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THE LATE TENANT 
 
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 THE 
 
 LATE TENANT 
 
 BY 
 
 GORDON HOLMES 
 
 Author of "A Mysterious Disappearance," 
 "The Arncliffe Puzzle." 
 
 New York 
 
 Edward J. Clode 
 
 156 Fifth Avenue 
 
 1906 
 
 
 
 ($0(d®($($(^®<;d(d0($!^($(d($C$(d(d®($<3®(d($(d($®(d0^0cd0(d($(dd0<d($(<^(d(j^(i^(^ 
 
Copyright, 1906, bv 
 EDWARD J. CLODE 
 
 Eti'.ered at Stationers Hall 
 
 The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.SA. 
 
1 
 
 '■'■ t 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Whiff of Violets 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 A Signature with a Flourish 15 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 Violet 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "Johann Strauss" 36 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 Von or Van ? 45 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 The Word of Joy 60 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 Violet's Conditions 70 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 At Dead of Night 83 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 Coming Near 96 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 The Marriage-Lines 106 
 
 V 
 
 [Vi53JiD53 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Swords Drawn 11*7 
 
 CHAPTER Xn 
 Thj: Night- Watche3 . 133 
 
 CHAPTER XHI 
 No More Violet 144 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 TheDluiy 163 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 In Pain 1*73 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 Hand to Hand 180 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 David more than Regains Lost Ground 197 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 From the Depths 213 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 Violet Decides 227 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 David has One Visitor and Expects Others .... 242 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 The Midnight Gathering 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 271 
 
 vi 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A WHIFF OF VIOLETS 
 
 SUPPOSE one becomes used to this sort of thing 
 in time," thought David Harcourt, as he peered 
 through the dusty plate-glass windov,^s of his third- 
 floor flat. *'At present I can appreciate the feehngs 
 of a Wyoming steer when he first experiences the re- 
 straint of a cattle-truck. Or am I a caged bird ? or 
 a menagerie ape .^ or a mere ass } There is something 
 in the evolution theory, after all. Obviously, one of 
 my respected ancestors is kicking." 
 
 Then, being a cheerful soul, he laughed, and turned 
 from the outer prospect to face the coziness of liis new 
 abode. He did not understand yet that in No. 7, 
 Eddystone Mansions, picked almost at haphazard from 
 a house-agenfs list, he had hit upon a residence singu- 
 larly free from the sort of thing which induced this 
 present fit of the blues. In the first place, owing to a 
 suit in chancery, the "eligible" building- site opposite 
 was vacant, and most of the windows of No. 7 com- 
 manded an open space. Secondly, the street itself did 
 not connect two main thoroughfares ; hence its quietude 
 
 1 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 was seldom disturbed by vehicles. Thirdly, and, per- 
 haps, most important of all, his neighbors, above, be- 
 low, and on three sides, were people who had achieved 
 by design what he had done by accident — they had 
 taken up their abode in Eddystone Mansions on 
 account of the peace thus secured in the heart of 
 London. 
 
 For London has a stony heart with wooden arteries, 
 through which the stream of life rushes noisily. To 
 ears tuned by the far-flung silence of the prairie this 
 din of traffic was thunderous. To eyes trained by 
 the smooth horizon it was bewildering to see a clear 
 sky overhead and a sun sinking slowly, like a dim 
 Chinese fire-balloon, into a compound of smoke and 
 chimneys. In fact, David Harcourt came to the con- 
 clusion that Londoners, as a race, must be purblind 
 and somewhat deaf. 
 
 "I wonder if I can stand it?" he commented. "I 
 saw a map of South Africa in a shop window to-day. 
 It looked wonderfully attractive. Yes, I am beginning 
 to believe there is neither claw nor feather in my 
 composition. * Kicking ' is the right word — hoof — 
 ass! Oh! the line of descent is clear." Then he 
 laughed again, taking a box of cigars off the top of a 
 bookcase, and any one who heard him laugh would 
 have grasped the reason why men soon called him 
 "Davie," and women smiled when he looked at them. 
 
 Dame Nature, aided by his less remote ancestors in 
 the evolutionary tree, had been good to him. It would 
 
 2 
 
A Whiff of Violets 
 
 have needed the worst "environment" ever dreamed 
 of by sociology to make him a degenerate. As it was, 
 a healthy upbringing, a fair public-school education, 
 and the chance that a relation of his owned a Wyoming 
 ranch, joined in fashioning an excellent specimen of 
 lusty and clean-souled young manhood. But that 
 same general wet-nurse, who had intended David to 
 lord it over herds and vast pastures, had complicated 
 matters by throwing a literary kink into the deftly 
 coiled strands of his composition. Thus, at the age of 
 twenty-five, he took more interest in scribbling stories 
 and searching for rimes than in toting up the proceeds 
 of sales at Chicago stock-yards. Worse than that, 
 having oft imagined and striven to depict various 
 ethereal creatures typical of the Spirit of the Dawn, 
 the Fairy of the Dell, or the Goddess of the Mist, he 
 had refused, most emphatically, to wed the elderly 
 rancher's daughter, his relative, a lady blessed with 
 more wealth and weight than was necessary for any 
 one woman in the world. 
 
 So, like many another youngster in the far lands, he 
 heard the voice of London calling through every book 
 and newspaper he read. It was a siren voice, devoid 
 of accent. The Wyoming wooing, too, became a 
 serious matter; hence, like one of the dove-eyed oxen 
 he knew so well, he stampeded in sudden panic, 
 realized his personal possessions, and, in the vernacular 
 of Sioux Pass, '* lit out for the nearest depot, an' boarded 
 an east-bound train." 
 
 3 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 He had now been in England a month, in London a 
 week. From the landing-stage at Liverpool he had 
 gone to visit the country cousins who superintended 
 his childhood and education after the death of his 
 mother, that lady having been stricken down by the 
 hand which killed her soldier husband at Dargai. He 
 found the cousins snug in their Bedfordshire nest. 
 The squire-like head of the household wondered dully 
 why any man should quit a place where he could 
 "get on" to seek a precarious livelihood in a land 
 which was "rapidly going to the dogs." David cer- 
 tainly received more encouragement from the younger 
 members of the family, especially from a bright-eyed 
 maiden of eighteen, who thought London "awfully 
 jolly," and vowed a literary career to be "quite too 
 devey for anything." 
 
 But David was level-headed enough to see that 
 the verdict of squire and maid were equally unfavor- 
 able. 
 
 Then followed a few days in a big hotel. He paid 
 a round of useless calls at the offices of magazines 
 that, to his certain knowledge, printed all sorts of 
 rubbishy articles about cow-boy life, but opposed a 
 phalanx of commissionaires against a man who could 
 not only round up an infuriated herd, but could also 
 describe the feat deftly with a pen. Ultimately, he 
 resolved to lay siege to the citadel which he was unable 
 to storm, and pitch his camp over against the tents of 
 the enemy. He took a furnished flat, " with plate and 
 
 4 
 
A Whiff of Violets 
 
 linen, gas-stove, electric light, bath H. and C," for 
 six months. 
 
 In thus becoming a Londoner, he encountered the 
 first quaint anomaly of London life. When he drove 
 up to the door of the most fashionable hotel in the 
 West End, and deposited a couple of portmanteaus in 
 a bed-room after signing the register, he was permitted 
 to run a bill for a week, at least, without let or hin- 
 drance ; but when he offered to pay cash in advance for 
 the flat, he met with a demand for "references." 
 
 The agent was firm but explanatory. " It is not my 
 client, but the over-landlord, who makes that stipula- 
 tion," he said. "In fact, the letting is wholly in my 
 hands, as the late tenant is dead ; but, for certain rea- 
 sons, the residuary legatees wish to keep the place in its 
 present condition until the lease expires a year hence." 
 Did the late tenant die there ? " asked David. 
 Well — yes — fully five months since; there have 
 been other occupants subsequently, and the terms are 
 so reasonable — " 
 
 "What did he, or she, die of?" persisted David. 
 He was accustomed to reading men's faces, and he 
 had caught a certain fluttering of the agent's eyelids. 
 
 "Nothing to cause any alarm, nothing infectious, I 
 assure you. People — er — die in flats just the same 
 as — er — in private houses." This, being a joke, 
 had its chuckle. 
 
 But the agent also knew men in his own way, and 
 he felt it was unwise to wriggle. David had a steadfast 
 
 5 
 
 (( 
 
 a 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 glance. He gave others the impression that he heard 
 and treasured each word they uttered. He was really 
 wondering then why the speaker's neck was so long 
 and thin — nothing more serious, but, with a disagree- 
 able disclosure lurking in the other's mind, David's 
 scrutiny compelled candor. 
 
 " The thing is bound to come to your ears sooner or 
 later, Mr. Harcourt; so I may as well tell you now," 
 said the Londoner. "The late tenant was a lady, a 
 singer of much promise, it was said. For an unknown 
 reason — probably some love affair was disturbing her 
 rest — she — er — took an overdose of a sleeping- 
 draft. She was a very charming woman, quite young, 
 of highest character. It is inconceivable that she should 
 have committed suicide. The affair was an accident, 
 of course, but — er — " 
 
 " A sceptical coroner thought it a murder ? " 
 " Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind, not a hint of such 
 a thing. Fact is — well, it sounds ridiculous to say 
 with reference to a popular block of flats in the middle 
 of London, but two foolish women — an excitable 
 actress and her servant, your predecessors in the flat 
 — have spread reports as to queer noises. Well, you 
 know, don't you ? the sort of nonsense women will 
 talk." 
 
 "In plain English, they say the place is haunted." 
 " Ha, ha ! Something in that nature. You have hit 
 it! Something in that nature. Absurd thing!" 
 
 "Who knows?" David had a cold disbelief in 
 
 6 
 
A Whiff of Violets 
 
 spooks, but it amused him to see the agent squirm; 
 and he sat tight. Those eyehds fluttered again, and 
 Mr. Dibbin banged a ledger with wrathful fist. 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Harcourt," cried he finally. "This 
 is a five-guineas-a-week flat. I'll make you a fair 
 offer; take it for six months and I give it you at half 
 price. 
 
 "I laying the ghost at two and a half guineas 
 weekly ? " 
 
 "Put it any way you like. If a man of sound 
 common-sense like you lives there for a considerable 
 period, the wretched affair will be forgotten; so it is 
 worth the loss to me, and it is a first-class bargain for 
 you." 
 
 "Done!" said David. 
 
 The agent was so pleased that his annoyance van- 
 ished ; he promised to secure a woman whom he knew 
 to look after the new tenant's housekeeping. She had 
 probably never heard of the Eddystone Mansions 
 tragedy. He would have her in the flat within four 
 days. Meanwhile a charwoman might attend to things 
 generally. 
 
 The references having proved satisfactory, David 
 was now passing his first evening in his new abode. 
 He had purchased some books and stationery; his 
 charwoman had left him; and, when the door had 
 closed behind her, he turned from the head of the 
 dead girl in chalks over the mantelpiece to gaze out 
 of the dining-room window, and back again to the 
 
 7 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 sweet face in chalks, to return presently to the win- 
 dow. 
 
 It was a Thursday evening in the last week of 
 January. The housekeeper was to arrive on Saturday. 
 David fixed Monday as a good day to start work. In 
 the interim he meant to loaf, dine at noteworthy 
 restaurants, read, and go to theaters. 
 
 A man accustomed to guide his movements by the 
 position of mountain-ranges or the stars, and count 
 distances by his days on horseback, is likely to find 
 himself all unhinged within a four-mile radius. David 
 was in the novice stage of acquaintanceship with the 
 magnetic life of the world's capital. Not yet did the 
 roar of London sing in familiar harmonies; the crunch 
 of the omnibuses, the jingle of the hansoms, made no 
 music in his ears. There was something uncanny in 
 the silence of the millions eddying through the streets. 
 Where all else was clamor, mankind was dumb, save 
 for the shouts of the newsboys, the jabber of bus- 
 conductors, the cries of itinerant venders. 
 
 So David, having dressed and gone out, wandered 
 into another restaurant than that which he was aim- 
 ing for; dawdled over the meal until the first act of 
 the play which he meant to see must have been 
 ended; and decided then upon a music-hall; finally, 
 he strolled back toward Eddystone Mansions as early 
 as eleven. 
 
 The elevator, placed in the center of the building, 
 ran from the basement floor; those who used it had to 
 
 8 
 
A WhiJJ of Violets 
 
 descend a few steps from the entrance and advance 
 along a passage. Harcourt felt unaccountably tired — 
 there is a strain of life in London as on the tops of 
 mountains — so he chose the lift in preference to the 
 stairs. 
 
 The hall-porter, who sat within the lift, pondering 
 the entries for the Spring Handicaps, recognized him, 
 and jumped up with a salute. 
 
 " Good-evenin', sir! Fine, frosty night, sir," said he. 
 They began to ascend. A thought occurred to David. 
 " What was the name of the lady who occupied No. 7 ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "Miss Ermyn L'Estrange, sir," was the instant 
 answer. 
 
 Even in the wilds of Wyoming one grasps the sig- 
 nificance of certain classes of names. For instance, 
 not even the rawest tenderfoot would expect "One- 
 eyed Pete " to turn out to be a parson. 
 
 "I mean the lady who died here," said David. 
 
 The porter stopped the lift. "Your floor, sir," he 
 said. " I've only bin in these 'ere flats a matter o' two 
 months, sir." 
 
 " Good egg ! " cried David. " Have a cigar, porter. 
 You are a man to be depended on. But surely there 
 is no harm in telling me the poor girl's name. It must 
 have appeared in all the newspapers." 
 
 The attendant tickled his head underneath his hat. 
 The new tenant of No. 7 seemed a nice gentleman, 
 anyhow. He looked up and down the stairs, of which 
 
 9 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 two sections were visible from the landing where they 
 stood. 
 
 " I 'ave 'eard," said he, " that a young lydy used 
 ter live 'ere of the nyme of Miss Gwendoline 
 Barnes." 
 
 "Ah, that sounds more like it. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, sir." 
 
 Harcourt, fumbling over the intricacies of the lock, 
 heard the rattle of the lift as it reached the basement. 
 On his landing were two doors, his own and that of 
 No. 8; and light shone from his neighbor's dwelHng. 
 That was companionable. The stairs, too, were well 
 lighted. 
 
 At last he gave the key the right pressure, and the 
 latch yielded. He passed within and closed the door 
 noiselessly. The electric switch governing the hall- 
 lamp was on the wall beyond the short entrance- 
 passage. He removed his overcoat and hat in the 
 semi-darkness; the sheen coming through the corru- 
 gated-glass panels of the outer door did not so much 
 as cast a shadow. 
 
 All at once he detected a fragrance of violets, faintly, 
 but distinctly. This was puzzHng! He knew that it 
 was almost impossible for that scent to have been there 
 earlier in the evening when he was at home, without 
 being marked by him. Even now not one man in a 
 thousand in London that night would have caught the 
 subtle perfume; but David retained the hunter's senses. 
 As he stood in suspense, a feeling peeped and grew up 
 
 10 
 
A Whiff of Violets 
 
 within him that the odor carried with it a suggestion 
 of death; his muscles grew taut, ready to fight, to defend 
 himself against this world or the next. 
 
 The next instant he smiled, thinking: "Nonsense! 
 It must have been here before. Each time I came in 
 I was smoking; the air is frosty, too." 
 
 He groped inward for the switch, turned on the 
 light, and, without deigning to give another thought to 
 the smell of violets, turned to the left along the main 
 corridor, which was rectangular to the entrance-hall. 
 Passing the drawing-room door, he entered the dining- 
 room. Opposite the latter was the kitchen and ser- 
 vants' apartments. Around the other end of the main 
 corridor were disposed three bed-rooms and a bath- 
 room. The light he had turned on illuminated entrance 
 and corridor alike. 
 
 In the dining-room he found the fire still burning. 
 That was good. The coal-scuttle was not by the 
 fireplace, but in a corner. He went to get a shovelful 
 of coal; and as he stooped, again came to him the 
 fragrance, thrilling, bringing with it a picture of a girl 
 whom he had once seen lying in funereal state, sur- 
 rounded by flowers, and clothed in the last white robes 
 of earth. 
 
 David stabbed the coals with the shovel. "What's 
 wrong with me.'^" he half laughed. Yet his eyes 
 sought the crayon drawing of Gwendoline Barnes. 
 
 Presently he lit a cigar, unfolded an evening paper 
 which he had bought in the streets, and tried to take 
 
 11 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 an interest in the news of this new-old world into 
 which he was new-born. 
 
 But his mind wandered. Without he heard the 
 distant rumble of traffic; hansoms were beginning to 
 arrive in the street beneath; he heard doors slam; 
 the jingling of bells on head-stalls ; feet pattering across 
 the pavement; a driver's tongue-click, and away would 
 jog a horse, to be stirred, perhaps, into sudden frenzy 
 by two shrills of a far-off whistle. 
 
 A contrast, these sounds, to the twig-snapping and 
 grass-rustling of a night on the plains! There, lying 
 by the camp-fire embers, he had heard the coyote 
 slinking past in the dark, while the tethered horses 
 suspended their cropping to hearken. Here men and 
 streets made a yet stranger wilderness. He sat over 
 the hearth absorbed by it, already yielding his tribute 
 to the greatness of the outer ocean of life. 
 
 But prairie or city, man must sleep. David rose 
 and went to the sideboard for a decanter. A certain 
 graceful slowness characterized his movements. Town- 
 bred men might have been deceived thereby, might 
 reason that he was lethargic, of strapping physique, 
 certainly, yet a man who could be hit three times 
 before he countered once. It is this error of judgment 
 which leads to accidents when town-dwellers encounter 
 the denizens of the jungle. Harcourt's hand was out- 
 stretched for the decanter when he became aware that 
 he was not alone in the flat. The knowledge was 
 derived from neither sight nor sound. It was intuitive, 
 
 12 
 
A Whiff of Violets 
 
 a species of feeling through space, an imperative con- 
 sciousness that he shared hU suite of apartments with 
 another distinct, if intangible, being. Many men 
 might not have had it, but Harcourt had it clearly. 
 
 Instantly he was rigid. This time he was weaving 
 no fantasy round a whiff of violets. The sense of 
 nearness to other presences is really inherent in man. 
 Residence in settled communities dulls it, but in 
 David Harcourt it was a living faculty. He stood 
 motionless, waiting for some simple proof of his belief. 
 
 The door, veiled by a portiere, was not closed, but 
 sufficiently closed to prevent any view of the corridor, 
 which, otherwise, it commanded throughout. The flat 
 was carpeted so thickly that movement was silenced. 
 But David fancied that a woman's dress did brush 
 somewhere against wall or floor. That was enough. 
 He was about to spring forward and pull the door 
 open to see, when he heard, or thought that he heard, 
 the switch of the light outside click, as if it had been 
 carefully raised. And on the instant, without hesita- 
 tion, he pushed up the switch in the dining-room, and 
 hid himself in darkness. There are wolves, too, in 
 the London desert. 
 
 Now, like a bush-cat, he crept to the door, opened 
 it, and peeped out. Certainly the light which he had 
 left burning had been extinguished by some hand; the 
 corridor was in darkness, i 
 
 Nerves, as commonly understood, did not much 
 enter into Harcourt's scheme of things. But his heart 
 
 13 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 beat quicker. The speed of thought cannot be meas- 
 ured. Many questions, and one doubt, one question, 
 flitted through his brain. He stood in deep gloom; 
 near him, he was convinced, was something in the guise 
 of woman. The face in chalks on the mantelpiece 
 seemed to crowd the dark, the face of the woman who 
 had been hovering on the verge of his consciousness 
 ever since the agent had mentioned her to him. 
 
 14 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A SIGNATURE WITH A FLOURISH 
 
 He was collected enough, though the blood was 
 rather cool in his veins, and there was an odd sensi- 
 tiveness at the roots of his hair. "Who is there?" he 
 asked in a matter-of-fact voice. 
 
 There was no answer, and now he had a feeling 
 that the presence was drawing nearer. 
 
 He was unarmed, of course. The inseparable six- 
 shooter of the West lay at the bottom of a cabin-trunk 
 in his bed-room. But his faculties were exerted to an 
 extent hardly possible to men who have not lived close 
 to wild nature. He conceived that his safety de- 
 manded the exercise not only of pluck, but of artifice. 
 So he stepped softly to the comer by the entrance to 
 the servants' apartments, and, standing there, sought 
 a loose match in his waistcoat pocket, and held it 
 against the wall, ready to light it at an instant's notice. 
 He did not mean to sacrifice to any chivalric nonsense 
 about sex the opening move in what might prove to 
 be a game of life or death. The woman, or whatever 
 it was, showed by her conduct that she was not there 
 by some mischance capable of explanation; he would 
 determine by her first move, by the first flash of light, 
 
 15 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 how to deal with her; and, if there were others with her, 
 her body would be his shield until he gained the outer 
 door and staircase. And so he waited, with the alert 
 patience of an Indian, poised on the very tip-toe of 
 action. 
 
 But as time passed, and there was no further sign of 
 life in the corridor, the situation became over trying. 
 He formulated a fresh plan. Behind him lay the 
 kitchen, with its fire-irons, and thither he ran, seized 
 a poker, then rushing out again, had the corridor, the 
 drawing-room, every room, alight. But he saw no one. 
 
 He searched each room with eager haste, but there 
 was nothing out of the common to be discovered. The 
 front door was closed as he had left it. He ran into 
 the exterior lobby, and, keeping an eye on the exit, 
 summoned the elevator. Up it came; but the porter, 
 throwing open the doors, checked his ready salute in 
 his alarm at the sight of " No. 7 " facing him poker in 
 hand. 
 
 "Have you seen a lady go out.^" demanded David. 
 
 The man drew back, one hand on his lever and the 
 other on a sliding trellis-work of iron. 
 
 "N-no, sir," he stammered. 
 
 "Don't be frightened," said David, sharply. "I 
 want you to keep your wits. Some one has been in 
 my flat—" 
 
 " Is that so, sir .? " 
 
 " Where have you been during the last five minutes ? " 
 
 "Down-stairs, sir." 
 
 16 
 
A Signature with a Flourish 
 
 " At the door ? " 
 
 "No, sir, in the back, not five yards from the hft, 
 sir." He thought it unnecessary to mention that he 
 had been talking to the housemaid of No. 2, in the 
 basement on her way to the post. 
 
 "So any one could have gone out without your 
 knowledge ? " 
 
 "If they went by the stairs, sir.'* 
 
 "Come in and help me to search my place again." 
 
 The porter hung back. The man's sheepish face 
 was almost comical. 
 
 "Come, come," said David, "there isn't much to 
 be afraid of now, but I tell you that some one put out 
 the light in the corridor, and I am almost sure that I 
 heard the stir of a woman's dress somewhere." 
 
 The lift-attendant's pallor increased. 
 
 "That's just it, sir," he murmured. "The others 
 have heard it, too." 
 
 "Stuff!" said David, turning on his heel. 
 
 Few Britons can stand contempt. The porter 
 followed him. 
 
 "That's a man," said David, and they entered the 
 flat. Harcourt shut and bolted the door. 
 
 " Now," he said, " you mount guard in the passage, 
 while I carry on the hunt." 
 
