 
 The burners had ignited the petrol with the falling 
 of the car, and the whole fabric was on fire. He was 
 part of the fire. Oh, the pain, the horror! Yes, it 
 was true, and he must die here, like a rat in a trap. 
 
 In his agony faces crowded round him, faces that 
 he had struck life out of long, long ago. For what 
 they had suffered, for what he had made them suffer, 
 was he paying now ? 
 
 Heavens, how long it lasted! How long it took 
 a man to die. Perhaps even now it was a dream. 
 It was too ghastly to be true. 
 
 Yet the papers said next day that it had been true; 
 and the world that had known Macaire was shocked. 
 No one grieved for the man who was gone. But a 
 girl, hiding her face against her lover's arm, shud-
 
 3 i6 THE SILENT BATTLE 
 
 dered, sobbing that in spite of all she would have 
 saved him from so terrible an end if she had had the 
 power. 
 
 "The mills of the gods, my darling," answered 
 the man who loved her, and would never let her go 
 far from him again, "are slow in their grinding, but 
 they grind exceeding small/* 
 
 THE END
 
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