 He would have disturbed a mouse were it in hiding, 
 so complete was his second scrutiny of every nook. 
 At the end of a fruitless quest he gave the porter a 
 whisky and soda. 
 
 17 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "I'll tell you wot, sir," said the man, "there's more 
 in this than meets the heye. Miss L'Estrange, she 
 never saw anythink, but she 'eard all sorts o' rummy 
 noises, an' twiced she found that all 'er things 'ad bin 
 rummidged. An' it was no thief, neither. The maid, 
 she acshully sawr the pore lydy. If I may s'y it in 
 confidence, sir, and you wants ter be comfortable, 
 there's No. 18 in the next block — " 
 
 "I have rented the place for six months, and I shall 
 stay in it," said David. " Have another ? No ? Well, 
 here is half a crown. Say nothing about to-night's 
 adventure. I am going to bed." 
 
 "Lordy! Goin' ter sleep 'ere alone .^" gasped his 
 companion. "I wouldn't do it for a pension." 
 
 "Yet I am paying for the privilege. However, not 
 a word, remember." 
 
 " Right you are, sir. 'Ope you'll 'ave a good night's 
 rest, sir. I'll be in the lift for another 'arf hour, if 
 you should 'appen to want me." 
 
 Left to himself, David bolted the outer door again, 
 and returned to the dining-room. Obeying an impulse, 
 he jotted down some notes of the occurrence, paying 
 special heed to times and impressions. Then he went 
 to bed, having locked his bed-room door and placed 
 his revolver under his pillow. He imagined that he 
 would remain awake many hours, but, tired and over- 
 wrought, he was soon asleep, to be aroused only by 
 the news-agent's effort to stuff a morning paper into 
 the letter-box. The charwoman was already in the 
 
 18 
 
A Signature with a Flourish 
 
 flat, and the sun was shining through the drawn-thread 
 pattern of the blinds. 
 
 "The air of London must be drugged," thought 
 David, looking at his watch. "Asleep at half-past 
 eight of a fine morning!" 
 
 Such early-morning reproaches mark the first stage 
 of town life. 
 
 After breakfast he went to his bank. He had ex- 
 pended a good deal of money during the past month, 
 but was well equipped in substantial, owned a com- 
 fortable home for six months — barring such expe- 
 riences as those of the preceding night — and found at 
 the bank a good balance to his credit. 
 
 " I will hold on until I have left two hundred pounds 
 of my capital and earnings combined," he decided; 
 " then I shall take the next mail steamer to some place 
 where they raise stock." 
 
 He called at the agent's office. 
 
 " Nothing amiss, I hope ? " said Mr. Dibbin. 
 
 "Nothing, whatever. I just happened in to get a 
 few pointers about Miss Gwendoline Barnes." 
 
 Harcourt found that in London it was helpful to 
 use Americanisms in his speech. People smiled and 
 became attentive when new idioms tickled their metro- 
 politan ears. But the mention of the dead tenant of 
 No. 7 Eddystone Mansions froze Dibbin's smile. 
 
 "What about her.^ Poor lady! she might well be 
 forgotten," he said. 
 
 " So soon ? I suppose you knew her ? " 
 
 19 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "Yes. Oh, yes." 
 
 "Nice girl?" 
 
 The agent bent over some papers. He seemed to be 
 unable to bear Harcourt's steady glance. 
 
 "She was exceedingly good-looking," he answered; 
 "tall, elegant figure, head well poised, kind of a face 
 you see in a Romney, high forehead, large eyes, small 
 nose and mouth — sort of artist type." 
 
 " Wore a lot of lace about the throat } " 
 
 " What ? You know that ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't be startled," said Harcourt. "There is 
 her head in chalks you know, over the mantelpiece — " 
 
 "Ah, true, true." 
 
 " I wonder if it was she or some other lady who was 
 in my flat last night at half-past eleven." 
 
 Dibbin again started, stared at Harcourt, and 
 groaned. 
 
 "If it distresses you, I will talk of something else," 
 said Harcourt. 
 
 "Mr. Harcourt, you don't realize what this means 
 to me. That block of buildings brings me an income. 
 Any more talk of a ghost at No. 7 will cause dissatis- 
 faction, and the proprietary company will employ 
 another agency." 
 
 "Now, let us be reasonable. Even if I hold a 
 seance every night, I shall stick to my contract without 
 troubling a board of directors. I am that kind of 
 man. But, meantime, you should help me with 
 information." 
 
 20 
 
A Signature with a Flourish 
 
 Dibbin blinked, and dabbed his face with a hand- 
 kerchief. "Ask me anything you hke," he said. 
 
 "When did Miss Barnes die?" 
 
 "On July 28 of last year. She lived alone in the 
 flat, employing a non-resident general servant. This 
 woman left the flat at six o'clock on the previous 
 evening. At half-past eight A. m. next day, when she tried 
 to let herself in, the latch appeared to be locked. 
 After some hours' delay, when nothing could be ascer- 
 tained of Miss Barnes's movements, though she was 
 due at a music-master's that morning and at a re- 
 hearsal in the afternoon, the door was forced, and it 
 was discovered that the latch was not only locked but 
 a lower bolt had been shot home, thus proving that 
 the unhappy girl herself had taken this means of show- 
 ing that her death was self-inflicted." 
 
 "Why do you say that, if a coroner's jury brought 
 in a verdict of ' Death from Misadventure ' ? " 
 
 Mr. Dibbin's eyes shifted again slightly. "That 
 was — er — what one calls — " 
 
 I see. The verdict was virtually one of suicide ? " 
 It could not well be otherwise. She had purchased 
 the sleeping-draft herself, but, unfortunately, fortified 
 it with strychnine. How else could the precautions 
 about the door be explained ? That is the only 
 means of egress. Each window is sixty feet from the 
 ground." 
 
 "Did she rent the flat herself.^" 
 
 "No. That is the only really mysterious circum- 
 
 21 
 
 a 
 
 {( 
 
(( 
 
 f( 
 
 The Late Tenant 
 
 stance about the affair. It was taken on a three years' 
 agreement, and furnished for her, by a gentleman." 
 Who was he ? " 
 
 No one knows. He paid cash in advance for 
 everything." 
 
 David was surprised. "Say, Mr. Dibbin," he 
 queried, "how about the 'references' upon which the 
 over-landlord insisted in my case ? " 
 
 "What are references worth, anyhow?" cried the 
 agent, testily. "In this instance, when inquired into 
 by the pohce, they were proved to be bogus. A bundle 
 of bank-notes inspires confidence when you are a buyer, 
 and propose to part with them forthwith." 
 
 " Surely suspicions were aroused ? " 
 
 The agent coughed discreetly. "This is London, 
 you know. Given a pretty girl, a singer, a minor 
 actress, who leaves her home and lives alone in apart- 
 ments exceedingly well furnished, what do people 
 think? The man had sufficient reasons to remain 
 unknown, and those reasons were strengthened ten- 
 fold by the scandal of Miss Barnes's death. She left 
 not even a scrap of paper to identify him, or herself, 
 for that matter. All we had was his signature to the 
 agreement. It is, I believe, a false name. Would you 
 care to see it ? " 
 
 "Yes," said David. 
 
 Dibbin took some papers from a pigeonhole. Among 
 them David recognized the deed he had signed a few 
 days earlier. A similar document was now spread 
 
 22 
 
A Signature with a Flourish 
 
 before him. It bore the scrawl, " Johann Strauss," 
 with the final S developea into an elaborate flourish. 
 
 "A foreigner," observed David. 
 
 "Possibly. The man spoke excellent English." 
 
 " Have you ever heard of Lombroso, Mr. Dibbin ? " 
 
 " Lombroso ? I have seen the name, somewhere in 
 Soho, I think." 
 
 " Not the same," said David with due gravity. " The 
 man I mean is an Italian criminologist of great note. 
 He lays it down as a principle that a signature of that 
 kind is a sign of moral degeneracy. Keep an eye on 
 those among your clients who use such a flourish, 
 Mr. Dibbin." 
 
 "Good gracious!" cried the agent, casting a glance 
 at the well-stuffed letter-cases of his office. How many 
 moral degenerates had left their sign manual there! 
 
 " Two more questions," went on Harcourt. " Where 
 do Miss Barnes's relatives reside?" 
 
 " Her name was not Barnes," was the instant answer; 
 " but I am pledged to secrecy in that regard. There is 
 a mother, a most charming woman, and a sister, both 
 certainly most charming ladies, of a family very highly 
 respected. They did not discover the unhappy girl's 
 death until she was long laid to rest — " 
 
 " Then, why is the flat still in the condition in which 
 Miss Barnes inhabited it ? " 
 
 "Ah, that is simple enough. Isn't the agreement 
 valid for nearly a year yet ? When that term expires, 
 I shall dispose of the furniture and hand over the 
 
 2S 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 proceeds to the young lady's heirs-at-Iaw, subject to 
 direction, of course, in case the real lessee ever puts in 
 a claim." 
 
 David strolled out into the crowded solitude of the 
 streets, with a vague mind of Gwendoline Barnes and 
 Johann Strauss, two misty personalities veiled under 
 false names. But they so dwelt in his mind that he 
 asked himself if he had fled from the pursuit of a 
 living woman in far Wyoming to be haunted by a 
 dead one in England ? Like most strangers in London, 
 he turned to the police for counsel, and told to an 
 inspector on duty at a police-station his tale of the 
 whiff of violets, of the extinguished light in his corridor, 
 and of the real or fancied brush of a woman's skirt 
 somewhere against wall or carpet. He was listened to 
 with kindliness, though, of course, without much faith. 
 However, he learned from the inspector the address 
 of the coroner's court where the inquest had probably 
 been held; it was near by, and David's steps led him 
 thither. There he asked some questions at haphazard, 
 without picking up anything of fresh interest; unless it 
 was that "Gwendoline Barnes" lay buried in Kensal 
 Green cemetery. 
 
 It was now late in the afternoon. He strolled down 
 Tottenham Court Road into Holborn, ate a deferred 
 luncheon in Oxford-St., and started to saunter back 
 home, shirking a theater matinee, which was irksome 
 since it was the fixed thing on his program. But it 
 struck him half-way home that his charwoman was 
 
 24 
 
A Signature with a Flourish 
 
 gone, that the flat was lonely ; he got into a cab, saying 
 to the driver: "Kensal Green cemetery! " 
 
 Some electric lamps were a-flicker already in the 
 streets. It was nearly the hour at which London roars 
 loudest, when the city begins to pour out its hordes, 
 and vans hurry to their bourne, with blocks in the 
 traffic, and more haste, less speed. When he reached 
 the cemetery the closing time was imminent. 
 
 A little snow lay among the graves, through which 
 the grass-tufts showed, making a ground of black-and- 
 white. Some few stars had ventured to peep from the 
 wintry sky. A custodian supplied David with the 
 formal information which he sought. The plot of 
 ground had been bought in perpetuity; it was in a 
 shaded place a good distance from the entrance; an 
 lona cross, erected by friends, marked the spot, bearing 
 the one word, "Gwendoline." 
 
 "It is late, sir," said the man. But mighty is the 
 power of the tip, even in cemeteries. 
 
 David walked down an avenue of the dead toward 
 the little mound that covered the young actress. He 
 was perhaps twenty yards from it when he heard and 
 almost stopped at the sound of a sob not far away. 
 He looked on this hand and on that, but could see no 
 one. The place, with its silent populace, was more 
 lonesome than the prairie; and a new sense had been 
 steadily growing up in him since half-past eleven of 
 the previous night — the sense of the " other world," 
 of its possible reality and nearness. There was an 
 
 25 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 odor here, strong enough to his keen nostrils, of flowers, 
 especially of violets, and of the last end of mortal man, 
 a blend of sweet and abhorrent which was to infect his 
 mind for many a day. However, he did not hesitate, 
 but, with slower steps, that made hardly a sound, 
 turned a corner of the path, cleared a clump of trees 
 which had blocked his view, and now saw the grave of 
 Gwendoline, the cross, the chaplet of fresh violets at 
 the foot of the cross, and over the cross a woman 
 weeping. 
 
 Weeping bitterly, her face in her hands, she was 
 standing, but her body was bent in grief, and she was 
 all shaken with it, though little sound escaped that 
 lonely passion of pity and heartbreak. Harcourt at 
 once felt that he had invaded holy ground. He gave 
 himself time to notice only that she was tall, cloaked 
 wholly in black — and he turned, or half-turned, to 
 retire. 
 
 But in his haste and embarrassment he let his stick 
 fall from his hand; whereat the young woman started, 
 and they looked at each other. 
 
 In an instant Harcourt understood that she was the 
 sister of her whose portrait stood on his mantelpiece; 
 and he felt that he had never seen woman so lovely 
 and gentle. 
 
 26 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 VIOLET 
 
 She looked at Harcourt with wide eyes, seeming 
 frightened, in suspense, and ready to fly, because he 
 did not know how his eyes devoured her. 
 
 " I am sorry — " he began, retiring a step. 
 
 "What do you want of me?" she asked, staring 
 fixedly at him. 
 
 "Nothing," he said. "Don't be alarmed; I am 
 merely here by chance." 
 
 " But why have you followed me ? " 
 
 " No, I have not followed you, I assure you of that. 
 I did not know that you were here, even. I beg you 
 not to be alarmed — " 
 
 " Why, then, are you here ? " she persisted. 
 
 "This is a public cemetery, you know. I came to 
 see a grave, just as you have — " 
 
 " This grave t " 
 
 "How can you possibly guess that," he asked, 
 "since you have never before seen me, and do not 
 know who I am ? " 
 
 "You stopped here, did you not?" she asked. 
 "You stopped, and looked strangely at me." 
 
 "Certainly I looked at you," admitted Harcourt. 
 
 27 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "I did not realize that I looked 'strangely.' However, 
 let me be frank. I did come to see your sister's 
 grave." 
 
 "My sister!" said she, shrinking, as from the touch 
 of a wound, *' how do you know ? what interest can 
 you have strong enough to bring you ? " 
 
 " Not such a very strong interest," he answered. 
 "I am here merely to fill an idle hour, and because I 
 happen to be occupying the flat in which your sister 
 died. There is that link between her and me; she 
 has moved in the same little home, looked from the 
 same windows, slept in the same room, as I, poor 
 girl." 
 
 She suddenly looked up from the ground, saying: 
 " May I ask how long you have been there ? " 
 
 "This is only the second day," he answered with a 
 reassuring smile. 
 
 "Your interest in her has been sudden." 
 
 "But her crayon portrait is there over my dining- 
 room mantelpiece, and it is an interesting one. The 
 moment I saw you I understood that you are her 
 sister." 
 
 "You must have known that she had a sister.'* 
 
 "Why, yes, I knew." 
 
 "Who told you that, pray?" 
 
 Her manner had now changed from one of alarm to 
 one of resentment, of mistrust. Her questions leaped 
 from her as from a judge eager to condemn. 
 
 "Surely it was no secret that she had a sister," he 
 
 28 
 
Violet 
 
 said. " The agent happened to mention it in speaking 
 to me of the late tenant, slz agents do." 
 
 "Ah, no doubt," she said half to herself. "You all 
 are ready enough with explanations. Wise as serpents, 
 if not harmless as doves." 
 
 The last words were spoken with a break in her 
 voice and a look that went to Harcourt's heart. He 
 understood that he was in the presence here of the 
 strange, of a mind touched to wildness by a monstrous 
 grief, and needing delicate handling. 
 
 "What I have told you is only the truth," he said 
 gently. 
 
 "Ah, no doubt," she said again. "But did you 
 know the history of the flat before you went into it ? " 
 
 "Why, yes." 
 
 " Yet you went. What, then, was your motive ? " 
 
 "Ah, now, come," said he. "I can see that you are 
 on a wrong track, and I must try to set things right. 
 Your sister has perhaps been badly treated by some 
 one or more persons, and the notion has occurred to 
 you that I may be one of them, or may have some 
 knowledge even of one of them. But I have been in 
 England only a month; I come from Wyoming, a place 
 at the other end of creation. See if you can't catch a 
 hint of an accent in my speech. I never saw your 
 sister alive; I am quite a stranger in London. It is 
 not nice to be mistrusted." 
 
 She thought this over gravely, then said with a 
 moment's openness of heart: "Forgive me, if I give 
 
 29 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 you pain unjustly"; but at once again she changed, 
 muttering stubbornly to herself with a certain vindic- 
 tiveness: "If I mistrust you, it is not for nothing. I 
 suppose you are all about equally pitiless and deadly. 
 There she lies, low enough, dead, undone — so young 
 — Gwen ! was there no pity, no help, not even God to 
 direct, not even God ? " 
 
 Again she covered her face, and was shaken with 
 grief, while Harcourt, yearning, but not daring to stir 
 a step toward her, stood in pain; till presently she 
 looked up at him sharply with all the former suspicious- 
 ness, saying with here a sob and there a sob: "But, 
 after all, words are only words. You can all talk, I 
 dare say; yet you have not been able to give me any 
 valid explanation." 
 
 " Of what ? " he asked. 
 
 " Of your strange interest in this lady ; of your pres- 
 ence here over her grave; of the fact that you chose to 
 occupy the flat, knowing what you know of it. In 
 my mind these are points against you." 
 
 He could not help smiling. "Let me reason with 
 you," said he earnestly. "Remember that I am not 
 the first person who has occupied the flat since the 
 death of your sister. Did not a Miss L'Estrange have 
 it before me ? Well, my motive is precisely the same 
 as hers — I wanted somewhere to live. You did not 
 attribute to Miss L'Estrange any ulterior motive, I 
 think ? Then why attribute one to me "^ " 
 
 "I attribute nothing to any one," she sighed. "I 
 
 30 
 
Violet 
 
 merely ask for an explanation which you seem unable 
 to give." 
 
 "Think, now! Have I not given it? I say that I 
 wanted a flat and took this one. Don't mistrust me 
 for nothing!" 
 
 "Oh, I keep a perfectly open mind. Till things are 
 proved to me, I mistrust no one. But you make your 
 excuses with rather too much earnestness to be con- 
 vincing; for you would not care what I thought, if you 
 had no motive." 
 
 "My motive is simply a desire to stand well with 
 you," said David. "You won't punish me for 
 that ? " 
 
 Now for the first time she looked squarely at him, 
 her eyes meditating gravely upon his face, as she said: 
 "If you never knew my sister before, it was good of 
 you to come to her grave. You do not look like one 
 of the ruthless ones." 
 
 "No, I hope not. Thank you for saying that," 
 said David, with his eyes on the ground. He was shy 
 with women. Such a girl as this filled a shrine in his 
 presence. 
 
 " And yet, who can ever tell ? " she sighed, half to 
 herself, with a weary drop of the hand. "The world 
 seems so hopelessly given over to I don't know what. 
 One would say that men were compounded of fraud 
 and ill-will, so that one does not know whom to trust, 
 nor even if there is any one to be trusted. You go into 
 the flat without any motive apparently that you can 
 
 31 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 give. You would never have managed it, if I had 
 had my way!" 
 
 " Is it against your will that the flat has been let ? " 
 asked David. 
 
 "That is not your business, you know!" she said, 
 quickly resentful of probing questions. 
 
 "I only asked," said he, "in order to tell you that 
 if it was against your will, you have only to breathe a 
 wish, and I shall find the means to leave it.*' 
 
 "Well, surely that is kindly said," she answered. 
 " Forgive me, will you, if I seem unreasonable ? Per- 
 haps you do not know what grief is. I will tell you 
 that it is against my will that the flat has been let. 
 My mother's doing; she insisted because she suspected 
 that I had a tendency to — be drawn toward the spot ; 
 she feared that I might — go there ; and so it was let. 
 But it is useless, I suppose, for you to give it up. They 
 would only let it to some one else. And whoever was 
 in it, I should have the same suspicions — " 
 
 That word! "Suspicions of what.?" asked David. 
 "I am so much in the dark as to what you mean! If 
 you would explain yourself, then I might be able to 
 help you. Will you let me help you ? " 
 
 "God knows what the truth is," she said despond- 
 ently, staring downward afresh, for, when David 
 looked at her, her eyes fell. "They are all kind 
 enough at first, no doubt, and their kindness ends 
 here, where the grass grows, and the winds moan all 
 night, Gwen. I do not know who or what you are, 
 
 32 
 
Violet 
 
 sir," she added, with that puzzling sharpness, "or 
 what your motive may be ; but — what have you done 
 with my sister's papers ? " 
 
 " Papers ? " said David. " You surprise me. Are 
 there any papers of your sister's in the flat ? " 
 
 She looked keenly at him, with eyelids lowered, 
 seeking to read his mind as though it was an open 
 book. 
 
 " Who knows ? " said she. 
 
 He recalled his harmless conversational dodge with 
 Dibbin. He could have smiled at the thought; but he 
 only answered: "Surely all her papers have been 
 removed ? " 
 
 Who knows ? " she said again, eying him keenly. 
 Certainly, I have seen no papers!" he exclaimed. 
 Well, you seem honest." 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "If you did happen to find any papers in the flat, 
 they would not be your property, would they ? " 
 
 "Of course not!" 
 What would you do with them ? '* 
 I should give them to you." 
 
 " God grant that you are honest ! " she sighed. " But 
 how would you find me ? " 
 
 " If you give me your name and address — " 
 
 "My name is Violet Mordaunt," she said rapidly, 
 as if venturing against some feeling of rashness. " My 
 home is at Rigsworth in Warwickshire, near Kenil- 
 worth ; but I am for the present in London, at — " 
 
 33 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 ie 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Before she could mention her London address they 
 were both aware that a third person was with them. 
 The hght carpet of snow would not have deadened the 
 newcomer's approach to David's ears, were it not that 
 he was so absorbed in the words, the looks, the merest 
 gestures of his companion. David heard the girl say; 
 " Oh, Mr. Van Hupfeldt ! " and a man walked past him 
 to the grave with lifted hat. The man and Violet 
 Mordaunt shook hands. It was now getting dark; 
 but David could still see that the newcomer was an 
 uncommonly handsome person, turned out with fault- 
 less elegance from his glossy beaver to the tip of his 
 verni boots ; of dark, sallow skin ; and a black mustache 
 as daintily curled as those mustaches which one sees 
 in the costumers' windows. David stepped back a 
 little, and stood awkwardly. Beside this West End 
 dandy he felt that he was somewhat of a rough-rider, 
 and, like most young men dowered with both brain 
 and sinew, he fancied that women incline more readily 
 to the trimly dressed popinjay of society. Yet Violet 
 Mordaunt seemed anything but pleased at the inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 " I am come to look for you by the request of your 
 mother," David heard the stranger say. "It was 
 feared that you might be here, and I am to take you 
 home, if you will do me the honor to come in my 
 carriage." 
 
 "But I ought not to be tracked," said Violet, with the 
 quick petulance which already was music for David. 
 
 34 
 
Violet 
 
 "There is the question of tea and dinner," remarked 
 Van Hupfeldt. " If a lady will not eat, she must expect 
 to be plagued." 
 
 "I prefer to walk home." 
 
 "That couldn't be done; it is too far," said Van 
 Hupfeldt. " Oh, come, come ! " he went on pleadingly, 
 with a fond gaze into her eyes. 
 
 A minute afterward they left the grave together. 
 Van Hupfeldt, as he passed David on the path, frowned 
 momentarily; Violet slightly inclined her head. 
 
 He looked after them, and admitted to himself that 
 they made a handsome pair, tall, like children of the 
 gods. But three yards away after they had passed 
 him something fell from Violet — a card — whether 
 by accident or design David did not know; but the 
 thought that it might be by design sent a thrill through 
 his frame. He picked it up. It had on it the address 
 of a boarding-house in Porchester Gardens. 
 
 He was yet tinghng with the hope of meeting her 
 again when a custodian approached. " Must shut the 
 gates, sir," he said. 
 
 And the clang of iron brought David back to the 
 roadway and reality once more. 
 
 35 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 "JOHANN STRAUSS " 
 
 On Monday morning David made the acquaintance 
 of the genus "housekeeper," when the woman recom- 
 mended by Dibbin arrived to take him in hand. He 
 had thought that she would sleep in the place, and 
 had rather looked forward to the human companion- 
 ship, for nothing is more cut off from the world of the 
 living than a flat, if one is alone in it, especially through 
 the watches of the night. Surely, if there are ghosts 
 in want of undisturbed house-room, every bachelor's 
 flat must be haunted. 
 
 Mrs. Grover, the housekeeper, however, said that 
 "sleeping in" was not the arrangement suggested to 
 her by Dibbin, since there were "the children to be 
 looked after." David, for his part, would not let it 
 appear that he cared at all; so Mrs. Grover, a busy 
 little fat woman, set to work making things rattle, on 
 an understanding of "sleeping out" and freedom for 
 church services o' Sunday. 
 
 This Monday was David's appointed day for be- 
 ginning work. But he did not prosper very well. 
 Plenty of paper, lots of ink, and a new gold pen make 
 no Shakespeare. And it is always hard to begin, 
 
 36 
 
^'Johann Strauss'' 
 
 even when the mind does not wander. But Violet 
 Mordaunt had brown eyes, so soft, so grave, as those 
 that beam with pity over the dying. She was more 
 beautiful than her sister, whose face, too, David could 
 see through the back of his head. Also, Van Hup- 
 feldt was undoubtedly a more elegant object for the 
 eye of woman to rest upon than David Harcourt. 
 
 David wondered if Van Hupfeldt was engaged to 
 Violet. He had certainly spoken to her at the grave 
 with much tender gallantry of manner, as if some- 
 thing was understood between them. And since 
 Violet's mother sent this man to seek her in his car- 
 riage, that must mean that they were on familiar 
 terms; unless, indeed, the mother was pressingly anx- 
 ious about Violet, could not go herself, and had no 
 one else to win the young woman home from her 
 sister's grave. Such questionings were the cause of 
 long pauses between the writing of David's sentences. 
 He was glad when something interrupted — when the 
 bell rang, and Dibbin was ushered in. 
 
 "I have looked in for one minute on the subject of 
 that — grate," said the agent. " Do not disturb your- 
 self, I beg. Well, I see that Mrs. Grover is duly in 
 her place, and you as snug here as a bird in its 
 nest." 
 
 "So snug," said David, "that I feel stifled. It 
 beats me how people can get so accustomed to this 
 sort of prison as not even to remember any longer 
 that they are in prison. No air, no room to stretch, 
 
 37 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 coal-dust in your very soul, and even at night in your 
 bed!" 
 
 "Dash it all, don't say it." 
 
 " Say what ? " 
 
 " Were you about to refer to any fresh experiences ? " 
 
 "Of the ghost? Not a bit of it!" said David. "I 
 have seen, heard, or smelled nothing more of anything." 
 
 "Good, good!" went on Dibbin, softly. "Keep on 
 like that, and we shall pull through yet. I find you 
 are well stocked with violets, meantime." 
 
 David laughed a little uneasily, and said " Yes " — 
 no more. Whiffs of violets in a lonely flat, for which 
 one can't account, are not altogether pleasant things. 
 David had therefore surrounded himself with violets, 
 in order, when he was greeted with a scent of violets, 
 to be able to say to himself that the scent came from 
 those which he had bought. He had not admitted 
 even to himself what his motive was in buying; nor 
 would he admit it to Mr. Dibbin. There, however, 
 the violets were in several pots, and their fragrance 
 at once drew the notice of a visitor, for the London 
 florist has an art to heighten dull nature in violets 
 and much else. 
 
 "Have a seat, Mr. Dibbin," said David, "and let 
 us talk." 
 
 " I am afraid I must be off, " began the other. 
 
 "Well, have a B. and S. any way. I only want to 
 hear from you whatever you can tell me of Mrs. and 
 Miss Violet Mordaunt." 
 
 38 
 
(( 
 
 Johann Strauss'' 
 
 
 " What ? You have discovered their names ? " cried 
 Dibbin with a start. 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Mr. Harcourt, you are a remarkable man," said 
 the agent with quiet certainty. 
 
 "Oh, not too remarkable. But since I do know 
 sometliing, you might let yourself loose as to the rest, 
 as I am interested. You have seen the mother, I 
 know. Have you seen the daughter, too ? " 
 
 "Several times." 
 
 "Pretty girl, eh? Or what do you think .^" 
 
 Well, I am getting an old man now," said Dibbin; 
 but I have been young, and I think I can remember 
 how I should have felt at twenty-five in the presence 
 of such a being." 
 
 "Pretty, you think her, eh.^" 
 
 "Rather!" 
 
 "Prettier than Gwendoline.'^ Prettier than her 
 sister ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know so much about that neither — 
 different type — graver, softer in the eye and hair, 
 taller, darker, not so young; but that poor dead girl 
 was something to make the mouth water, too, sir — 
 such a cut diamond! to see her in her full war-paint, 
 turned out like a daisy ! — in short, lovely beings, 
 both of 'em, both of 'em." 
 
 "Fairly well fixed, the mother.^" 
 
 "You mean financially? Oh, I think so. Got a 
 fine place down in Warwickshire, I know — not far 
 
 39 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 from Kenilworth. Good old family, and that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 "But how on earth this man Strauss, more or less 
 an adventurer, I take it, could have got hold of such 
 a girl, to the extent of drawing her from her happy 
 home, and sending her on the stage. He didn't marry 
 her, Dibbin ^ He didn't marry her } " 
 
 "How can I say.^" asked Dibbin, blinking. "We 
 can all make a shrewd guess; but one can't be abso- 
 lutely certain, though the fact of her suicide would 
 seem to be a sort of proof." 
 
 " What do the mother and Miss Mordaunt think 
 of it .^ Do they assume that she was married .^ Or 
 do they know enough of the w^orld to guess that she 
 was not.^ I suppose you don't know." 
 
 "They know what the world thinks, I'm afraid," 
 answered Dibbin. "I am sure of that much. Yes, 
 they know, they know. I have been with Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt a good many times, for one reason or another. 
 I can tell how she feels, and I'm afraid that she not 
 only guesses what the world thinks, but agrees with 
 the world's view. On the other hand, I have reason 
 to think that Miss Mordaunt has an obstinate faith 
 in her sister, and neither believes that she died un- 
 married, nor even that she committed suicide. Well, 
 well, you can't expect much clear reasoning from a 
 poor sister with a head half turned with grief." 
 
 Dibbin tossed off his brandy, while David paced 
 the room, his hands behind him, with a clouded brow. 
 
 40 
 
(( 
 
 Johann Strauss ^^ 
 
 " Have they no protector, these women ? " he asked. 
 " Isn't Miss Mordaunt engaged ? " 
 
 "I fancy not," said the agent. "In fact, I think 
 I can say undoubtedly not. She was not engaged 
 before the death of her sister, I am certain; and this 
 disaster of her sister appears to have inspired the 
 poor girl with such a detestation of the whole male 
 
 sex — 
 
 "Do you happen to know who a certain Mr. Van 
 Hupfeldt is ? " asked David. 
 
 "Van Hupfeldt, Van Hupfeldt? No, never heard 
 of him. What of him ? " 
 
 "He seems to be a pretty close friend of the Mor- 
 daunts, if I am right." 
 
 "He may be a close friend, and yet a new one," 
 said Dibbin, "as sometimes happens. Never heard 
 of him, although I thought that I knew the names 
 of most of Mrs. Mordaunt's connections, either through 
 herself or her solicitors." 
 
 "But to go back to this Strauss," said David. "Do 
 you mean to say that neither the mother nor Miss 
 Mordaunt ever once saw him .'' " 
 
 "Not once that they know of." 
 Then, how did he got hold of Gwendoline ? " 
 That's the question. It is suspected that he met 
 her in the hunting-field, persuaded her to meet him 
 secretly, and finally won her to fly from home. To 
 me this is quite credible; for I've seen Johann Strauss 
 twice, and each time have been struck with the thought 
 
 41 
 
 a 
 
 a I 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 how fascinating this man must be in the eyes of a 
 young woman!" 
 
 "What was he hke, then, this Mr. Johann Strauss 
 of the flourishy signature?" 
 
 "A most handsome young man," said Mr. Dibbin, 
 impressively; "hard to describe exactly. Came from 
 the States, I think, or had lived there — had just a 
 touch of the talk, perhaps — of Dutch extraction, I 
 take it. Handsome fellow, handsome fellow; the 
 kind of man girls throw themselves over precipices 
 after: teeth flashing between the wings of his black 
 mustache — tall, thin man, always most elegantly 
 dressed — dark skin — sallow — " 
 
 At that word "sallow," David started, the descrip- 
 tion of Johann Strauss had so strangely reminded 
 him of Van Hupf eldt ! But the thought that the cause 
 of the one sister's undoing should be friendly with 
 the other sister, paying his court to her over the grave 
 of the ill-fated dead, was too wild to find for itself a 
 place all at once in the mind. 
 
 David frowned down the notion of such a horror. 
 He told himself that it was dark when he had seen 
 Van Hupfeldt, that there were many tall men with 
 white teeth and black mustaches, and sallow, dark 
 skins. If he had felt some sort of antipathy to Van 
 Hupfeldt at first sight, this was no proof of evil in Van 
 Hupfeldt's nature, but a proof only, perhaps, of 
 David's capabilities of being jealous of one more 
 favored than himself by nature as he fancied — and 
 
 42 
 
(( 
 
 Johann Strauss ^^ 
 
 by Violet Mordaunt, which was the notion that 
 rankled. 
 
 And yet he tingled. Dibbin had said that this Van 
 Hupfeldt might be "a new friend — one who had 
 become a friend since the death of Gwendoline." 
 
 David paced the room with slow steps, and while 
 Dibbin talked on of one or another of the people who 
 had known Gwendoline Mordaunt in the flesh, vowed 
 to himself that he would take this matter on his 
 shoulders and see it through. 
 
 "Speaking of the Miss L'Estrange who was in the 
 flat before me," said he; "how long did she stay in it ?'' 
 
 "Three months, nearly," answered Dibbin, "and 
 then all of a sudden she wouldn't stay another day. 
 And I had no means of forcing her to do so either." 
 
 " What ? Did the ghost suddenly get worse ? " 
 
 "I couldn't quite tell you what happened. Miss 
 Ermyn L'Estrange isn't a lady altogether easy to 
 understand when in an excited condition. Sufiice it 
 to say, she wouldn't stay another hour, and went off 
 with a noise like a Catherine- wheel." 
 
 "Quite so. But I say, Dibbin, can you give me 
 the address of the lady.'^" 
 
 "With pleasure," said the agent, in whom brandy 
 and soda acted as a solvent. "I am a man, Mr. Har- 
 court, with three hundred and odd addresses in my 
 head, I do assure you. But, then. Miss L'Estrange 
 is a bird of passage — " 
 
 "All right, just write down the address that you 
 
 43 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 know; and there is one other address that I want, Mr. 
 Dibbin — that of the girl who acted as help to Miss 
 Gwendoline Mordaunt." 
 
 Dibbin had known this address also, and with the 
 promise to see if he could find it among his papers — 
 for it was he who had recommended the girl — went 
 away. He was hardly gone when Harcourt, who did 
 not let the grass grow under his feet, put on hat and 
 coat, and started out to call upon Miss Ermyn 
 L'Estrange. 
 
 44 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 VON OR VAN? 
 
 The address of Miss L'Estrange, given to David 
 by Dibbin, was in King's Road, Chelsea, and thither 
 David set out, thinking in his cab of that word " papers," 
 of the oddness of Violet's question at the grave : " What 
 have you done with my sister's papers ? " 
 
 Whatever papers might be meant, it was hardly to 
 be supposed that Miss L'Estrange knew aught of them, 
 yet he hoped for information from her, since a tenant 
 next in order is always likely to have gathered many 
 bits of knowledge about the former tenant. 
 
 As for his right to pry and interfere, that, he assured 
 himself, was a settled thing. Going over in his mind 
 Violet's words and manner in the cemetery, he came 
 to the conclusion that she was half inclined to suspect 
 that he was her sister's destroyer, who had now taken 
 the flat for some vaguely evil reason, perhaps to seek, 
 or to guard from her, those very papers for which she 
 so craved. Had she never heard, he wondered, that 
 her sister's evil mate was a man with a black mustache 
 and pale, dark skin ? Perhaps, if she ever had, she 
 would suspect — some one else than he ! That would 
 be strange enough, her suspicion of the innocent, if at 
 
 45 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 the same time the guilty was at her side, unsuspected! 
 But David tried to banish from his mind the notion 
 that Van Hupfeldt might possibly be Johann Strauss. 
 
 At Chelsea he was admitted to a flat as cozily dim 
 as his own, but much more frivolously crowded with 
 knickknacks; nor had he long to wait until Miss 
 L'Estrange, all hair and paint, dashed in. It was 
 near one in the afternoon, but she had an early-morn- 
 ing look of rawness and deshabillement, as if she had 
 just risen from bed. Her toilet was incomplete. Her 
 face had the crude look of a water-color daub by a 
 school-girl; her whirl of red hair swept like a turban 
 about her head. 
 
 " What can I do for you ? " she asked. 
 
 " I am sorry — " began David. 
 
 " Cut the excuses," said Miss Ermyn L'Estrange. 
 She had a reputation for bruskness which passed for 
 wit in her set. 
 
 "I am the occupant of the flat in Eddys tone Man- 
 sions which you recently left." 
 
 ''I hope you like it." 
 I like it fairly well, as a flat." 
 What ? Not seen anything ? '* 
 No. Anything of what nature.'^'* 
 Anything ghostified," she snapped, sitting with her 
 chin on her palm, her face poked forward close to 
 David's, while the sleeve fell away from her thin 
 forearm. She had decided that he was an interesting 
 young man. 
 
 46 
 
 (( 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 "I have seen no ghost," he said. "I don't beheve 
 I ever shall see one." 
 
 "There are ghosts," she said; "so it's no good saying 
 there are not, for my old Granny Price has been chased 
 by one, and there's been a ghost in that very flat. My 
 servant Jenny saw it with her own eyes." 
 
 "It is always some one else's eyes which see the 
 invisible," said David. 
 
 "Jenny's eyes are not some one else's, they are her 
 own. She saw it, I tell you, but perhaps you are one 
 of those people who cower under the sheets all night 
 for fright, and in the daytime swear that there are no 
 ghosts." 
 
 " What ? You know so much of me already ? " 
 
 "Oh, I know my man the moment I lay eyes on 
 him, as a rule. You're from Australia — I can tell 
 your twang — and you have come to England to look 
 for a wife. Can't very well get along without us, after 
 all, can you ? " 
 
 "There is some truth in that. What a pity you 
 didn't see the ghost yourself!" 
 
 "I heard it; I smelled it." 
 
 " Really ? What did it smell of ? Brimstone ? " 
 
 "Violets!" 
 
 David started, not wholly because he thought Miss 
 L'Estrange would be flattered by this tribute to her 
 forcible style. 
 
 "And I'm not one of vour fanciful ones either," she 
 went on, smirking at the effect she had made. 
 
 47 
 
The Late Texiant 
 
 " How often did this thing happen to you ? " 
 
 "Twice in three months." 
 
 " Daytime ? Night-time ? " 
 
 "Dead of night. The first time about two in the 
 morning, the second time about three.'* 
 
 "To me this is naturally fascinating," said David. 
 "Do tell me—" 
 
 " The first time, I was asleep in that front bed-room, 
 when I suddenly found myself awake — couldn't tell 
 why, for I hadn't long been in bed, and was tired. I 
 found myself listening, heard some creaks about, 
 nothing more than you can generally hear in a house 
 in the dead of night, and I was thinking of going to 
 sleep again, when all at once I seemed to scent violets 
 somewhere. I wasn't certain at first, but the notion 
 grew, and if it had been brimstone, as you said, I 
 couldn't have been so overcome as I was — something 
 so solemn and deathly in that fume of violets visiting 
 anybody in the dark in that fashion. As I knew that 
 Gwen Barnes, who poisoned herself in that very room, 
 was fond of violets — for I had seen her both on and 
 off the stage several times — you can guess whether I 
 felt rummy or not. Pop went my little head under the 
 bed-clothes, for I'll stand up to any living girl you 
 care to mention, and send her home all the worse for 
 it; but the dead have an unfair advantage, anyhow. 
 The next minute I heard a bang — it sounded to me 
 like the lid of one of my trunks dropping down — and 
 this was followed by a scream. The scream did for 
 
 48 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 me — I was upset for weeks. It was Jenny who had 
 screamed ; but, like a fool, I thought it was the ghost — 
 I don't know what I thought; in fact, I just heard the 
 scream, and lay me down and d'eed. When I came 
 to myself, there was Jenny shivering at my side, with 
 the light turned on, saying that a tall woman had 
 been in the flat — " 
 
 " Was Gwendoline Barnes in the flesh a tall girl ? " 
 asked David. 
 
 "Pretty tall; one would have called her tall." 
 
 " And Jenny was certain ? She had really seen a 
 woman ? " 
 
 "Quite certain." 
 
 •j » 
 
 a 
 
 In the light ? 
 
 No, in the dark." 
 
 Ah, that's not so good. And as to your trunk, 
 had you left it locked ? " 
 
 "No, I don't think. It's certain any^-ay that some- 
 thing or somebody was at it that night; for next day 
 I found the things rummaged." 
 
 " Sure now ? I don't imagine that you are very 
 tidy." 
 
 "The cheek! I tell you the things were rummaged." 
 
 And nothing stolen ? " 
 
 Ghosts are not thieves. They only come back to 
 pretend to themselves that they are still living in the 
 old scenes, and that their bit of a fling is not all over 
 forever. I can well imagine how the poor things feel, 
 can't you ? Of course, nothing was stolen, though I 
 
 49 
 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 did miss something out of the trunk a day or two 
 afterward — " 
 
 " What was that ? " 
 
 "My agreement with the theater. Couldn't find it 
 high or low in the place; though I was pretty sure that 
 I had put it into that very trunk. Three weeks after 
 it had disappeared, lo and behold ! my agreement comes 
 to me one morning through the post! No letter with 
 it, not a word of explanation, just the blessed agree- 
 ment of itself staring me in the face, like a miracle. 
 Now, I'm rather off miracles — aren't you ? So I 
 said to myself — " 
 
 " But stay, what was the postmark on the envelope 
 which brought you back this agreement ? " asked David. 
 
 "Just London, and a six-barred gate." 
 
 " You couldn't perhaps find that envelope now ? " 
 
 "Now, do I look like anybody who ties up old en- 
 velopes in packets .? Or do you take me for an old 
 maid ? Because, if you do, just let me know." 
 
 "Certainly not an old one," said David. "But how 
 as to the second visit of the ghost ?" 
 
 " The second time it was about three in the morning. 
 Jenny did not see her then; but we both woke up at 
 the same moment without any apparent cause — we 
 were sleeping together, you may bet your last dollar 
 on that ! — and we both smelled something like violets, 
 and we heard a sound, too, like the top of the piano 
 being shut down. ' Miss L'Estrange,' Jenny whispered 
 into my ear, * there's something in the drawing-room.' 
 
 50 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 — ' Go, Jenny,' I whispered to her, * and see what it 
 is.' — *You go, Miss L'Estrange,' Jenny whispered to 
 me, 'you being the mistress; and I'll come after.' — 
 'But you are the servant,' I whispered to her, *you go.' 
 — 'No, Miss L'Estrange,' she whispered back, 'you 
 are braver than me, you go, and I'll come after.' — 
 'No, you know that you are much the bravest, Jenny, 
 so don't be such a coward,' I whispered to her, 'and 
 I'll come after.' It was like a farcical comedy. At 
 this we heard something like a chair falling upon the 
 carpet in the drawing-room, and now we were in such 
 a state of fright that we couldn't move our hands, to 
 say nothing of our feet. Then a long time passed, we 
 didn't hear anything more; so, after about half an hour 
 of it, Jenny and I together made a rush for the switch, 
 and got out into the drawing-room. Then again we 
 scented a faint something like violets; but nobody 
 was there, and we neither saw nor heard anything 
 more." 
 
 "So, after that second experience, I suppose, you 
 would stay no longer in the flat ? " said David. 
 
 "I did stay a few days. It wasn't altogether the 
 ghost that drove me away, though that may have had 
 something to do with it, but the cheek and the meanness 
 of the man who put me there." 
 
 "Of the — Ah, I beg pardon," said David, with 
 lowered lids. 
 
 " Oh, this isn't a Sunday school. If you hem and 
 haw at me I shall show you the short cut to the front 
 
 51 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 door. It was a fair business arrangement; so don't 
 you think anything else. The man was named 
 Strauss, and whether his motive in putting me there 
 was quite square or not, don't let him suppose that 
 I am going to screen him, for I'm not. I am straight 
 with those that are straight with me; but those that 
 are up to mean tricks, let them beware of the color of 
 my hair — " 
 
 "So you were put into the flat!" 
 
 " Didn't I go into it rent-free ? Stop, I will tell you, 
 and you shall judge for yourself whether I have been 
 shabbily used or not. One night last August I was 
 introduced by a friend to a gentleman named Strauss 
 — dark, pale man, pretty fetching, but not my style. 
 However, next day he turned up at my place — I was 
 living then in Great Titchfield-St. ; and what do you 
 think my man wanted ? To put me into the Eddystone 
 Mansions flat for six months at his expense, on the 
 condition that I or Jenny would devote some time 
 every day to searching for papers among the furniture. 
 He said that a chum of his had once occupied the flat, 
 and had left in it one or more documents, carefully 
 hidden somewhere, which were of the utmost impor- 
 tance; I was to search for these, and give them to him. 
 Well, I didn't half like it, for I thought he was wicked. 
 So I asked him why he didn't take the flat, and search 
 for the papers himself at his leisure.'^ Well, he made 
 some excuse or other, and at last, as he talked sanely 
 enough, I struck hands over it — rent free, six months, 
 
 52 
 
Von or Van ? 
 an hour's search each day; and Jenny and I moved 
 
 in." 
 
 "Did you search an hour each day?" asked David 
 with a laugh. 
 
 "Hardly likely!" grinned Miss Ermyn L'Estrange. 
 "I can see myself searching a small flat day after day 
 for I didn't know what, like a goose. There was 
 nowhere to search. I did look about a little the first 
 day; but, not finding any documents, I thought to 
 myself, 'Here endeth.' Of course, I had to tell him 
 that I was busy searching, for that man pestered me 
 so, you wouldn't believe. He never actually came to 
 the flat, for some reason or other; but night after night, 
 when the theaters opened in September, there he was, 
 wanting to know if I had found anything, if I had 
 probed the cushions w4th hat-pins, if I had looked 
 under the carpets, and the rest of it. At last I began 
 to treat him a bit off-handedly, I admit, and before the 
 third month was up, he says to me one night that if I 
 didn't find something at once, he would have to cut 
 off the allowance for the rent. I told him that he had 
 put me there for six months, that I had made all 
 arrangements, and that he was an idiot. If he didn't 
 know his mind, I knew mine. Oh, we had a fine 
 set-to, I can tell you. He said that, since I had proved 
 useless to him, I should have to pay my own rent, so, 
 what with ghosts and all, I wouldn't stay in the place 
 another two days; and in going I gave it hot to that 
 Mr. Dibbin, too — " 
 
 53 
 
i( 
 
 The Late Tenant 
 
 What had Dibbin done ? " asked David. 
 He hadn't done anything; but still I gave him a 
 piece of my mind, for I was wild.'* 
 
 "Poor Dibbin! he is still shaky from it. He has 
 mentioned to me that you went off with a noise like a 
 catherine-wheel. But you never found any papers at 
 all in the flat ? " 
 
 " No — except one, or rather two, and those Strauss 
 never got." 
 
 "How was that.^" 
 
 " Because I didn't find them till the day after we had 
 had the row, when my trunks were ready packed to 
 go, and I wasn't going to give them to him then, for 
 his cheek. Besides, they didn't concern him; they 
 were only a marriage certificate, and the certificate of 
 a birth which fell out of a picture." 
 
 David sat up, saying: "How do you mean, 'fell out 
 of a picture ' ? " 
 
 "As we were carrying out the trunks, there was a 
 bump, and one of the pictures in the corridor came 
 down. The boards at the back of it must have been 
 loose, for they fell out, and among them was an envelope 
 with the two certificates in it." 
 
 "Now, I bless my stars that ever I came to you," 
 said David. "This may be the very thing I want." 
 
 "How many of you are after papers in that flat, I 
 should like to know. First there was Strauss, then 
 that young lady, and now you — '* 
 
 " Which young lady ? " asked David. 
 
 54 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 "Why, I hadn't been in the flat three days when a 
 young lady, a tall, dark girl came, and practically 
 insulted me. She wanted to know what was my 
 motive for coming into the flat, and if I was the agent 
 of any one, and if I meant to purloin any papers which 
 I might find. Well, I'm not one for taking much sauce 
 from another woman; for I've got red hair, as you can 
 see for yourself, but somehow I couldn't be hard on 
 her, she had had some big trouble, I could tell — a bit 
 touched somewhere, too, I thought, suspicious as a 
 bird, sick at the very name of Strauss! She had 
 dropped to it all right that I was there to serve Strauss's 
 ends, and she went on her bended knees to me, asking 
 me not to do it. I couldn't quite make out what it 
 was all about, or what there was between her and 
 Strauss, for she wouldn't tell me. It was something 
 pretty strong, for when I told Strauss about her visit, 
 I thought the man was going to drop dead. Her name 
 was Violet Mordaunt. I remember it; for Mordaunt 
 was also the family name of the woman in the marriage 
 certificate — " 
 
 "Why did you not send this marriage certificate to 
 Violet Mordaunt.^" asked David, "since you did not 
 give it to Strauss ? " 
 
 "I would have sent it to her, I'm sure, but I didn't 
 have her address. She did leave me an address that 
 day she came; but, to tell the truth, I didn't take the 
 whole to-do about papers, papers, papers, seriously, 
 and Lord knows what became of the address — " 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 " Oh, good heavens, how selfish and careless ! " 
 groaned David. 
 
 " Look here, young man, you come from Australia ? " 
 cried Miss L'Estrange, bouncing up from her chair. 
 "In London people look after themselves and mind 
 their own business, you see. We are as kind-hearted 
 here as they are anywhere else, but we haven't the 
 same leisure to be kind. I tell you that if I had had 
 the young lady's address I should very likely have 
 sent her the papers; but I didn't, and that's all; so 
 don't preach." 
 
 "Well, better late than never," said David. "Just 
 give me the papers now, if you will, for I know her 
 address — " 
 
 " But where are the papers } " said Miss L'Estrange. 
 " You don't suppose that I keep papers — " 
 
 " Don't say that you have lost them ! " pleaded David. 
 
 "I haven't the faintest idea where the papers are! 
 I was in a regular flurry, just moving out of the place; 
 I had no interest in the papers. I glanced at them to 
 see what they were, and, as far as I can remember, I 
 threw them on the floor, or handed them to Jenny. 
 It's just possible that they are here now; but I shouldn't 
 fancy so. I'll ask Jenny when she comes in." 
 
 "Ah, you little know how much misery you might 
 have saved a poor girl, if you had been a little more 
 thoughtful," growled David, and his wrath seemed to 
 cow the woman somewhat. " This name of Mordaunt 
 was the maiden name of your predecessor in the flat, 
 
 5Q 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 who took the name of (Gwendoline Barnes; Violet 
 Mordaunt is her sister; Gwendoline is believed by all 
 the world, including her own mother, to have been led 
 astray, and the certificates which you handled so lightly 
 would have cleared her name and lifted a world of 
 grief from her poor sister's heart." 
 
 "Good Lord! How was I to know all that?" 
 shrilled Miss L'Estrange, staring. "So it was Strauss 
 that ruined Gwen Barnes ? And this Violet Mordaunt 
 was Gwen Barnes's sister.'* Now you say it, they 
 were something alike. I always put down that Strauss 
 for a rotter — " 
 
 " But why, since he married her ? " 
 
 " Married whom ? Strauss wasn't the husband's 
 name on the marriage-certificate! Gwendoline Mor- 
 daunt was one, and the other, as far as I can recollect, 
 was a foreign name, von Somebody or other — " 
 
 "Von!" David also sprang to his feet. "Are you 
 sure.'* or might it have been 'van'.? Oh, try now to 
 remember! One is German, the other Dutch!" 
 
 "It might have been 'van,' or it might have been 
 * von ' — you can't expect one to remember after all 
 these names. But I remember the woman's name, 
 Gwendoline Mordaunt, quite well, because the Gwen- 
 doline reminded me of Gwen Barnes, and the Mordaunt 
 reminded me of Miss Violet Mordaunt; and the hus- 
 band's name, I know, was von or van Something, and 
 so was the name of the child — a boy it was — I think 
 its name was Henry — " 
 
 57 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "Hupfeldt?" suggested David, suddenly. 
 
 " Hupfeldt ? It might have been Hupfeldt. I really 
 can't say now. I'll ask Jenny." 
 
 "At any rate," said David, calming himself with a 
 great effort, " we have that certain fact that Gwendoline 
 Mordaunt was a wife. Good, to begin ; most excellent, 
 to begin. You can't say where the marriage took 
 place ? No other information at all." 
 
 "I'm sorry, since it is so mighty important, but I'm 
 afraid not. However, I'll do my best for you. I'll 
 see if I or Jenny can remember anything. When we 
 left the flat, there was a great overflowing with my 
 torn-up letters, and Jenny may have thrown the cer- 
 tificates on that grate, or the bits of them, or she may 
 have dropped them on the floor, or, just possibly, she 
 put them in her pocket and may have them still. She 
 will be here in less than half an hour, so, if I may 
 ojffer you a cigar, and a whisky and soda — " 
 
 "You are very good. I won't stay now, as I am in 
 a hurry to do something. But, if I may come back — 
 may I ? " 
 
 "Modest request! As often as you please, and 
 welcome. This is Liberty Hall, you know." 
 
 "Thank you, I will, then. There is one thing I 
 have to ask you. Could you point out to me Mr. 
 Johann Strauss ? " 
 
 " Of course, if I saw him. But I never knew where 
 he lived, and have never seen him since the day I left 
 the flat." 
 
 58 
 
Von or Van ? 
 
 " Well, that may come in time," said David, putting 
 out his hand; "and meantime you will do your best 
 for me in finding out about the two certificates. Thank 
 you for all your goodness, and I will be here again 
 soon." 
 
 "Good-by," said Miss L'Estrange, "and I do hope 
 you mean to give that Strauss a sound hiding some 
 day. You look as if you could do it with one hand 
 and pick your teeth with the other. It would be no 
 more than he deserves." 
 
 David ran down the flight after flight of stairs quicker 
 than he had gone up. 
 
 "Now," he thought to himself as he left the building 
 with eager steps, "is my chance to give some joy!" 
 Going into the first paper-shop, he wrote: "A well- 
 wisher of Miss Mordaunt desires to assure her that it 
 is a pretty certain thing that her sister Gwendoline 
 was a duly wedded wife; the proofs of this statement 
 may sooner or later be forthcoming." 
 
 He put no signature to it, made haste to post it, and 
 drove back to Eddystone Mansions. It had been wiser 
 had he flattered Miss Ermyn L'Estrange by returning 
 to her. 
 
 59 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE WORD OF JOY 
 
 Not many guests were for the moment at No. 60A, 
 Porchester Gardens, so that the Mordaunts, mother 
 and daughter, who always stopped there during their 
 visits to London, could almost persuade themselves 
 that they were in their own home. In the good old 
 days Mr. and Mrs. Harrod, the proprietors, had been 
 accustomed to receive three Mordaunts to their hos- 
 pitality, when Gwen, the bright and petted, came with 
 Violet and Mrs. Mordaunt. Only two now visited 
 London, a grayer mother, a dumber sister; and though 
 the Harrods asked no questions, made no prying into 
 the heart's secret, nor uttered any word of sympathy, 
 they well divined that the feet of the angel of sorrow 
 had passed that way, and expressed their pity silently 
 by a hundred little ministries. 
 
 Violet and Mrs. Mordaunt were having tea in the 
 drawing-room on the day of David Harcourt's visit 
 to Miss L'Estrange, when the postman's knock sounded, 
 and a minute later Mrs. Harrod herself came in, say- 
 ing: 
 
 "A letter for Miss Violet, and it contains good 
 news; for I dreamt of soldiers last night, and so sure 
 
 60 
 
The Word of Joy 
 
 as I dream of soldiers, so sure are there letters with 
 good news." "* 
 
 "The good news will all be in the other people's 
 letters, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Good 
 news is like wealth, Mrs. Harrod, unequally divided; 
 to some of us it never comes." 
 
 "Oh, come now!" cried the hearty Mrs. Harrod. 
 " Never say die, say I ! There's good and bad in store 
 for everybody; and care killed a cat, after all. Don't 
 I tell you I dreamt of soldiers ? And so sure — " 
 
 "It is that good heart of yours which makes you 
 dream of soldiers. To bring healing to some lots in 
 this world, you would have need to dream of generals 
 and field-marshals — " 
 
 "Some more tea, mother.^" interposed Violet. She 
 shrank from the threatened talk of human ills. Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, most excellent woman, was not adverse to 
 pouring some of her grief into a sympathetic ear. 
 
 "Well, you will tell me at dinner whether I was 
 right," cried Mrs. Harrod, and was gone. 
 
 She had placed the letter on the tray, and there it 
 still lay unopened. Violet handed the tea to her 
 mother. The room was empty, save for them, the 
 few other guests being out, and in the house reigned 
 perfect quietude, a peacefulness accentuated by the 
 wheels and hoofs passing in the dusk outside. 
 
 "Vi," said Mrs. Mordaunt, "those flowers at your 
 waist are almost faded; I think you might give up 
 violets in London. They don't seem to me the same 
 
 61 
 
(( 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 it 
 
 a . 
 
 The Late Tenant 
 
 thing as in the country; but at least let them be fresh. 
 Mr. Van Hupf eldt will be here presently — " 
 
 "How do you know, mother.?" 
 He mentioned, dear, that he would be coming." 
 But why, after all, every day.'^" 
 Is that displeasing to you, dear?" 
 It seems superfluous." 
 
 That compels me to suggest to you, Vi, that his 
 coming to-day is of some special importance." 
 
 " And why, pray ? " 
 
 " Can you not guess ? " 
 
 The girl stood up; she walked restlessly to the win- 
 dow and back before she cried: "Mother! mother! 
 Have you not had experience enough of the curse of 
 men ? " Her great eyes rested gloomily on the older 
 woman's face. There was a beautiful heredity marked 
 in the pair; but seldom have more diverse souls been 
 pent within similar tabernacles. 
 
 "Don't speak so recklessly, dear," said the old 
 lady. "You had the best of fathers. There are 
 good men, too, in the world, and when a man is good, 
 he is better than any woman." 
 
 "It may be so. God knows. I hope it is so. But 
 is Mr. Van Hupfeldt one of these fabulous beings ? It 
 has not struck me — " 
 
 "Please, Violet, don't imagine that I desire to in- 
 fluence you in the slightest degree," said Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt. "I merely wish to hint to you what, in fact, 
 you can't be blind to, that Mr. Van Hupfeldt's inclina- 
 
 62 
 
The Word of Joy 
 
 tions are fixed on you, and *hat he will probably give 
 expression to them to-day. On Saturday he ap- 
 proached me on the subject, beseeching me with great 
 warmth to hold out to him hopes which, of course, 
 I could not hold out, yet which I did not feel author- 
 ized wholly to destroy. At any rate, I was persuaded 
 upon to promise him a fair field for his enterprise 
 to-day." 
 
 "Oh, mother! Really, this is irritating of you!" 
 cried Violet, letting fall with a clatter a spoon she had 
 lifted off the table. 
 
 "But I don't see it. Why so.?" 
 "It sounds so light-minded, at your years!" 
 "As if I was one of the two parties concerned!" 
 laughed Mrs. Mordaunt with a certain maternal com- 
 placency. She knew, or thought she knew, her way- 
 ward daughter. With a little tact this most suitable 
 marriage could be arranged. 
 
 "No," admitted Violet, angry at the weakness of 
 her defense, "but you allow yourself to be drawn 
 into having a hand in what is called a love-affair be- 
 cause it is an event; and it was not fair to Mr. Van 
 Hupfeldt, since you knew quite well beforehand what 
 would be the result." 
 
 "Well, well," purred Mrs. Mordaunt good-hu- 
 moredly, looking down to stroke the toy Pom on her 
 lap, a nervous little animal which one might have 
 wrapped in a handkerchief, "I will say no more. If 
 the thought of allowing myself to be bereft of you has 
 
 63 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 occurred to me, you understand for whose good I 
 gave it a moment's entertainment. Marriage, of 
 course, is a change of Hfe, and for girls whose minds 
 have been overshadowed by sorrow, it may not be 
 altogether a bad thing.'* 
 
 "But there is usually some selection in the matter, 
 I think, some pretense of preference for one above 
 others. Just marriage by itself hardly seems a goal." 
 
 " Yes, love is good, dear — none knows better than 
 I — but better marriage without love, than love with- 
 out marriage," muttered Mrs. Mordaunf, suddenly 
 shaken. 
 
 "And better still life with neither, it seems to me; 
 and best of all, the end of life, and good-by to it all, 
 mother." 
 
 "Vi, Vi! sh-h-h, dear!" Mrs. Mordaunt was so 
 genuinely shocked that her daughter swung the talk 
 back into its personal channel. 
 
 "Still, I will not see this man. Tell him when he 
 comes that I will not see him. He has held out to me 
 hopes which he has done nothing to fulfil." 
 
 "What hopes, dear?" 
 
 " You may as well know : hopes as to — Gwen, 
 then." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "Twice he has hinted to me that he knows some 
 one who knew the man named Strauss ; that he would 
 succeed in finding this Strauss; that all was quite, 
 quite well ; and that he did not despair of finding some 
 
 64 
 
The Word of Joy 
 
 trace of the whereabouts of the child. He had no 
 right to say such things, if he had not some real 
 grounds for beheving that he would do as he hinted. 
 It is two months ago now since he last spoke in this 
 way down at Rigsworth, and he has not referred to it 
 since, though he has several times been alone with me. 
 I believe that he only said it because he fancied that 
 whatever man held out such hopes to me would be 
 likely to find me pliant to his wishes. I won't see liim 
 to-day." 
 
 " Oh, he said that, did he — that all was quite well, 
 that he might be able to find . . . But he must have 
 meant it, since he said it." 
 
 " I doubt now that he meant it. Who knows whether 
 he is not in league with the enemies of her who was 
 cast helpless to the wolves — " 
 
 "Violet, for shame to let such words escape your 
 lips ! Mr. Van Hupfeldt — a man of standing and 
 position, presented to us by Lord Vanstone, and mov- 
 ing in the highest circles! Oh, beware, dear, lest 
 sorrow warp the gentler instincts of your nature, and 
 by the sadness of the countenance the heart be not 
 made better! Grief is evil, then, indeed when it does 
 not win us into a sweeter mood of charity. I fear, Vi, 
 that you have lost something of your old amiableness 
 since the blow." 
 
 "Forgive me, darling!" sobbed Violet, dropping 
 quickly by the side of her mother's chair, with her 
 eyes swimming. "It has gone deep, this wild 
 
 Q5 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 wrong. Forgive, forgive! I wish to feel and do right; 
 but I can't. It is the fault of the iron world." 
 
 "No, don't cry, sweet," murmured Mrs. Mordaunt, 
 kissing her warmly. " It will come right. We must 
 repress all feelings of rebellion and rancor, and pray 
 often, and in the end your good heart will find its way 
 back to its natural sweetness and peace. I myself too 
 frequently give way, I'm afraid; the ways of Provi- 
 dence are so inscrutably hard. We must bear up, 
 and wait, and wait, till * harsh grief pass in time into 
 far music' As for Mr. Van Hupfeldt, there seems no 
 reason why you should see him, if you do not wish. 
 But you haven't opened your letter — see if it is from 
 Rigs worth, dear." 
 
 Violet now rose from her mother's side, and tore 
 open the letter. She did not know the handwriting, 
 and as her eyes fell on the words she started. They 
 were these: "A well-wisher of Miss Mordaunt desires 
 to assure her that it is a pretty certain thing that her 
 sister Gwendoline was a duly wedded wife. The 
 proofs of this statement may sooner or later be forth- 
 coming." 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt's observant glance, noting the 
 changes of color and expression going on in her daugh- 
 ter's face, saw that the news was really as Mrs. Harrod 
 had dreamed. Violet's eyes were raised in silent 
 thanksgiving, and, without saying anything, she 
 dropped the note on her mother's lap. Going to one 
 of the windows, she stood there with tremulous lips. 
 
The Word of Joy 
 
 She looked into the dim street through a mist of tears. 
 For the moment, speech was impossible. 
 
 There was silence in the room for some minutes. 
 Then Mrs. Mordaunt called out: " Vi, dear, come here." 
 
 Violet ran from the window with a buoyancy of 
 dancing in her gait. "Heaven forgive us, mother, 
 for having wronged Gwendoline in our thoughts!" 
 said she, with her cheek against her mother's. 
 
 "Heaven forgive me rather," said Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 "You, dear, have never for a moment lost faith and 
 hope. Butstill, Vi— " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Let me warn you, dear, against too much con- 
 fidence in this note. The disappointment may be all 
 the more terrible. Why could not the sender sign his 
 name ? Of course, we can guess from whom it comes ; 
 but does not the fact that he does not sign his name 
 show a lack of confidence in his own statements .^ " 
 
 "Oh, I think not," cried Violet, flushed with en- 
 thusiasm, "if it is from whom you think; but, who, 
 then, do you think sent it.'*" 
 
 "It can only be from Mr. Van Hupfeldt, child, I 
 take it." 
 
 The girl was seemingly taken aback for an instant; 
 but her thoughts bubbled forth again rapidly: "Well, 
 his motive for not signing his name may simply be a 
 very proper reserve, not a lack of confidence in his 
 statements. Remember, dearest, that he is coming 
 here to-day with a certain purpose with regard to me, 
 
 67 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 and if he had signed his name, it would have set up a 
 sort of claim to my favor as a reward for services done. 
 Oh, now I come to think of it, I call this most generous 
 of the man!" 
 
 "That's splendid, that's right," said Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt. "Your instincts always scent out nobility 
 where any clue to it can be found. I am glad that you 
 take it in that way. But young people are enthusiastic 
 and prone to jump to conclusions. As we grow older 
 we acquire a certain habit of second thoughts. In 
 this instance, no doubt, you are right; he could have 
 had no other motive — unless — I suppose that there 
 is no one else from whom the note may possibly have 
 
 At this question Violet stood startled a moment, 
 panting a little, and somehow there passed like a mist 
 through her consciousness a memory, a half-thought, 
 of David Harcourt. 
 
 "From whom else could it have come.'^" she asked 
 her mother breathlessly. 
 
 "The handwriting is not Mr. Van Hupfeldt's," said 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, "This is a less ornate hand, you 
 notice." 
 
 Violet took the note again, and knit her pretty brows 
 over it. "No," she said, "this is a much stronger, 
 cleaner hand — I don't know who else — " 
 
 "Yet, if Mr. Van Hupfeldt wished to be generous 
 in the sense of which you spoke," said her mother, "if 
 it was his purpose to conceal his part in the matter, he 
 
 68 
 
<( 
 
 <( 
 
 The Word of Joy 
 
 would naturally ask some one else to write for him. 
 And, since we can imagine no one but him — There ! 
 that, I think, is his rap at the door. Tell me now, Vi, 
 if you will see him alone ? " 
 
 Yes, mother, I will see him." 
 Bless you for your good and grateful heart ! Well, 
 then, after a little I will go out. But, oh, pray, do 
 nothing precipitate in an impulse of joy and mere 
 gratitude, child! If I am bereft of my two children, 
 I am bereft indeed. Do find happiness, my darling. 
 That first and above all." 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Harrod looked in, with her 
 pleasant smile, saying: "Mr. Van Hupfeldt is here. 
 Well, did the letter contain good news ? " 
 
 *'You dear!" murmured Violet, running to kiss her, 
 "I must wear red before you, so that you may dream 
 of soldiers every, every night!" 
 
 The steps of Van Hupfeldt were heard coming up 
 the stairs. 
 
 69 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 violet's conditions 
 
 Van Hupfeldt bowed himself into the drawing- 
 room. His eyes wandering weighingly with a quick 
 underlook which they had from the face of Violet to 
 that of Mrs. Mordaunt, and back again to Violet. He 
 saw what pleased him, smiles on both faces, and his 
 brow lightened. He was a man of about forty, with 
 a little gray in his straight hair, which, parted in the 
 middle, inclosed the forehead in a perfect arch. He 
 stood upon thin legs as straight as poles. His hands 
 and feet were small. His features as regular and 
 chiseled as a statue's; he looked more Spanish than 
 Dutch. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt received him with a pressure of the 
 hand in which was conveyed a message of sympathy 
 and encouragement, and Van Hupfeldt bent toward 
 Violet with a murmur: 
 
 " I am glad to see you looking so bright to-day." 
 
 "You observe quickly," said Violet. 
 
 "Some things," answered Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 "Our good hostess has been dreaming of soldiers, 
 Mr. Van Hupfeldt," put in Mrs. Mordaunt, lightly, 
 "and it seems that such a dream always brings good 
 
 70 
 
Violet's Conditions 
 
 news to her guests; so mv daughter is feeling the 
 effects of it." 
 
 Van Hupfeldt looked puzzled, and asked: "Has 
 Miss Violet heard that her orchids are flourishing in 
 her absence, or that those two swans I promised have 
 arrived ? " 
 
 Violet and Mrs. Mordaunt exchanged glances of 
 approval of this speech, the latter saying: "There are 
 brighter tilings in the world than orchids, thank 
 Heaven! and a kind deed may be more white and 
 graceful than all the swans of Dale Manor." 
 
 Van Hupfeldt looked still more puzzled — a look 
 which was noted by the women, but was attributed by 
 them to a wish not to seem to know anything of the 
 joyful note, and was put down to his credit. After 
 some minutes' talk of a general nature, Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt went out. Violet sat in an easy-chair at one of 
 the balcony windows. Van Hupfeldt leaned against 
 the embrasure of the window. He seemed to brace 
 himself for an effort before he said to her: 
 
 " This is Monday evening, and since Saturday, when 
 I brought you from the cemetery, I have not once 
 closed my eyes. If you continue to manifest this 
 inconsolable grief for your sister's fate, I must break 
 down in some way. Something will happen. I shall 
 go crazy, I think." 
 
 "You mean very kindly, I suppose," answered 
 Violet, with lowered lids; "though I do not see — " 
 
 "No, you cannot see, you do not know," said he, 
 
 71 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 with a certain redness and strain in the eyes which 
 made it a credible thing that he had not slept in some 
 time. "But it is so. It has been the craving of my 
 life to save you from this grief. Let me do it; you 
 have to let me do it!" 
 
 " How save me .^ " she asked, with an upward glance 
 under her long lashes, while she wondered at the blaze 
 in the man's eyes. "I am not to be saved from it 
 by any means, though it will be lessened by the proofs 
 of my sister's honor and of her child's fair name, and 
 by the discovery of the whereabouts of the child. 
 There are no other means." 
 
 "Yes, there are! There is the leaving of your 
 present Hfe, the companionship of one who will have 
 no care but to make you happy, to redress a little in 
 you the wrong done to your sister. That is my motive 
 — God knows ! — that is my main motive — " 
 
 "Surely I do not understand you aright!" cried 
 Violet, somewhat dismayed by his outburst, "Your 
 motive is to redress a wrong done by some one to my 
 sister by devoting yourself to make me happy? Cer- 
 tainly, that seems a most nobly disinterested motive; 
 but is philanthropy of this sort the best basis for the 
 kind of proposition which you are making me ? Philan- 
 thropy most certainly would wear thin in time, if it 
 did not rest on affection — " 
 
 " Do you doubt that I have affection ? " he demanded, 
 his voice vibrating with ill-repressed passion. 
 
 " As an afterthought } " 
 
 72 
 
Violet's Conditions 
 
 "How as an afterthou^Iit, when my life itself de- 
 pends upon continually seeing you, and seeing you 
 happy? I tell you that if you were to refuse my 
 prayer this evening, if anything was to happen now 
 or in the future to thwart my cravings with respect 
 to you, my mind is made up, I would not continue to 
 face the harrowing cark of life. Say ' No ' to me, and 
 from to-morrow evening you will be tortured by the 
 same worm of remorse by which the man who caused ' 
 the death of your sister must be gnawed and gnawed. 
 You talk of affection ? I have that. I do, yes, I do 
 love you; but that would be the flimsiest motive com- 
 pared with this passion which casts me at your feet." 
 
 "I don't understand him,'* sighed Violet to herself 
 — and no wonder, for Van Hupfeldt's words came 
 from him in a sort of hiss; his eyes were bloodshot; he 
 stooped close over her, with veins standing out on his 
 forehead. It was clear enough that the man's soul 
 was in this wooing, yet he made so little pretense of 
 the ordinary lover's love. He left her cold, this woman 
 made for love, and she wondered. 
 
 "Tell me quickly," he said, "I think that your 
 mother is not unwilling. Only let me hear the word 
 *Yes,' and the *when' shall be left to you." 
 
 "Pray listen, Mr. Van Hupfeldt," said Violet, bend- 
 ing over her knee, which she slung between her clasped 
 fingers. "Let us reason together; let us understand 
 each other better. I am not disposed to be unfriendly 
 toward you — do not think that — nor even to reject 
 
 73 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 your suit unconditionally. I owe you much, and I 
 see that you are greatly in earnest; but I am not clear. 
 Your motive seems to be philanthropic. You have 
 said as much yourself, you know. Still, philanthropy 
 is only warm; it is never hot to desperation; it never 
 commits suicide in despair of doing good. That, 
 then, is the first thing which I fail to understand in 
 you. And, secondly, I do not grasp why you desire 
 any closer relation to be set up between us for my 
 happiness, when I assure you that nothing but the 
 rehabilitation of my sister's name could lighten my 
 unhappiness, and that, this once done, nothing further 
 could possibly be done by any one to attach me more 
 to Hfe." 
 
 "But I am older than you, and know better," 
 answered Van Hupfeldt, seating himself beside her, 
 speaking now more calmly. "You know nothing of 
 the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them. 
 Travel alone would give you a new outlook. I should 
 ever be inventing new pleasures and excitements for 
 you. Sometimes, already, I lie awake at night, think- 
 ing them out. I am very rich, and all my wealth 
 should be turned into one channel, to delight you. 
 You know nothing of society in the States, of the 
 brilliance and abandon of life across the Atlantic. 
 And the Paris heau monde, with its charm and wit and 
 easy joyousness, you know nothing yet of that. I 
 should find the means to keep you constantly gay, to 
 watch you in ever new phases, costumes, jewels — " 
 
 74 
 
Violet's Conditions 
 
 The thought passed through Violet's mind: "He 
 has distinguished manners, but a vulgar mind," and 
 she said aloud: "So that is how you would wean me 
 from sorrow, Mr. Van Hupfeldt ? I should prefer a 
 week of Dale Manor with my birds and flowers to a 
 cycle of all that." 
 
 "Then it shall be Dale Manor rather than 'all 
 that,' " he agreed. " It shall be just as you would 
 have it, if only you will be happy, and will give me a 
 glance one day which means ' My happiness is due to 
 you.' May I have another peep at the locket?" 
 
 Violet took a locket from her neck, pressed a spring, 
 and showed within a miniature in water-colors of the 
 dead Gwen. She shivered a little. Though she was 
 speaking of her sister, the man's sudden request jarred 
 on her. 
 
 "I like to look at it," said Van Hupfeldt, bending 
 closer. " It reminds me of you — chiefly about the 
 mouth and chin, about the dear little chin. She 
 suffered, yes, she tasted sorrow, and since she suffered, 
 you must not suffer, too. I kiss her instead of you, 
 because she was like you." 
 
 This, certainly, was an odd reason for Van Hup- 
 feldt's tenderness to the miniature, but Violet's heart 
 instantly warmed toward him for his pity of her be- 
 loved; and when he replaced the locket round her 
 neck, saying: "So, then, do we understand each other 
 now ? " she found it hard to answer : " I'm afraid that 
 I am as far from understanding as ever." 
 
 75 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "That will come in time, trust me,'' said he; "but 
 as to that little word ' Yes,' is it to be taken as uttered 
 nowr 
 
 "No, not now," she said gently, "though do not go 
 away thinking it may never be. Let me be frank, 
 Mr. Van Hupfeldt. You know quite well that I am 
 not at present disposed to worship your sex, and that 
 is really so. Honestly, I don't think that the human 
 species adorns the earth on which it lives, least of all 
 the male part of it. If I wished to marry, I believe I 
 should choose some poor tiller of the fields, who had 
 never seen a city, or heard of the arts of vice. You 
 see, then, that the whole notion of marriage must be 
 sufiiciently distasteful to me. I wouldn't and couldn't 
 give myself; but I am quite willing to — to make a 
 bargain." 
 
 " A bargain ? " He started, and his dark eyes stared 
 at her blankly. 
 
 "Yes, it is better to be candid. When you have 
 cleared my sister's name, or found the child, as you 
 hope to be able to do, then, if you desire me still the 
 same, you will again speak to me. I cannot definitely 
 part from my freedom without a certainty that you 
 will be able to do what you hope; and it is only fair to 
 you to let you know that I should probably consent to 
 give the same promise to any other man who would 
 and could do this much for me." 
 
 Upon this Van Hupfeldt's brow flushed angrily, 
 and he leaped to his feet, crying : " But that will never 
 
 76 
 
Violefs Conditions 
 
 be ! Clear your sister's nax^e ? You still talk like a 
 child—" 
 
 Now it was Violet's turn to stand up in astonish- 
 ment, as she saw her castle in the clouds diminishing. 
 She stared in her turn, with open lips, crying: "Do you 
 say this ? that it will never be ? " 
 
 "How can you set a man's hfe on the chance of the 
 realization of such a mere dream?" asked Van Hup- 
 feldt, irritated, saying more than was wise. 
 
 " A dream ? " murmured Violet, as if in a dream 
 herself. " Then, who is it that has sent me this ? " 
 
 Thereupon she drew from her pocket David Har- 
 court's unsigned note. She held it out to Van Hup- 
 feldt, and he, without touching, leaned over and read 
 it; apparently slowly; more than once, so Violet thought. 
 He stood there looking at the letter an unconscionable 
 time, she holding it out for him to read, while the 
 man's face bled away inwardly, as it were to death, 
 and some power seemed to rivet his eyes, some power 
 stronger than his effort to withdraw them. 
 
 The thought passing through Van Hupfeldt's soul 
 was this: "Some one knows that she was a 'duly 
 wedded wife.' But who.^ iVnd how .^ To him it is 
 somehow *a pretty certain thing'; and the proofs of it 
 *may sooner or later be forthcoming'; and then he 
 will give these proofs to Violet." 
 
 " I see, then, that it was not you who sent it to me," 
 said Violet at last, and, as she said it, a certain gladness, 
 a little thrill of relief, occurred somewhere within her. 
 
 77 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Van Hupfeldt straightened himself. His lips were 
 white, but they smiled dreadfully, though for some 
 part of a second he hesitated before he said: "Now, 
 who told you that?" 
 
 "I do not, of course, know the facts," said Violet; 
 "but I should like to." 
 
 "You may as well know," said Van Hupfeldt, 
 turning away from her. "Yes, I sent it." 
 
 Violet flushed. His manner did not carry convic- 
 tion even to a mind not used to doubt the spoken word. 
 It was horrid to think he was lying. Yet an odd 
 sheepishness was visible in his face; his voice was not 
 strong and brave. 
 
 "Well, I am still in a maze," she murmured. "Since 
 it was you who sent it, and since you say in it that 
 my sister's honor is now *a pretty certain thing,' and 
 that ' the proofs will be forthcoming, ' why did you say 
 a moment ago that it is 'a mere dream' to look for- 
 ward to their forthcoming ? " 
 
 Van Hupfeldt was looking out of the window. He 
 did not answer at once; only after a minute he replied 
 without looking round: "It was I who sent you the 
 note. Yes, it was I; and what I say in it is true — 
 somehow — true in some way; but I did not wish you 
 to make the realization of those hopes a condition of 
 your giving yourself to me. Hence I said that your 
 stipulation was 'a mere dream.' Now, you under- 
 stand; now, I think, all is clear to your mind." 
 
 Violet sighed, and made no answer. All was not 
 
 78 
 
Violefs Conditions 
 
 so very clear to her mind. One thing only was clear, 
 that the nobility with which she and her mother had 
 credited Van Hupfeldt in sending the note anony- 
 mously, so that he might not claim a reward from her, 
 was not a deep nobility; for he had promptly volun- 
 teered the information that it was he who had sent it. 
 She felt some disgust. A woman disillusioned about 
 a man rushes to the opposite pole. Let him but be 
 detected to be not the hero which she had thought 
 him, and steep is his fall. Henceforth he is not only 
 not a hero but less than nothing in her eyes. Violet 
 paced aimlessly through the room, then went to the 
 window farthest from that at which Van Hupfeldt 
 stood, and the unspoken words on her lips were: "The 
 miserable man." 
 
 At last Van Hupfeldt almost rushed at her, with the 
 cry: "The promise on that sheet of paper in your 
 hand shall be fulfilled, and fulfilled by me, I vow, I 
 swear it to you! But the fulfilment of it must not be 
 made a condition of our union. The union must come 
 first, and then the fulfilment; and the quicker the union 
 the sooner the fulfilment." 
 
 " No, I will not have it so." 
 
 "You must!" 
 
 " You are to release my wrist, Mr. Van Hupfeldt ! " 
 
 " You must ! " 
 
 " But why hold me ? " 
 
 " Listen — your sister was a wedded wife. I know 
 it, I have reason to know it, and I am certain that, 
 
 79 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 if you marry me, within six months after the marriage 
 I shall be in a position to hand you the proofs of every- 
 thing — to tell you truly the whole history from begin- 
 ning to end — " 
 
 "But why six months after? Why not six months 
 before?" 
 
 " I have reasons — there are reasons. What I 
 shall have to tell will be a pain to you, I foresee, a pain; 
 but perhaps not a pain which you will be unable to 
 outlive. Nevertheless, from what I already know of 
 your sister's history, I see that it must be told you 
 after, not before, our union. It is a terrible history, 
 I — gather, a harrowing tale. You don't even guess, 
 you are far from being able to hear it now, even if I 
 could tell you now. Violet! say 'Yes' to me!" 
 
 " What ? Without understanding anything ? " 
 
 " Yes, Violet, turn to me ! Violet, say * Yes ' to me ! " 
 
 " But what guaranty — " 
 
 "My pledged word, nothing else; that is enough. 
 I say that within six months, not more, from the day 
 of our marriage you shall have all that you desire to 
 know, even the child shall have been found, for already 
 I am on its track. But unless you consent, you will 
 never know, the child will never be found; for I shall 
 be dead, and the knowledge which I am in course of 
 gathering shall die with me. If you will not give 
 yourself, then, agree to that bargain you spoke of." 
 
 " One gives, in a bargain, for something one receives." 
 
 "It is the only condition on which we can come 
 
 80 
 
Violet's Conditions 
 
 together. I could not bring you to-day the proofs 
 that you long for, even if I had them. It must be six 
 months after — not less than six months after — and 
 for then I promise, calling Heaven to witness. Be- 
 Heve in me! Not all things that a man says are true; 
 but this is true. Violet, for Gwen's sake, within a 
 week — the sooner it's done, the sooner you hear — 
 witliin not more than two weeks — " 
 
 Violet, sore beset, sliielded her eyes with a listless 
 hand. Van Hupfeldt was pleading like a man battUng 
 for his last earthly good. And yet, and yet, he left 
 her cold. 
 
 "I don't doubt your promise," she said with a 
 charming shyness; "but it is a great matter, you give 
 me no guaranties, you may fail, and then all will 
 have been in vain." 
 
 " I won't fail. I shall so manage that there will be 
 no chance of failure. And to prove my faith, if you 
 say 'Yes,' I think I can undertake that within only 
 two months after the marriage the child shall be un- 
 earthed, and within six the proofs of his legitimacy 
 shall be handed you. That's fair — that seems fairer 
 — come, now. Only the marriage must be prompt in 
 that case, without a fortnight's delay. I can't offer 
 better terms. What do you say to it.^" 
 
 Violet, without answering, suddenly cast herself 
 upon the sofa-head, burying her face in it. A bitter 
 lamentation came from her, so thin and low that Van 
 Hupfeldt could scarce hear it. He stood over her, 
 
 81 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 looking at her, his heart in his mouth; and presently, 
 bending to her, he whispered: "Tell me!" 
 
 "God knows!" came from her brokenly. 
 
 He put his lips on her hair, and she shivered. "It 
 is 'Yes,' then," said he; "but pity me still more, and 
 say that it shall be at once." 
 
 "No," she sobbed, "I must have time to think. 
 It is too much, after all — " 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Mordaunt entered. Violet, 
 aroused by the opening door, stood up with a bent 
 head, an averted face, and Van Hupfeldt said, with a 
 sort of frenzied laugh, to Mrs. Mordaunt: "See how 
 the days are lengthening out already." 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt looked at Violet with a query in 
 her glance ; and Violet's great eyes dwelt on her mother 
 without answering by any sign that question of lifted 
 eyebrows. The girl was puzzled and overwrought. 
 Was it so that men won women, that some man had 
 won her sister ? Surely this was a strange wooing ! 
 
 82 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AT DEAD OF NIGHT 
 
 David Harcourt, meantime, had long since reached 
 home after his interview with Miss L'Estrange, where- 
 upon Mrs. Grover had presented him with her first 
 specimen of housewifery in the shape of a lunch. 
 But, as if to prove that the fates were against litera- 
 ture that day, she also presented him with a letter 
 from the agent Dibbin, saying: "Herein please find 
 address of Sarah Gissing, servant of the late Miss 
 Gwendoline Barnes, as promised." 
 
 David's first impulse was to go straightway after 
 the meal to interview this Sarah Gissing. Then he 
 set his lips, saying to himself: "The day's work," and, 
 after lighting his pipe, he walked up to his literary 
 tools with the grimness of a man about to throttle an 
 enemy. Whereupon he sat down and wrote some- 
 thing. When he came back to earth with a weary 
 but taut brain, Mrs. Grover was gone for the day. 
 It was near seven in the evening, and the prairie-wolf 
 within was growling "Dinner-time." 
 
 His mental faculties being now on a tension, he 
 thought to himself that there was no reason why he 
 should not be prompt, and call upon Miss Gissing 
 
 83 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 that evening. Though, after dinner, a mortal lethargy 
 and reaction seized upon him with the whisper, "To- 
 morrow is better than to-day," he proved true to his 
 high-strung self, and went by bus to Baker-St., where 
 he took train for the station nearest the village of 
 Chalfont. 
 
 It was a sharp walk from station to village. There 
 was no cab; and when he arrived at the Peacock Inn, 
 where Sarah Gissing was now a barmaid, he learned 
 that she was away on leave at a neighboring village. 
 He strolled about the silent street until Sarah came 
 home at ten o'clock, a thin girl, with projecting top 
 teeth, and a chronic stare of wonderment in her eyes. 
 
 "You are not to be alarmed," David said to her. 
 "I only came to ask you a few questions about your 
 late mistress, Miss Gwendoline Barnes, in whom I 
 have an interest. No one will be harmed, as far as I 
 am aware, by your telling me all that you know, 
 while you and I may profit by it." 
 
 They spoke in the tiny inn drawing-room, and 
 Sarah in her coat, with her hat on, sitting on the 
 piano-stool, stared and answered shortly at first. Little 
 by little she was induced to utter herself. 
 
 "He was a tall man," she said, "rather thin, dark 
 and pale — " 
 
 "Straight nose?" asked David. 
 
 "Yes, sir, straight nose; a handsome man." 
 Black mustache, nicely turned out ? " 
 'Yes, sir; he had a mustache." 
 
 84 
 
 (< 
 
 ( i^ 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 "Well, but all that says nothing. Many people 
 answer such a description. Was there no photograph 
 of him in the flat ? Did you never see a photograph ? " 
 
 "Yes, there was a photograph on the mantelpiece 
 of Miss Barnes's bed-room. In a silver frame it was; 
 but the day after her death the silver frame was still 
 there, and the photograph was gone, for I noticed it 
 myself." 
 
 "Do you realize that you are telling me a mighty 
 odd thing," said David with sudden interest. "How 
 soon after the door was forced did you go into the flat." 
 
 " Wasn't I there when the door was forced ? Didn't 
 I go in at once ? " 
 
 "And how soon afterward did you notice that the 
 photograph was gone from the silver frame ? " 
 
 "How soon ? Soon afterward." . 
 
 "It was not one of the men who forced the door 
 who removed the photograph from the frame ? " 
 
 "I don't think that, sir. I would have noticed it 
 if that had been the case." 
 
 "When you went in you found the body of your 
 mistress lying dead; the front door had been bolted 
 inside; so there was no way for any one to have come 
 out of the flat. And when you left your mistress the 
 previous night the photograph was in its frame, but 
 gone when the door was forced the next day. Those 
 are the facts, aren't they ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, that seems to say that it was Miss Barnes 
 
 85 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 herself who removed the photograph, doesn't it ? And 
 it follows that the photograph is still in the flat ? " 
 
 "P'raps she did it to screen him," suggested Sarah, 
 indulging in the vanity of thought. "I shouldn't 
 wonder if that was it. No doubt she tore up the 
 photograph, or burnt it." 
 
 "But you didn't see any shreds or ashes of it any- 
 where ? " 
 
 " Not of a photograph, although I did sweep out the 
 place the same day, too. Still, that's not to say she 
 didn't tear it up because there was no shreds of it, 
 for there are ways and means." 
 
 "Were there shreds of any kind about?" 
 
 "Yes; she must have torn up a good few letters 
 overnight before doing what she did. There was no 
 end of litter, for that matter." 
 
 " But suppose she did not burn or tear up the photo- 
 graph," said David, "where would she have hidden it? 
 Can you suggest a place ? Did you ever know her 
 to hide anything ? For, if she hid one thing, she may 
 have hidden others, mayn't she ? " 
 
 "I believe there's one letter she must have hidden," 
 answered Sarah, " unless she destroyed it — a letter 
 that came from Paris four days before she made away 
 with herself. I saw the postmark and the hand- 
 writing, so I know. It was from him, for he was in 
 Paris at the time, and it was that letter that was the 
 death of her, I feel certain. It came about eleven 
 o'clock, soon after breakfast. She was at the piano 
 
 86 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 in her dressing-gown, singing, not ordinary singing, 
 but a kind of moaning of different notes, practising 
 her voice like — it used to give me the blues to hear 
 her every morning, it was so doleful like, moan, moan, 
 moan! So I says, *A letter for you, mum,' and she 
 first stared at it in my hand, then she jumped up 
 sudden like, and kind of snatched it out of my hand. 
 But she didn't read it. She went with it to the front 
 window, looking out, holding the letter behind her 
 back with her two hands, trembling from head to 
 foot. So, not having any excuse to stay, I went out, 
 but didn't quite close the door. I loitered for a little 
 while; but, not hearing anything, I went about my 
 work, till half an hour later something seemed to say 
 to me: 'Better have a look,' and when I peeped into 
 the drawing-room, there she was sitting on the floor 
 with her face on the sofa, and the letter in her hand. 
 I thought she had the neuralgia; she looked that 
 much in pain, you never saw. I spoke to her, but she 
 looked at me, sick like, and didn't say nothing. I 
 don't believe she could have stood up, if she had tried, 
 and it did go to my heart to see her struck down and 
 helpless like that." 
 
 David's close interest in her story pleased the girl. 
 Such a nice young man he was^ Perhaps he might 
 call again some evening. 
 
 "My missus wasn't quite right the rest of her time, 
 I don't think," she went on. "She wandered about 
 the flat, restless as a strange kitten, singing bits of 
 
 87 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 songs, and she had a sweet soprano voice, I'm sure, 
 that pierced you through when she screamed out the 
 high notes. She didn't go to the theater any more, 
 after the letter. The next day she comes to me in the 
 kitchen, singing and chuckhng to herself, and she 
 says to me: *What are you doing here?' says she. 
 *How do you mean, mum?' says I. 'Listen, Sarah,' 
 says she, putting her face quite close to mine, * you 
 shouldn't be here, this is not a place for a decent girl 
 like you. You are to understand that I am not mar- 
 ried. I told you that I was; but it was a lie. I have 
 a child; but I am not married,' and she ran off, laugh- 
 ing again to herself, as wild as a bird." 
 
 "No, not that!" interrupted David, for the out- 
 spoken revelation hurt him. "It was not so much 
 that which I wished to hear. Let us talk of the letter 
 and the man. You never saw the letter again ? You 
 can't think what your mistress may have done with it ? " 
 
 "No, I never saw it again," said Sarah, "nor I 
 can't think where she may have put it, unless she tore 
 it up. There's only one queer thing which I can call 
 to mind, and that is, that during the afternoon of the 
 day before she died, I went out to buy some soda, and 
 when I came back I found her standing on a chair, 
 hanging up one of the pictures in the long corridor, 
 I wondered at the time whether it had fallen down or 
 what, though I didn't say anything. But now I come 
 to think of it — " 
 
 David thought to himself: "She was then hiding 
 
 88 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 the marriage and birth certificates which Miss 
 L'Estrange afterward saw when the picture fell. She 
 was reluctant to destroy them, and yet wished to screen 
 the man, having in her mind the purpose to take 
 her own life. The man's photograph and the fatal 
 letter from him were not hidden in the picture, 
 but somewhere else, perhaps. I must search every 
 cranny." 
 
 "Of course," he said aloud, "you could easily 
 identify her husband if he was shown to you again ? '* 
 
 "Oh, rather, sir," Sarah answered, "I've seen him 
 dozens of times. He used to come to the flat anyway 
 twice a week, though sometimes he would be away 
 for a goodish stretch, mostly in Paris." 
 
 " They were an affectionate pair — fond of each 
 other ? " 
 
 "They were that, indeed," said Sarah with a smile, 
 as one who understood that sort of thing. "He, I'm 
 sure, worshiped the ground she walked on, and she 
 was just as bad. It came as a surprise to me that 
 anything was wrong, though latterly she did use 
 to have red eyes sometimes after he had been with 
 her." 
 
 What name did she call him by.^" asked David. 
 His name was Johann Strauss, wasn't it.^" 
 
 "He was a Mr. Strauss, sir, yes, but not the other 
 name you say. At least, she always called him Harry." 
 
 "Henry is sometimes the English for Johann, you 
 see," muttered David, with a random guess that 
 
 89 
 
 it 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Sarah was none the wiser. " Henry, too, was the name 
 of the child, wasn't it ? How about the child ? Don't 
 you know where it is ? " 
 
 " I only know that she used to go every Tuesday and 
 Thursday by the seventeen minutes past two train 
 from Baker-St., and be back by six o'clock, so it 
 couldn't have been very far. 'Pon my word, some- 
 times she'd go half crazy over that cliild. There was 
 a little box of clothes that she's many a time made me 
 waste half a day over, showing me the things, as if 
 I'd never seen them afore, everything that was possible 
 embroidered with violets, and she'd always be mak- 
 
 ing-" 
 
 " Fond of violets, was she ^ " broke in David, ready 
 enough to catch at the phrase. 
 
 " Oh, it was all violets with her, — violets in her hair, 
 at her neck, at her waist, and all about the place. 
 She had a sister called Violet, and I came to know 
 the sister as well as I knew herself in a manner of 
 speaking, she was always telling me about her. For 
 often she had nobody to talk to, and then she'd make 
 me sit down to hear about her mother and this Miss 
 Vi and the child, and what she meant to do when her 
 marriage could be made public, and that. She was 
 a good, affectionate lady, was Miss Gwen, sir. You 
 couldn't help loving her, and it was a mortal hard 
 thing what happened." 
 
 It was just then that the mistress of the tavern 
 looked in with an unsympathetic face; so David rose 
 
 90 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 and slipped a gold coin into the hand of the staring 
 Sarah. The talk had already lasted a long while, 
 and the inn-door had to be opened to let him out. 
 
 He walked the two miles back to the station, and 
 there learned that the last up-train for the night had 
 just left. Even on the suburban lines there is a limit 
 to late hours. 
 
 This carelessness on his own part caused him to 
 growl. It was now a question either of knocking up 
 some tavern, or of tramping to London — about 
 twenty-one miles. However, twenty-one miles made 
 no continent to him, and, after posting liimself by 
 questions as to the route, he set out. 
 
 Throwing his overcoat over his left arm, he put his 
 elbows to his ribs, lifted his face skyward, and went 
 away at a long, slow, swinging trot. One mile 
 winded him. He stopped and walked for five minutes, 
 then away he went again at a steady jog-trot; and 
 now, with this second wind, he could have run in one 
 heat to Bow Bells without any feeling but one of joy 
 and power. He had seen Indians run all day long 
 with pauses. He had learned the art from them, and 
 London had scarce had time as yet to enervate him. 
 Up hill and down dale he went steadily away, like a 
 machine. It was dark at first, dismal in some places, 
 the sky black, crowded with stars, like diamond-seed 
 far sown; but suddenly, wliile he was trotting through 
 the main street of Uxbridge, all this was changed, the 
 whole look and mood of things undenvent transfor- 
 
 91 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 mation, as the full moon floated like a balloon of light 
 into the sky. It was then about one-thirty in the 
 morning. Thenceforth his way was almost as clearly 
 lit as by day. 
 
 Through dead villages he passed, through dead 
 Ealing to Shepherd's Bush; there were cats, and there 
 were policemen, and one running man, little else. 
 Here or there a constable was half-drawn into giving 
 chase, but wisely forbore — he never would have 
 caught David Harcourt. But at Shepherd's Bush 
 David came to the foot of a long hill, which he shirked, 
 and drew up. From that point he walked to Notting 
 Hill, past Kensington Gardens, toward Oxford Circus. 
 It was near three a.m. 
 
 Walking on the south side of Oxford-St. eastward, 
 he stopped to look at some books behind a grille. 
 The moonshine was so luminous, the sky so clear, 
 that he could see well enough to read their titles. 
 This was the only quiet hour of London. There was 
 not a sound, save the echo of a policeman's tread 
 some way off down Regent-St. Not even a night cab 
 rattled in the distance. And then, on the other side 
 of the street, his quick ears caught the passing of 
 swift-gliding feet — a woman's. 
 
 When David glanced round, already she was gone 
 well past him, making westward, most silently, with a 
 steady haste. She gave him the impression of having 
 been overtaken by, of being shy at, the moonUght. 
 His heart leaped in a spasm of recognition, almost of 
 
 92 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 fear. And he followed, he could not help it; as water 
 flows downward, as the needle follows the magnet, 
 he followed, with the stealthy pace of the stalker, as 
 silently as if he was tracking a deer, and as keenly. 
 His breathing, meantime, was as if suspended, his 
 heart seemed to stand still. That form and motion, 
 his instincts would have recognized them in midnight 
 glimmer of dull lamps, and now they were before him 
 in light. Still he could not believe his wits. He 
 doubted whether he was not moonstruck, chasing a 
 phantom made of the clair-obscure stuff of those 
 dead hours of the night when dreams are rife in the 
 world, and ghosts leer through the haunted chambers 
 of the brain. That she should be walking the streets 
 of London at three in the morning, alone, hastening 
 secretly homeward like some poor outcast forecon- 
 scious of the light of dawn! — this savored somewhat 
 of limbo and lunacy. For what good reason could 
 she be thus abroad ? A swarm of doubts, half-doubts, 
 queer bodings, jostled in David's heart. She might, 
 indeed, have come out to summon a doctor, to obtain 
 a drug in an emergency. But something in her air 
 and pace, something clandestine, desperate, illicit, 
 seemed to belie this hope. She turned north when she 
 had gone so far west as Orchard-St., little thinking, 
 apparently, that she was being shadowed, and thence 
 sped on west and north alternately through smaller 
 streets, a region in which the desolation of the sleeping 
 city seemed even more confirmed. And David fol- 
 
 93 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 lowed, with this thought in his mind, that, though he 
 had not seen her face, he had a certain means of deter- 
 mining her identity — for, if the flying figure before 
 him went to 60A, Porchester Gardens, the address 
 wliich he had of Violet Mordaunt, then this must be 
 Violet. 
 
 Not that in the later part of his chase he had the 
 slightest doubt. The long black cloak, like those that 
 nurses wear, inflated behind her, the kind of toque 
 above it, the carriage of her head, the slope of her 
 shoulders, all these were hers: and she sped direct, 
 notwithstanding turns and twists, to Porchester Gar- 
 dens. David, from behind the corner of a street, 
 could see her go up the house-steps, bend over some- 
 thing in her hand, open the door, and slip on what 
 must have been rubber overshoes. This secrecy re- 
 volted him, and again he almost doubted that it was 
 she. But when she had gone in, he hastened from 
 his street-corner to the door to read the house-number, 
 and it was 60A. 
 
 She was gone now. It was too late to challenge 
 and upbraid her. He already regretted that he had 
 not dared. He was bitter at it. Something said 
 within him: "Both sisters!" Some envenomed fang 
 of anger, spite, and jealousy plagued him, a feeling 
 that he was wholly out of it, and had no part nor lot 
 in her life and acts; and then, also, like oil on the 
 waters, came pity. He must home to his haunted 
 flat, where the scent of the violets which he had bought 
 
 94 
 
At Dead of Night 
 
 greeted him on his entrance. It was near four o'clock. 
 After looking gloomily for some time at the head in 
 chalks, he read three letters which he had found in 
 the letter-box. One of them was from Miss L'Estrange, 
 and in it she said: 
 
 "I have asked my girl, Jenny, about the marriage 
 and birth certificates which fell out of the picture, 
 and there's something funny about her." (A woman 
 never means humor when she uses that word funny.) 
 "She wants to make out that she knows nothing 
 about what became of them, but I believe she does. 
 Perhaps she has found out Strauss and sold them to 
 him, or perhaps she only means to do so, and you may 
 get them from her if you be quick and bid high. Any- 
 way, I have done my best for you, and now it is in 
 your own hands. You can come here whenever you 
 like." 
 
 But David was now suddenly not so devoted to the 
 affairs of Violet and Gwendoline Mordaunt as he had 
 been. What he had seen within the past hour made 
 him bitter. He went foraging in the kitchen for 
 something to eat, then threw himself into bed in a 
 vexed mood, as some gray of morning mingled with 
 the night. 
 
 95 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 COMING NEAR 
 
 As for Henry Van Hupfeldt, he, too, at that morn- 
 ing hour lay awake in his bed. If ever man knew 
 panic, it was he all that night. He had gone home 
 from his interview with Violet, cringing in his carriage 
 even from the glance of the passers in the streets, 
 stricken to the heart by that unsigned note of David's 
 to Violet: "A pretty certain thing that your sister was 
 a duly wedded wife" . . . "the proofs of it will be 
 forthcoming." Some one knew! 
 
 But who ? And how ? Van Hupfeldt locked him- 
 self away from his valet — he lived in chambers near 
 Hanover Square — and for hours sat without a move- 
 ment, staring the stare of the hopeless and the lost. 
 The fact that he had as good as won from Violet 
 the pledging of herself to him — that fact which at 
 another time would have filled him with elation, was 
 now almost forgotten in the darkness of his calamity, 
 as a star is swallowed up by clouds. The thing was 
 known! That known which had been between the 
 chamber of his heart and God alone! A bird of the 
 air had whispered it, another soul shared in its horror. 
 The faintest hiss of a wish to commit murder came 
 
 96 
 
Coming Near 
 
 from between his teeth. He had meant well, and 
 ill had come; but because he had meant not badly 
 and had struggled hard with fate, let no man dare to 
 meddle! He could be flint against the steel of a man. 
 His eyes, long bereft of sleep, closed of themselves 
 at last, and he threw himself upon his bed. But the 
 pang which pierces the sleep of the condemned crimi- 
 nal soon woke him. He opened his eyes with a clearer 
 mind, and set to tliinking. The unsigned note to 
 Violet was in a man's hand. Some nights before in 
 the cemetery he had found a man near the grave with 
 her, and the man had seemed to be talking with her, 
 a young, sunburned man. Who he was he had no 
 idea; he had no reason to think this was the man 
 who had sent the note. There was left only Miss 
 L'Estrange. She might have sent it, getting a man 
 to write for her — suspicion of itself fixed upon her. 
 Always he had harbored this fear, that some paper, 
 something to serve as a clue, had been left in the flat, 
 which would lie hidden for a time, and then come 
 forth into the noonday to undo him utterly. Gwen- 
 doline, he knew, had wished to screen him; but the 
 chances were against him. He had never dared to 
 go into the flat alone, to take the flat in his own name, 
 and search it inside out. The place was haunted by 
 a light step, and a sigh was in the air which no other 
 ear could hear, but which his ear would hear without 
 fail. Within those walls his eyes one night had seen a 
 sight! 
 
 97 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 He had not dared to take the place; but he had put 
 Miss L'Estrange into it, and she had failed him; so, 
 suspecting at last that she did not search according 
 to the bargain, he had threatened to stop supplies, in 
 order merely to spur her to search, for his heart had 
 always foreboded that there was something to find. 
 
 Gwen, he knew, had kept a diary. Where was 
 that.? His photographs, where were they.? His last 
 letter to her ? The certificates ? Had they all been 
 duly destroyed by her.? Had she forgotten nothing.? 
 But when he had attempted to spur L'Estrange, the 
 woman had flown into a fury, and he had allowed 
 himself to lose his temper. How bitter now was his 
 remorse at this folly! He ought to have kept some 
 one in perpetuity in the flat, till all fear of anything 
 lying hidden in it was past. He suspected now that 
 L'Estrange might have found some document, and 
 had kept it from him through his not being well in 
 her favor during the last weeks of her residence. He 
 groaned aloud at this childishness of his. It was his 
 business to have kept in touch with her, to have made 
 her rich. But it was not too late. 
 
 So, on the following evening, he presented himself 
 at the stage-door of the theater where Miss Ermyn 
 L'Estrange was then displaying her charms, in his 
 hand an ecrin containing a riviere of diamonds. He 
 said not one word about his motive for coming to her 
 after so long, but put out an every-day hand, as if no 
 dispute had been between them. 
 
 98 
 
Coming Near 
 
 "Well, this is a surprise!" said she, "What's the 
 game now ? " 
 
 "No game," said he, assuming the necessary jaunti- 
 ness. "Should old acquaintance be forgot?" They 
 drove together to the Cafe Royal. 
 
 "It was just as I tell you," she explained in the cab, 
 driving later to Chelsea. "I never saw one morsel 
 of any paper until that last day, when the two cer- 
 tificates dropped out of the picture, and them I 
 wouldn't give you because of the tiff. I'm awfully 
 sorry now that I didn't," she glanced down at the 
 riviere on her palm; "but there, it's done, and can't 
 be undone — nature of the beast, I s'pose." 
 
 " And you really think Jenny has them ? Are you 
 sure, now ? Are you sure ? " asked Van Hupfeldt, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "That's my honest belief," she answered. "I 
 think I remember tossing them to Jenny, and as Jenny 
 knew that I had gone into the flat specially to search 
 for papers for you, she must have said to herself: 
 'These papers may be just what have been wanted, 
 and they'll be worth their weight in gold to me, if I 
 can find Mr. Strauss.' No doubt she's been look- 
 ing for you ever since, or waiting for you to turn 
 up. When I said to her yesterday: 'What about 
 those two papers that dropped out of the picture at 
 Eddystone Mansions ? ' she turned funny, and couldn't 
 catch her breath. ' Which two papers, miss ? ' she 
 says. 'Oh, you go on,' I said to her; 'you know very 
 
 99 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 well. Those that dropped out of the picture that 
 fell down.' — *Yes,' said she, *now I remember. I 
 wonder what could have become of them } Didn't 
 you throw them into the fireplace, Miss L' Estrange .'^ ' 
 — 'No, I didn't, Jenny,' I said to her, 'and a woman 
 should lie to a man, not to another woman ; for it takes 
 a liar to catch a liar.' — 'But what lie am I telling. 
 Miss L' Estrange .'^ ' says she. 'I am not sure,' I said, 
 'but I know that yoii ought to tie your nose with 
 string whenever you're telling a lie, for your nostrils 
 keep opening and shutting, same as they're doing 
 now.' — 'I didn't know that, I'm sure,' says she. 
 'That's queer, too, if my nostrils are opening and 
 shutting.' — 'It's only the truth,' I said to her; 'your 
 mouth is accustomed to uttering falsehood, and it 
 doesn't mind, but when your nostrils smell the lie 
 coming out, they get excited, my girl.' — 'Fancy!' 
 says she. 'That's funny!' — 'So where's the use keep- 
 ing it up, Jenny ? ' I said to her. ' You do make me 
 wild, for I know that you're lying, and you know that 
 I know, and yet you keep it up, as if I was a man, and 
 didn't know you. If you've got the papers, say so; 
 you are perfectly welcome to them, for I don't want to 
 take them from you,' I said. 'Well, you seem to 
 know more than I do myself, miss,' she says. *Oh, 
 you get out!' I said to her, and I pushed her by the 
 shoulders out of the room. That's all that passed 
 between us." 
 
 " For what reason did you ask her about these papers 
 
 100 
 
Coming Near 
 
 yesterday in particular?" demanded Van Hupfeldt, 
 thickly, a pain gripping at his heart. 
 
 " I'll tell you. The new tenant of the flat came to me — " 
 
 " Ah ! the flat is let again ? " 
 
 " What, didn't you know ? He's only just moved 
 in — a young man named David Harcourt." 
 
 " And he came to you ? What about ? " 
 
 " Asking about papers — " 
 
 " Papers ? What interest can he have in them ? 
 And you told him about the certificates ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Gott in Himmel I " 
 
 " Why, what's the matter ? " 
 
 " You told him about the certificates ? Then it was 
 he who Avrote the note!" 
 
 " Which note ? Don't take on like that — in a cab ! " 
 
 " You told him ! Then it was he — it was he ! How 
 does he look, this young man ? What kind of young 
 man ? " Van Hupfeldt wanted to choke the woman 
 as she sat there beside him. 
 
 "Come, cheer up, pull yourself together; it will be 
 all the same a hundred years hence. I'm sure I didn't 
 know that I was injuring you by telling him, and even 
 if I had known, I should still have told him — there's 
 nothing like being frank, is there ^ You and I weren't 
 pals—" 
 
 " But what is he like, this young man ? " 
 
 "Not a bad sort, something like a Jameson raider, 
 a merry, upstanding fellow — " 
 
 101 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "It was he who was at the grave with her!" whis- 
 pered Van Hupfeldt to himself, while his eyes seemed 
 to see a ghost. "And you told him all, all! It was 
 he, no other. What name did you give him as that 
 of the husband on the marriage-lines? Did he ask 
 that, too ? Did you tell him ? " With a kind of crazy 
 secrecy he asked it at her ear, panting for the answer. 
 
 "I didn't remember the husband's name," she 
 answered. "I told him it wasn't Strauss, but van or 
 von Something. And don't lean against me in that 
 way. People will think you are full." 
 
 " Van ? You told him that ? And what did he say 
 then.?" 
 
 " He asked if it wasn't van Something, I forget what, 
 Van Hup — something. I have an awful bad memory 
 for names, and, look here, don't come worrying me 
 with your troubles, for I've got my own to look after." 
 
 Van Hupfeldt's finger-nails were pressed into the 
 flesh of his palms. This new occupier of the flat, 
 then, even knew his name, even suspected the identity 
 of Strauss with Van Hupfeldt. How could he know 
 it, except from Violet ? To the pains of panic in Van 
 Hupfeldt was added a stab of jealousy. That Violet 
 knew this young man he no longer doubted, nor 
 doubted that the meeting at the grave was by appoint- 
 ment. Perhaps Violet, eager to find suspected papers 
 of her sister's, had even put this man into the flat, just 
 as he, Van Hupfeldt, had once put Miss L'Estrange 
 there. At all events, here was a man in the flat 
 
 102 
 
Coming Near 
 
 having some interest or other in Violet and in Gwen- 
 doUne's papers, with the name Van Hupfeldt on his 
 lips, and a suspicion that Van Hupfeldt was Strauss, 
 the evil genius of Gwendoline! 
 
 "But there must be no meddling in my life!" Van 
 Hupfeldt whispered to himself, with an evil eye that 
 meant no good to David. 
 
 When the cab drew up before Miss L'Estrange's 
 dwelling, she said: "You can't come up, you know; it 
 is much too late. And there isn't any need. I will 
 let Jenny go to you as early as you like in the morning 
 if you give me your address, or you can come your- 
 self to-morrow — " 
 
 "Ah, don't be hard on me," he pleade'd. "I mustn't 
 lose a night. Send her down to me, if I can't go up." 
 
 "Go on, the poor girl's asleep," she answered. 
 "Where's the use in carrying on like a loony? Can't 
 you take it coolly.^" 
 
 In the end he had to go without seeing Jenny, having 
 left his card on the understanding that she should be 
 with him not later than ten in the morning, and that 
 Miss L'Estrange should keep his address an inviolable 
 secret. 
 
 The moment he was gone from her, Ermyn 
 L'Estrange darted up the stairs, as if to catch some- 
 thing, and, on entering her flat, tripped into her bed- 
 room, turned on the light, threw off her cloak, and 
 put on the necklace before her mirror. It was a fine 
 affair, and no mistake, all lights and colors playing 
 
 103 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 bo-peep in the stones. She made a curtsy to her 
 image, inspected herself on every side, stepping this 
 way and that, daintily, like a peacock, keenly enjoy- 
 ing the gift, till the novelty of possessing it was gone 
 stale. But at no time did she feel any gratitude to 
 the giver, or think of him at all in connection with it 
 
 — just the fact of having it occupied her mind, it 
 didn't matter whence. 
 
 And the mere knowledge that it was so valuable 
 proved it to be a bribe, pointed to a weakness in the 
 giver. Some gifts to women, especially splendid ones, 
 produce not only no gratitude, but a certain hardness 
 of heart, contempt, and touch of enmity. Perhaps 
 there is a feehng of " I ought to be grateful," but being 
 too happy to be grateful, they are bored with a sense 
 of fault, and for this they punish the giver with the 
 opposite of gratitude. 
 
 At all events, by the time Miss L'Estrange had 
 taken off the string of gems, a memory had grown up 
 within her of David Harcourt, and with it came a 
 mild feeling of partizanship and liking for David as 
 against Strauss. It was a wayward machine, that 
 she-heart under the bodice of Miss Ermyn L'Estrange 
 
 — wayward without motive, subtle without thought, 
 treacherous for treachery's sake. As a matter of 
 fact, before waking Jenny, it came into her head to 
 "give a friendly tip" to David on the ground that he 
 was "not a bad sort," and she actually went out of 
 her way to send him a post-card, telling him that she 
 
 104 
 
Coming Near 
 
 had expected him to call on Jenny that day, and that, 
 if he meant business, he must see her not later than 
 half-past nine the next morning, or he would be too 
 late. 
 
 What a web, this, which was being spun round the 
 young adventurer from Wyoming! 
 
 105 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MARRIAGE-LINES 
 
 David had not gone to interview Jenny the day 
 before in obedience to Miss L'Estrange's first note, 
 because of the sullen humor to which he relapsed 
 after his experiences at three in the morning in the 
 streets of London. He resented the visiting of the 
 glimpses of the moon by a young lady who donned 
 rubber overshoes before re-entering her house, and 
 he said to himself: "The day's work, and skip the 
 Violets." 
 
 Then, the next morning, came Miss L'Estrange's 
 second letter — " he must see Jenny not later than half- 
 past nine" or he would be "too late." Again this 
 failed to rouse him. With those lazy, lithe movements 
 of the body which characterized him, he strolled for 
 some time about the flat after his early breakfast, un- 
 certain what to do. He saw, indeed, that some one 
 else must be after the certificates — Strauss — Van 
 Hupfeldt — if Strauss and Van Hupfeldt were one; 
 but still he halted between two opinions, thinking: 
 "Where do I come in, anyway.'^" 
 
 Then again the face which he had seen at the grave 
 rose before him with silent pleadings, a face touching 
 
 106 
 
The Marriage-Lines 
 
 to a man's heart, with dry rose-leaf lips which she 
 had a way of wetting quickly, and in her cheeks a die- 
 away touch of the peach, purplish like white violets. 
 And how did he know, the jealous youth, by what 
 hundred reasons her nightly wandering might be 
 accounted for? Why did he nourish that sort of re- 
 sentment against a girl who was a perfect stranger? 
 Perhaps there was really some jealousy in it! At 
 which thought he laughed aloud, and suddenly darted 
 into action, snatched a hat, and went flying. But 
 then it was already past nine. 
 
 When he reached Miss L'Estrange's flat, for some 
 time no one answered his ring, and then the door 
 opened but a little way to let out a voice which said: 
 "What is it? I am not dressed. She's gone. I told 
 you you'd be too late." 
 
 "Is she gone?" said David, blankly, eager enough 
 now to see her. 
 
 "Look here, why should I be bothered with the 
 lot of you at this ungodly hour of the morning ? " cried 
 the fickle L'Estrange. "/ can't help your troubles! 
 Can't you see when anybody is in bed ? " 
 
 " But why did you let her go before I came ? " asked 
 David. 
 
 " You are cool ! Am I your mother ? " 
 
 "I wish vou were for this once." 
 
 "Nice mother and son we little two would make, 
 wouldn't we ? " 
 
 "That's not the point. I'm afraid you are getting 
 
 107 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 cold. You ought to have contrived to keep the girl 
 till I came, though it is my own fault. But can't any- 
 thing be done now ? Where is she gone to ? " 
 
 "To Strauss, of course.'* 
 
 " With the certificates .? " 
 
 "I suppose so. I know nothing about it, and care 
 less. I did try to keep her back a bit for your sake, 
 but she was pretty keen to be gone to him when once 
 she had his address, the underhanded little wretch!" 
 
 " But stop — how long is it since she has gone ? " 
 
 "Not three minutes. It's just possible that you 
 might catch her up, if you look alive." 
 
 "How can that he? I shouldn't know her. I 
 have never seen her. We may have passed each 
 other in the street." 
 
 "Listen. She is a small, slim girl with nearly 
 white hair and little Chinese eyes. She has on a blue 
 serge skirt with my old astrakhan bolero and a sailor 
 hat. Now you can't miss her,." 
 
 " But which way ? Where does Strauss live ? " 
 
 "I promised not to tell, and I'm always as good as 
 my word," cried the reliable Miss Ermyn L'Estrange, 
 "but between you and me, it's not a thousand miles 
 from Piccadilly Circus; and that is where Jenny will 
 get down off her bus ; so if you take a cab — " 
 
 " Excellent. Good-by ! See you again ! " said David. 
 
 David was gone, in a heat of action. He took no 
 cab, however, but took to his heels, so that he might 
 be able to spy at the occupants witliin and on the top 
 
 108 
 
The Marriage-Lines 
 
 of each bus on the Hne of route, by running a Httle 
 faster than the vehicles. At this hour London was 
 already out of doors, going shopping, going to oflBce 
 and works. It was a bright morning, like the begin- 
 ning of spring. People turned their heads to look at 
 the man who ran faster than the horses, and pried into 
 the buses. Victoria, Whitehall, Charing Cross, he 
 passed — still he could see no one quite like Jenny. 
 He began to lose hope, finding, moreover, that running 
 in London was not like running in Wyoming, or even 
 like his run from Bucks. Here the air seemed to lack 
 body and wine. It did not repay the lungs' effort, 
 nor give back all that was expended, so that in going 
 up the steep of Lower Regent-St. he began to breathe 
 short. Nevertheless, to reward him, there, not far 
 from the Circus, he saw sitting patient in a bus-corner 
 the sailor hat, the bolero, the Chinese eyes, and reddish 
 white hair of Jenny. 
 
 The moment she stepped out, two men sprang for- 
 ward to address her — David and Van Hupfeldt's 
 valet. Van Hupfeldt lived near the lower portion of 
 Hanover Square, the way to which being rather shut 
 in and odd to one who does not know it, his restless- 
 ness had become unbearable when Jenny was a little 
 late, so he had described her to his valet, a whipper- 
 snapper named Neil — for Van Hupfeldt had several 
 times seen Jenny with Miss L'Estrange — and had 
 sent Neil to Piccadilly Circus, where he knew that 
 Jenny would ahght, in order to conduct her to his. 
 
 109 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 rooms. However, as Neil moved quickly forward, 
 David was before him, and the valet thought to him- 
 self: "Hello, this seems to be a case of two's company 
 and three's none." 
 
 David was saying to Jenny: "You are Miss 
 L'Estrange's servant ? " 
 
 "I am," answered Jenny. 
 
 "She sent me after you. I must speak with you 
 urgently. Come with me." 
 
 Now, in Jenny's head were visions of nothing less 
 than wealth — wealth which she was eager to handle 
 that hour. She said, therefore, to David: "I don't 
 know who you are. I can't go anywhere — '* 
 
 They stood together on the pavement, with Neil, all 
 unknown to David, behind them listening. 
 
 " There's no saying ' No,' " insisted David. " You're 
 going to see Mr. Strauss, aren't you ? Well, I am here 
 instead of Mr. Strauss in this matter." 
 
 But this ambiguous remark failed of its effect, for 
 Neil, whose master had told him that in this affair he 
 was not Van Hupfeldt but Strauss, intervened with the 
 pert words: "Begging your pardon, but I am Strauss." 
 
 However, this short way of explaining that he was 
 there on behalf of Strauss was promptly misunder- 
 stood by Jenny, who looked with disdain at the valet, 
 saying: "You are not Mr. Strauss!" 
 
 "Of course he isn't," said David, quickly. "How 
 dare you, sir, address this lady? Come right away, 
 will you ? Come, now. Let's jump into this cab." 
 
 110 
 
The Marriage-Lines 
 
 "Who are you ? I don't even know you!" cried the 
 perplexed Jenny. 
 
 "I didn't say I was Mr. Strauss himself," began 
 Neil. 
 
 "Yes, you did say so," said Jenny, "and it isn't 
 the truth, for I know Mr. Strauss very well, and neither 
 of you isn't going to get over me, so you know ! " 
 
 "Don't you see," suggested David, his wits all at 
 work, "that one of us must be true, and as you 
 are aware that he is false — '* 
 
 " What is all this about ? " demanded Jenny. " I 
 have no business with either of you. Just tell me the 
 way to Hanover Square, please, and let me go about 
 my business." 
 
 "That's just why I'm here, to show you the way," 
 said Neil. "I dunno why this gentleman takes it 
 upon himself — " 
 
 "Best hold your tongue, young man," growled 
 David. "You must be stupid to think this young 
 girl would go off with you, a man she never saw be- 
 fore, especially after detecting you in a direct un- 
 truth — " 
 
 " As for that, she don't know you any more than me, 
 seemingly," retorted Neil. "Mr. Strauss sent me — " 
 
 " How is she to know that } Miss L'Estrange sent 
 me. Didn't I know your name, Jenny, and your 
 mistress's name ? " 
 
 "Well, that's right enough," agreed Jenny on re- 
 flection. 
 
 Ill 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "Then trust to me." 
 
 " But what is it you want, sir ? " 
 
 "It is about the papers," whispered David, con- 
 fidentially. "It is all to your good to come with me 
 first and hear what I have to say. Miss L'Estrange — " 
 
 "Well, all right; but you must be quick," said Jenny, 
 rushing to a decision. 
 
 David hailed a cab, and he and Jenny turned their 
 backs upon the defeated valet, got in, and drove off. 
 However, Neil, who had witnessed Van Hupfeldt's 
 fever of eagerness to see this girl, followed in another 
 cab. David drove to the Tube Station near Oxford 
 Circus — she would accompany him no farther — 
 and, while he talked with Jenny in a corner there, 
 Neil, lurking among the crowd of shop-gazers across 
 the street, kept watqh. 
 
 "I propose to you," David said to Jenny, "to give 
 the certificates to me, and in doing so, I understand 
 that you are a poor girl — " 
 
 "That's just it," answered Jenny, "and I must 
 know first how much I am to get for them — if it's 
 true that I have any certificates." 
 
 " Right enough," said David, " but the main motive 
 which I hold out to you is not what you will receive 
 in hard cash, but that you will do an immense amount 
 of good, if you give the papers to me. They don't 
 belong to tliis Mr. Strauss, but they do belong to the 
 mother and sister of a poor wronged lady, a lady 
 whose character they will clear." 
 
 112 
 
The Marriage-Lines 
 
 "Ah, no doubt," agreed Jenny, with the knowing 
 leer of a born Cockney; "still, a girl has got to look 
 after herself, you see, and not mind other people's 
 troubles." 
 
 "What!" cried David, "would you rather do the 
 wrong thing and earn twenty pounds, or do the right 
 thing and earn five pounds ? You can't be in earnest 
 saying that." 
 
 " It isn't a question of five pounds, nor yet of twenty," 
 snapped Jenny, offended at the mere mention of such 
 paltry sums, "it's a question of hundreds and of 
 thousands." Her mouth went big for the " thousands. " 
 "Don't think that I'm going to part with the papers 
 under high figures, if so be I have any papers." 
 
 " Under what ? " asked David — " under hundreds, 
 or under thousands .^ " 
 
 " Under thousands." 
 
 "Now hold on a bit. Are you aware that I could 
 have the papers taken from you this minute, papers 
 that don't belong to you, which you propose to sell to 
 some one other than the rightful owners ? " 
 
 At this Jenny changed color. There was a police- 
 man within a few yards, and she saw her great and 
 golden dream dissolving. 
 
 "It remains to be seen if I have got any papers. 
 That's the very question, you see!" she said. 
 
 "You might be searched, you know, just to clear 
 the point. Yet you needn't be afraid of that, for I'm 
 disposed to meet you, and you aren't going to refuse 
 
 113 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 any reasonable offer, with no trouble from the police 
 to follow. So I offer you now — fifty golden sovereigns 
 for the papers, cash down." 
 
 "You leave me alone," muttered Jenny, sheepishly, 
 turning her shoulder to him. 
 
 "Well, I thought we were going to be friends; but 
 I see that I must act harshly," David said, making a 
 threatening movement to leave her. 
 
 "You can have them for one hundred pounds," 
 the girl murmured in a frail voice with downcast eyes; 
 to which David, not to drive a hard bargain with her, 
 at once answered: "Well, you shall have your one 
 hundred pounds." 
 
 The next moment, however, he was asking himself: 
 " Who's to pay ? Can I afford these royal extrava- 
 gances in other people's affairs ? Steady ! Not too 
 much Violet!" 
 
 He walked a little way from the girl, considering it. 
 He could not afford it. There was no earthly reason 
 why he should. But he might go to Violet, to Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, and obtain the one hundred pounds, or 
 their authorization to spend that sum on their behalf. 
 In that case, however, how make sure of Jenny in the 
 meantime.^ It would hardly do to leave her there in 
 the station, so near to Strauss. She would be drawn 
 to him as by a magnet, and he thought that if he took 
 her with him to the Mordaunts, she would recover her 
 self-assurance and demand from the women more, 
 perhaps, than they could afford. In the end, he 
 
 114 
 
The Marriage-Lines 
 
 decided to take her to his flat, and leave her there in 
 Mrs. Grover's charge till he returned from the Mor- 
 daunts. 
 
 "That's a bargain, then," he said to her; "one hun- 
 dred it is. I take it that you actually have the cer- 
 tificates on you ? " 
 
 "I may have,'* smirked the elusive Jenny. 
 
 "That's all right. *Have' and *may have' are the 
 same things in your case. So now I shall go right 
 away to procure the one hundred pounds, and mean- 
 time you'll come with me to your old flat in Eddystone 
 Mansions — that's where I live now — No, don't be 
 scared, there's some one there besides myself, and the 
 ghost doesn't walk in the daytime." 
 
 They hailed another cab, and again Neil, leaving 
 his lurking-place, drove after them. He saw David 
 and Jenny go into the mansions, then stood uncertain 
 whether to hurry home and tell the position of affairs 
 to Van Hupfeldt, who, he knew, must by this time be 
 raving, or whether to wait and see if Jenny and David 
 came out again. 
 
 He was loitering a little way up the house-stairs, 
 thinking it out, when he heard the lift coming down, 
 and presently he saw David rush out — alone. Jenny, 
 then, was still in the building. Neil ran to the lift- 
 
 man. 
 
 Gentleman who just come down," he said, "does 
 he live here ? " 
 
 "He do, in No. 7," was the answer. 
 
 115 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 " Girl's left in his flat, then," thought Neil, scratch- 
 ing his head, "and the bloke wot owns the flat don't 
 know I've been spying. I'd better hurry back and 
 let the master know how things are looking." 
 
 Whereat the valet, who was clearer in action than 
 in speech, ran out and took cab to Hanover Square, 
 to tell Van Hupfeldt where Jenny was. 
 
 116 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 SWORDS DRAWN 
 
 David, meantime, also by cab, was off to Por- 
 chester Gardens, a certain hurry and fluster now in 
 his usually self-possessed bosom. He looked at his 
 face in the cab-mirror, and adjusted his tie. A young 
 man who acts in that way betrays a symptom of heart- 
 disease. At 60A he sent up his card. 
 
 Violet knew from Dibbin the name of David Har- 
 court, but when she read it she seemed startled, and 
 turned a little pale. " Show him up," she said, in a flurry. 
 
 "You will excuse my calling," explained David, 
 without shaking hands, "though we have met before 
 — you remember .? " 
 
 She inclined her head a little, standing, as it were, 
 shrunk from him, some way off. 
 
 "But my visit has to do with a small matter which 
 admits of no delay." 
 
 My mother — " she began. 
 
 Is out, I know," said he, "but as the affair is 
 urgent, I am here. You know that I am the tenant 
 of No. 7, Eddystone Mansions, and you know also, 
 that, without seeking it, I have some knowledge of 
 your history. I wish to ask whether, without troubling 
 
 117 
 
 t( 
 
 a 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 your mind with a lot of details, you care to authorize me 
 to spend at once, in your interests, a sum of one hun- 
 dred pounds." 
 
 She scrutinized him with a certain furtiveness, 
 weighing him. 
 
 " In my interests .? " said she. 
 
 "Yours and your mother's." 
 
 " One hundred pounds ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It seems a strange request." 
 
 "It isn't a request. If you haven't confidence in 
 me to the extent of one hundred pounds, I am not 
 deeply concerned." 
 
 " But you come like a storm, and speak like one." 
 
 " On a purely business matter of your own — re- 
 member." 
 
 "You were at the pains to come," she said with a 
 smile. "You cannot both care and not care." 
 - "I used the word 'concern,' you know." 
 
 " Is it a gracious way to approach me ? " 
 
 " Is it charming tQ be mistrusted ? " 
 
 " Did I say that I mistrusted you ? " 
 
 "With your eyes." 
 
 " Well, I say now with my lips that I do not. Which 
 will you believe ? " 
 
 "No doubt they can both deceive." 
 
 " Oh, now you are verging on rudeness." 
 
 "There are worse things than rudeness, when one 
 thinks of it." 
 
 118 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 "I have no idea to what you refer." 
 
 "That may be because I know more about you 
 than you think." 
 
 At this she started guiltily, visibly, and at that start 
 again she appeared before the eye of David's memory 
 gliding through the moonlight at three in the morning, 
 a ghost hastening back to the tomb. Yet, in her 
 presence, the resentment which rankled in him softened 
 to pity. A look of appeal came into her dark eyes, 
 and a certain essence of honesty and purity in her 
 being communicated itself to his instincts, putting it 
 out of his power to think any ill of her for the moment. 
 
 He said hurriedly: "I fear I have begun badly. All 
 this is neither here nor there." 
 
 She sat down, slung a knee between her clasped 
 fingers in her habitual manner, and said: "Please 
 tell me, what do you mean ? " Then she looked up 
 at him again with a troubled light in her eyes. 
 
 He walked quickly nearer to her, saying: "Now, 
 don't let that get into your head as a serious statement. 
 It was a mere manner of speaking, what I said, and 
 of no importance. Moreover, there's this question of 
 one hundred pounds, and time is a vital consideration." 
 
 "Nevertheless, you were definite enough, and must 
 have had some meaning," she went on. "Did I not 
 hear you say that you know more about me than I 
 think? Well, then, have the goodness to tell me 
 what." 
 
 "Now I have put my foot in it, I suppose," said 
 
 119 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 David, "and you will never rest till I find something 
 to tell you. But not now, if you will bear with me. 
 In a few days I shall, perhaps, call on your mother, 
 or see you again at a place which you no doubt visit 
 pretty often at about the same hour, and to which I, 
 too, somehow am strangely drawn. The question 
 now before us is whether I am to spend the one hun- 
 dred pounds for you." 
 
 " As to that, what can one say ? You tell me nothing 
 of your reason, my mother is out, and I am afraid that 
 I have not at the moment one hundred pounds of my 
 own. I am about to be married, and — " 
 
 "Married.?" 
 
 "I am myself rather surprised at it. Yet I fail to 
 see why you should be immoderately surprised." 
 
 "I.? Surprised.?" said he in a dazed way, still 
 standing with one foot drawn back a step. "I was 
 merely taken aback, because — " 
 
 "Well.?" 
 
 " Because — nothing. I was simply taken aback, 
 that's all. Or rather because I had not heard of it 
 before." 
 
 "It was only fully decided upon yesterday," said 
 she, bending down over her knee. 
 
 "Oh, only yesterday. And the happy event takes 
 place when ? for I am at least interested." 
 
 "Soon. Within two or three weeks. I don't quite 
 know when." 
 
 "And the happy man.?" 
 
 120 
 
(( 
 
 « 
 
 Swords Drawn 
 
 "The same whom you saw come to take me from 
 Kensal Green." 
 
 Mr. Van Hupf eldt ? " 
 
 Oh, you know his name. Yes; Mr. Van Hupfeldt." 
 
 David chuckled grimly. 
 
 " Why do you laugh ? " she asked. 
 
 "But whatever is your motive.'^" he cried sharply. 
 
 "You are strange to venture to inquire into my 
 motive," she said, with downcast eyes. Then her 
 lip trembled, and she added in a low voice: "My 
 motive is known only to the dead." 
 
 "Ah, don't cry!" he almost shouted at her, with a 
 sudden brand of red anger across his brow. " There's 
 no need for tears! It shan't ever happen, this thing!" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked, glancing tremu- 
 lously at him. 
 
 "What I say. This marriage can't happen. I'll 
 see to that. But stop — perhaps I am talking too 
 soon. *Let not him boast that putteth his armor on 
 as he that taketh it off.' Good-day, Miss Mordaunt. 
 I shall not trouble you any more about the one hundred 
 pounds. I will spend it out of my own pocket — " 
 
 "Please stay!" she cried after him. "Everything 
 that you say bewilders me! How am I to believe you 
 honest when you say such things ? " 
 
 " What things ? Honest ? You may believe me 
 honest or not, just as you will. I told you before that 
 I am not greatly concerned. If I bewilder you, you 
 anger me.'* 
 
 121 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "I am sorry for that. But how so?" 
 
 "What, is it nothing for a man to hear it doubted 
 whether he is honest or not? And, apart from that, 
 admit that your sister is not very long dead, and that 
 you have been easily drawn into this engagement — '* 
 
 " But what can all this matter to you ? " she asked, 
 with a wrinkled brow. "Why should my private 
 conduct anger you at all ? I have not, in fact, as you 
 think, been so easily won into this engagement; yet, 
 if I had, it is amazing that you should lecture me. 
 If it was any one but you, I should be cross." 
 
 " What, am I in special favor, then ? " 
 
 "You have an honest face." 
 
 "Then why is my poor honesty constantly doubted." 
 
 "Because you say extraordinary things. It is not, 
 for instance, usual for people to pay one hundred 
 pounds for the benefit of a casual acquaintance as 
 you just volunteered to do. Either you have some 
 trick or motive in view, or you are very wonderfully 
 disinterested." 
 
 " Which do you think ? " 
 
 "I may think one thing now, and the other after 
 you are gone." 
 
 "Well, it is useless arguing. I should be here all 
 day, if I let myself. We were not made to agree, 
 you see. Some people are like that. I shall just pay 
 the one hundred pounds out of my own pocket — '* 
 You are not to do that, please." 
 Then, will you ? " 
 
 122 
 
 « 
 
 (( . 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "A7„,, 1 :j__ T__i. ;_ .•„ j.?_„l» 
 
 (( 
 
 You have no idea what is in question! 
 Then, give me some idea." 
 
 "And lose more time. However, you may as well 
 hear. It is this: that the tenant in the flat before 
 me, one Miss L'Estrange, found concealed in a pic- 
 ture a certificate of a marriage and one of a birth, 
 and I wish to buy them for you from Miss L'Estrange's 
 servant, who has them." 
 
 Violet sprang upright with an adoring face, mur- 
 muring: "Heaven be thanked!" 
 
 "I didn't tell you before," said David, "because I 
 haven't secured the papers yet. I have left the girl 
 in my flat — " 
 
 " But where — where do you say she found them ? " 
 she asked, with a keener interest than the question 
 quite seemed to call for. 
 
 "It was in a picture-frame, between the picture and 
 the boards at the back," he answered. "The picture 
 dropped, and the certificates fell out." 
 
 "Heaven be praised!" she breathed again. "Was 
 there nothing else that fell out ? " 
 
 "Nothing else, apparently." 
 
 "That was enough. Why should I want more? 
 Oh, get them for me quickly, will you ? " she cried, 
 all animated and pink. "With these in my hand 
 everything will be different. Even your prophecy 
 against my marriage, which you seemed not to desire, 
 will very hkely come true." 
 
 123 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "So now I have your authority to spend the one 
 hundred pounds ? " he asked, with a smile. 
 
 "Of course! Ten times as much!" 
 
 "But blessed is she who has not seen, and yet has 
 believed ! " 
 
 "Forgive me! I do thank and trust you!" She 
 put out her hand. He took it, and bent some time 
 over it. 
 
 "Good-by, Miss Mordaunt." 
 
 " Not for long — an hour — two ? " 
 
 "I am glad to have pleased you. I shall always 
 remember how the brunette type of angels look when 
 they thank Providence." 
 
 "It is not fair to flatter when one is highly happy 
 and deeply thankful, for then one hears everything as 
 music. Tell me of it some other time, when I shall 
 have a sharper answer ready. But stay — one word. 
 It is of these certificates that Mr. Van Hupfeldt, too, 
 must somehow have got wind. Does the girl say that 
 any one else knows of them ? " 
 
 "A man named Strauss knows of them." 
 
 At that name her eyelids fell as if her modesty had 
 been hurt. "Does not Mr. Van Hupfeldt know of 
 them ? " she asked, with face averted. 
 
 " I cannot tell you — yet," he answered, turning a 
 little from her lest she caught the grim smile on his 
 lips. " Why do you think that he may know ? " 
 
 " Because some days ago he wrote me a note — it is 
 this. It can refer only to these certificates, I suppose." 
 
 124 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 She handed to David his own note — " It is now a 
 pretty certain thing that your sister was a duly wedded 
 wife " — and David, looking at it, asked with some- 
 thing of a flush : " Did Mr. Van Hupf eldt say that it 
 was he who sent you this ? I see that it has no signa- 
 ture." 
 
 "Yes, it was he," said Violet. 
 
 "Ah!" murmured David, and said no more. 
 
 "If it was these certificates which he had in his 
 mind when he wrote that note," said she, "then he, 
 too, as well as you, must have a chance of securing 
 them from the girl. So you had better be careful 
 that he is not beforehand with you." 
 
 David looked squarely at her. "So long as you 
 obtain them, what does it matter from whom they 
 come r 
 
 "Of course," she replied, with her eyes on the 
 ground, "I shall owe much gratitude to the person 
 who hands them to me." 
 
 He took a step forward, whispering : " Must I be the 
 winner ? " 
 
 He received no answer from her; only, a wave of 
 blood, a blush that flooded her being from her toes to 
 the roots of her hair all of a sudden, suffused Violet, 
 while he stood awaiting her reply. He put out his 
 hand with a fine self-control. "Well, I must try," 
 he cried lightly. She just touched his fingers with 
 hers, and the next moment he was striding from her. 
 
 His cab was waiting outside. CalHng, "Quick as 
 
 125 
 
The Late Tenant • 
 
 you can ! " to the driver, he sprang in, and they started 
 briskly away. He was well content inwardly. Some- 
 thing birdlike seemed new-fledged and fluttering a 
 little somewhere inside. He had tasted the sweet 
 poison of honey-dew. 
 
 As for doubt, he had none at the moment. Jenny 
 he had left safe with Mrs. Grover; he was sure that 
 she had the certificates with her. But when he reached 
 the middle of Oxford-St., he saw that which made 
 him start — Van Hupfeldt in a landau driving east- 
 ward, and, sitting beside the coachman, the valet Neil. 
 What spurred David's interest was the pace at which 
 the landau's horses were racing through the traffic, 
 and also the face of the man in the carriage, so gaunt 
 and wild, leaning forward with his two hands clenched 
 on his knees, as if to press the carriage faster forward 
 by the strain of his soul. 
 
 At once a host of speculations crowded upon David's 
 mind. Now, for the first time, it occurred to him 
 that Neil may have shadowed him and the girl to the 
 flat, that Van Hupfeldt might have the daring to be 
 on the way to the flat to win Jenny from him. He 
 felt that he could hardly prevail against Van Hupfeldt 
 with Jenny — Van Hupfeldt being rich — and the 
 two high-steppers in the landau were fast leaving the 
 cab-horse behind. An eagerness to be quickly at his 
 flat rose in David, so without stopping his cab he stood 
 out near the splash-board and cried to his amazed 
 driver: "I say! You come inside, and let me drive." 
 
 126 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 "Mustn't do that, sir. It is more than my place is 
 worth," began the cabman. 
 
 '* Two pounds for you, and I pay all fines — quick 
 now!" said David. 
 
 The driver hesitated, but pulled up. He climbed 
 down, went into the cab, and David was on the perch, 
 reins in hand. Though some persons were astonished, 
 luckily no policeman saw them. The horse, as if 
 conscious of something from Wyoming behind him, 
 began to run. David bolted northward out of the 
 traffic, and careered through the emptier streets, while 
 the old cab-horse wondered what London was coming 
 to when such things could be, and praised the days 
 of his youth. When David drew up at Eddystone 
 Mansions, there was no sign of the landau. He ran 
 up the stairs three at a time. He would not await the 
 tardy elevator. In moments of stress we return to 
 nature and cast off the artificial. Opening his door 
 with his key, he made straight into the drawing-room 
 where he had left Jenny. Then his heart sank miser- 
 ably, for she was not there. 
 
 "Mrs. Grover!" he called, and when Mrs. Grover 
 hurried from the kitchen, her hands leprous with 
 pastry-dough, David looked at her so thunderously 
 that she drew back. 
 
 Where's the girl, Mrs. Grover?" he growled. 
 She's gone, sir." 
 
 " I see that. You let her go, Mrs. Grover ? " 
 Why, sir, a man came here, saying he had a mes- 
 
 127 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 sage from you for the girl, and I let him in. They had 
 a talk together, then she said she must be going. I 
 couldn't stop her." 
 
 David groaned. 
 
 The man who had called was Neil, who, on hurrying 
 to tell his master where Jenny was, had been sent 
 back with instructions to try and induce her to leave 
 the flat and come to Hanover Square. Neil had 
 accomplished this to the extent of getting Jenny to 
 leave Eddystone Mansions; but she would not go to 
 Strauss, for David's threat of the police if she disposed 
 of the papers to any one else than their lawful owner 
 was in her mind, and she now feared to sell the papers 
 to Strauss, as she knew that she would certainly do 
 if she once went to his rooms. Yet she was sorely 
 tempted to sell to the lavish rich man rather than to 
 the bargainer, and so, making a compromise between 
 her fears and her temptation, she had told Neil that 
 she would wait in a certain cafe, and there discuss the 
 matter with Strauss, if Strauss would come to her. 
 She was waiting there, and Strauss was going to her, 
 led by Neil, when David had seen him in the landau. 
 
 At any rate, the girl was gone. David felt as if he 
 had lost all things. He had promised the certificates; 
 and Violet had said: "I shall owe much gratitude to 
 the person who hands them to me." 
 
 Now Van Hupfeldt had, or would have, them. 
 While he had been dallying and bandying words in 
 Porchester Gardens, Van Hupfeldt had been acting, 
 
 128 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 and he groaned to himseit in a pain of self-reproach: 
 "Too much Violet, David!" 
 
 He strode to and fro in the dining-room with a 
 quick step, pacing with the lightness of a caged bear, 
 his fists clenched, keen to act, yet not knowing what 
 to do. The girl was gone, the certificates gone with 
 her. 
 
 One thing, however, he had gained by the adven- 
 ture, namely, the almost certainty that Van Hupfeldt 
 was Strauss — for he had seen the valet, Neil, who at 
 Piccadilly Circus had declared that he was Strauss's 
 servant, sitting on the box-seat of the landau in which 
 was the man whom David had heard Violet at the 
 grave call "Mr. Van Hupfeldt." This seemed a sort 
 of proof that Van Hupfeldt and Strauss were one. 
 The same man who had been so bound up with the 
 one sister, and had somehow brought her to her death, 
 was now about to marry the other! The thought of 
 such a thing struck lightning from David's eyes. 
 
 " Never that ! " he vowed in his frenzy. " However it 
 goes, not that!" 
 
 And then he was angry afresh with her, thinking: 
 " He can't be much good, this man — she must be 
 easily won." 
 
 He could not guess that Van Hupfeldt had promised 
 to clear her sister's name six months after the mar- 
 riage, and that this was her motive, and not love, for 
 being won. He did not realize that the certificates 
 now lost by him would have freed Violet from Van 
 
 129 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Hupfeldt. He believed that she was entering Hghtly 
 into marriage with a man of great wealth. Again, in 
 this unreasoning mood, he saw her in her nocturnal 
 wanderings. 
 
 But bitterness and regrets could not bring back the 
 certificates, in the gaining of which her honor was 
 « almost at stake. If he had known where Van Hup- 
 feldt lived, he would have gone straight there. Never- 
 theless, Van Hupfeldt was not at home, was hurrying 
 away from home, in fact. Here, then, was another 
 point. Jenny had clearly not gone to Van Hupfeldt's 
 on leaving the flat, or why should Van Hupfeldt be 
 racing eastward? It seemed that Jenny and Van 
 Hupfeldt were to meet somewhere else, perhaps some- 
 where not far from the mansions. If David had only 
 kept the landau in sight, he might have tracked Van 
 Hupfeldt to that meeting! He felt now that, if he 
 could come upon them, then, by the mere force and 
 whirlwind of his will, he should have his way. On a 
 sudden he went out again into the streets. 
 
 He ran southward at a venture. If there was a 
 conference going on in any house near by, and if the 
 landau was waiting outside, he should recognize it 
 by the horses and by Neil on the box. But, as it 
 turned out, even this recognition was not necessary, 
 for, running down Bloomsbury-St., toward a carriage 
 of which he caught sight standing before a French 
 chocolate-shop at the Oxford-St. corner, he saw a man 
 and a girl come out of the shop. The man lifted his 
 
 130 
 
Swords Drawn 
 
 hat and nodded toward the girl with his foot on the 
 carriage-step, and then was driven off westward. 
 Half a minute afterward David had overtaken the girl. 
 
 " You wretched creature ! " he said, in the fierce heat 
 of his anger and haste: "Hand me those certificates, 
 and be quick about it!" 
 
 "I haven't the faintest idea which certificates you 
 mean," said Jenny, as bold now as brass, for she had 
 no doubt been strengthened by the interview in the 
 shop, and assured of Van Hupfeldt's protection. 
 
 This was enough for David. He understood from 
 her words that the papers were now in Van Hupfeldt's 
 hands; whereat a flood of rage surged within him, 
 and, without any definite purpose, he rushed after 
 the carriage. It had not gone far, because of a block 
 of traffic near Tottenham Court Road, and his hot 
 face was soon thrust over the carriage-door. Van 
 Hupfeldt shrank back into the farthest corner with a 
 look of blank dismay. 
 
 " Yes, you can have them, Mr. Strauss — " began 
 David, hotly. 
 
 "What is it?" muttered Van Hupfeldt, crouching, 
 with his hand on the opposite door-handle. "That is 
 not my name." 
 
 "Whatever your name, or however many names 
 you may own, you can have those papers now; but 
 there may be other things where they came from, and 
 if they're there, I'm the man in possession, mark you, 
 and I'll be finding them — " 
 
 131 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 " Papers ! What papers ? Find what ? " asked Van 
 Hupfeldt, with a scared face that beUed his words. 
 
 "You cur!" cried David, his heart burning hot 
 within him; "make amends for your crimes while you 
 may. If you don't, I tell you, I shall have no mercy. 
 Soon I shall have my hands on you — " 
 
 "Drive on!" screamed Van Hupfeldt to his coach- 
 man, and, the block of traffic having now cleared, the 
 horses trotted on, and left David red-faced with fury, 
 in imminent danger of being run over by the press of 
 vehicles behind. 
 
 132 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE NIGHT-WATCHES 
 
 David returned home angry with himself in all 
 ways, not least for his loss of self-control in pursuing 
 Van Hupfeldt with no object but to vent himself in 
 mere threats. His suggestion to Van Hupfeldt that 
 other documents besides the certificates might be 
 hidden among the picture-frames in the flat was in the 
 tone of a child's boasting. One should find first, he 
 told himself, and boast afterward. However, one of 
 Mrs. Grover's excellent little lunches put him straight, 
 and, though work was a thousand miles from his 
 mood that day, he compelled himself to do it, and 
 the pen began to run. 
 
 But first he had said to Mrs. Grover: "I want you 
 to get the steps, and take down every picture in the 
 flat, except the three big ones, which I will see to 
 myself." 
 
 Then, with his flower-pot of violets on each hand, 
 he was soon in the thick of the cow-boy and prairie- 
 flower history which he had on hand. His stories 
 were already known on this side by the whiff of reality 
 they brought from the States, and were in some de- 
 mand. Already the postman handed him printers' 
 
 133 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 proofs, and he had proved to himself that he possessed 
 some of the wisdom of the serpent in choosing a repu- 
 table abode, because the men whom he entertained 
 went away saying: "Harcourt has private means. He 
 has taken to literature as a hobby," an idea which 
 made him popular. If certain editors, on the strength 
 of it, wished to pay him half-rates, they were soon 
 undeceived. David was much too hard a nut to 
 crack in that easy way. 
 
 Meantime, neither by sight nor sound had he been 
 reminded of the eery experience of his first night in 
 No. 7. True, there were noises during the still hours, 
 such as had twice thrilled Miss L'Estrange and Jenny. 
 But they seemed quite natural to him. The dryness 
 of the interior of the block of flats had loosened floor- 
 ing-boards and dislocated cross-beams, until the mere 
 movement of an article of furniture overhead, or the 
 passing of a next-floor tenant from one room to another, 
 would set going creaks enough to give rise to half a 
 dozen ghost-panics. 
 
 That night he had to be at the Holborn Restaurant 
 for an annual dinner of internationals, so he struck 
 work soon after four, seeing that by then Mrs. Grover's 
 task of taking down and dusting was ended, and the 
 pictures now lay in a pile by the dining-room sideboard. 
 David procured himself a quantity of brown paper, 
 with gum and pincers, sat on the floor by the pile, 
 and, with an effort to breathe no faster than usual, 
 set himself to work. It was not so slight a task as it 
 
 134 
 
The Night-Watches 
 
 looked, some of the pictures being elaborately fastened 
 with brown paper, tacks, and bars; and, since they were 
 not his own, he had to leave them not less trim 
 than he found them. He was resolved to trust 
 not even a workman in this search. However, 
 being handy, a Jack of all trades, he had got 
 some half dozen unfastened and again fastened before 
 six o'clock. 
 
 His gum faihng, he called upon Mrs. Grover, re- 
 ceived no answer, called again, went searching, but 
 could not find her in the flat. Wondering at this, he 
 stepped outside the front door to invoke the services 
 of the lift-man, when a little way down the stairs he 
 caught a sound of voices in low talk. His ready ear 
 seemed to detect the particular accent of his house- 
 keeper, and he went downward, spying out who it 
 might be. He wore slippers, and for this reason, per- 
 haps, approached near the speakers before he was 
 seen. They were Mrs. Grover and a young man. 
 The latter, the moment he was aware of David's 
 presence, was gone like a thief, so David did not see 
 his face — it was dark there at that hour — but he 
 had an impression that it was Neil, Van Hupfeldt's 
 valet, and his legs of themselves started into chase; 
 but he checked himself. 
 
 " Who was the man ? " he asked Mrs. Grover, when 
 they had gone back into the flat. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know his name, sir," was her 
 answer. 
 
 135 
 
<( I 
 
 (S I 
 
 The Late Tenant 
 
 " You know him, perhaps. Is it the same who came 
 here to speak with the girl I left in your charge ? " 
 
 " I believe it is the same," said Mrs. Grover, " though 
 I didn't see him well." 
 
 "Oh, you believe. What on earth does he want of 
 you?" 
 
 "He kept asking me questions. I told him to go 
 about his business — " 
 
 " What did he want to know .'' " 
 
 " Whether I was satisfied with my place, and whether 
 I didn't think that a woman like me could better her- 
 self, considering the wages I'm getting — " 
 That all he wanted to know ? " 
 That's about all — things hke that." 
 
 David, looking at her, said: "I am sure he was 
 quite right. You deserve five times the wages I am 
 gi\ing you; so if I pay you a month's wages in ad- 
 vance now — " 
 
 "But, sir!" 
 
 " No, it's no use, Mrs. Grover. You were born for 
 greater things than this. Yet, wherever you go next, 
 do be loyal to the man from whom you earn your 
 bread against all the world. Here's your money." 
 
 In vain Mrs, Grover protested. The place was 
 good enough for her, the flat not fit to be left as it was, 
 things not washed, something on the fire. It was of 
 no avail. As David's servant she was suddenly dead. 
 He saw her out with a hearty hand-shake at the door, 
 and his best wishes. 
 
 136 
 
The Night-Watches 
 
 Only after she was well gone did he remember that 
 she had forgotten to deliver up the front door-key. 
 
 As it was now nearly time to dress for the dinner, 
 he left his work on the pictures for the day. In the 
 half dozen or so which he had taken to pieces he had 
 found nothing, and was disillusioned, cross-tempered, 
 disturbed by many things. 
 
 He sat down and wrote to Miss Violet Mordaunt: 
 "I am sorry to say that I have failed to receive the 
 documents of which I had the honor to speak to you. 
 I have reason, however, to believe that your fiance, 
 Mr. Van Hupfeldt, has bought them, and from his 
 hand you will perhaps receive them." 
 
 But his conscience felt this letter to be hard, ironical, 
 and not sincere; for if, as he suspected. Van Hupfeldt's 
 name was on the certificates as the husband of dead 
 Gwendoline, Violet was little likely to receive them 
 from Van Hupfeldt's hand. So he tore up the note, 
 and wrote another which equally reflected his ill- 
 humor. Nor did this go through the post. In the 
 end, though he knew that she must be anxiously await- 
 ing a word of news from him, he shirked for the present 
 the task of announcing his failure to her, and rushed 
 out to the dinner. 
 
 He came home late, and as he stepped from the lift to 
 the landing, something — a light or a fancy — caused 
 him to start. It seemed to him that through the 
 opaque glass of his door he had seen a Hght. Cer- 
 tainly, the impression was gone in one instant, but he 
 
 137 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 had it. He went in with some disquiet of the nerves. 
 All was dark, all still, within. He turned on three 
 or four of the lights in rapid succession, and his eyes 
 pierced here and there without discerning anything 
 save familiar articles of furniture. 
 
 The flat was lonely to him that night. Though 
 Mrs. Grover would not in any case have been there 
 at that hour, yet the fact that she would not come in 
 the morning as usual, the fact that he was now the 
 only life in the little home, made him as solitary in 
 London as a castaway in mid-sea. The fires were 
 dead. He sat a little while in his overcoat by the 
 dining-room fireplace, glanced at the heap of pictures, 
 at the face of Gwendoline. And now again he started. 
 Something in the aspect of the heap struck him as 
 new, as not perhaps the same as when he had gone out. 
 
 But here again he seemed to himself the prey of his 
 own fancies. He asked himself angrily if he was los- 
 ing his memory and his grip of facts. He thought 
 that he had left only two of the pictures in pieces; 
 now three of them were without their backs. As he 
 sat looking at them, the clock on the mantelpiece all 
 at once ceased ticking, and this small thing again, due 
 solely to his omission to wind the clock, had an effect 
 upon his mood. He seemed to hear the sudden 
 silence, as it were the ceasing of a heart-beat, and the 
 "all is over" of the bereaved when the last breath 
 passes. He rose and stretched himself and yawned, 
 and took in with him to his bed-room one of the pots 
 
 138 
 
The Night-Watches 
 
 of violets, so that, if he scented violets, he should 
 know whence the scent came. And he took care to 
 turn on the light in his bed-room before turning off 
 all the other lights. Could this be David, the man 
 who used to sleep beneath the stars ? 
 
 Now he lay down in the dark, and all was quiet. 
 Only, from far away, from some other polygon in the 
 hive of flats, came a tinkling, the genteel sound of the 
 piano, very faint, as remote from him as was the life 
 of her who played it. He was listening to it, thinking 
 of the isolation in which all souls are more or less 
 doomed to live, when the question occurred to him 
 incidentally: "Am I really alone in this flat? As 
 a matter of fact, is not some one with me ? " He had 
 seemed to hear a definite click, and if it was not in the 
 flat, then, he thought, his ears must be losing their 
 old trick of exactness. 
 
 He stole out of bed, and, without making the faint- 
 est sound, peeped out along the corridors. Nothing 
 seemed to stir. Minute after minute he stood patiently, 
 hearing only that shell-music which the tympanum 
 of the ear gives out in deep silence. Once he caught 
 a Lilliputian rush, and a screech, an escapade in 
 mouseland. Behind him a small clock ticked in his 
 bed-room, and presently there was yet another sound, 
 low, but prolonged, as if paper was being very cau- 
 tiously torn somewhere. 
 
 Instantly the instinct to grip his six-shooter in his 
 hand rose in David. His former experience in the 
 
 139 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 flat had caused him to have the weapon ready. Great 
 is that moment when awe rises into indignation and 
 action, as now with him. Silently, with every nerve 
 strung, and each muscle nimble for the encounter, 
 he stepped backward into his bed-room, and drew the 
 weapon from beneath his pillow. No longer careful 
 about hiding the fact that he was awake, he made a 
 rush along the longer corridor into the hall, caught 
 up the hall chair and table and threw them against 
 the door, heaved up the hat-stand and placed it also 
 against the door, thus blocking the enemy's retreat. 
 And he said to himself: "Be it ghost, or be it mortal 
 man, let there be a fight to a finish this time ! " 
 
 But he kept himself in the dark for safety's sake, 
 and, bold as his heart was, it beat fast, as he now 
 stood in the farthest corner of the hall near the door, 
 listening for his life. And anon he sniffed with his 
 nostrils for a scent of violets, for a wafture from the 
 grave, which came not. 
 
 But this waiting for he knew not what was not long 
 to be borne. Wounds are not so grisly to the mind 
 as the touch of a hand which cannot be grasped. He 
 crept back in the dark along the wall, again noiselessly, 
 into the corridor, into his bed-room, locked the door, 
 and, with finger on trigger, switched on the light. 
 Keeping his ear alert for whatever might happen out- 
 side, he searched the room. No one was under the 
 bed, or anywhere there. He turned off the light, 
 went out, and, in a similar manner, searched behind a 
 
 140 
 
The Night-Watches 
 
 locked door, wherever he found a key in the lock, 
 each of the other two bed-rooms, and the bath-room. 
 In that end of the flat there was no one, nor a scent of 
 anything, save the perfume of the violets in his bed- 
 room. And again he began to think that he must 
 surely be the plaything of his fancies. 
 
 Along the corridor he crept again, and entered the 
 drawing-room, locked the door, turned on the light, 
 looked round to search. At that instant he heard, he 
 felt, the flight of steps in the flat. It was the merest 
 sign of something detected by some sixth sense ac- 
 quired by him in barkening to the whispers of the 
 jungle. These were steps as light and swift as a 
 specter's might be. But he had the notion that they 
 fled out of the dining-room down the short passage 
 between the kitchen and the servant's room, and, 
 quick as thought, he had out the drawing-room light, 
 and was after them. 
 
 The door of the servant's bed-room was on the left 
 of the cross passage, that of the kitchen on the right, 
 just opposite the other. He went like a cat which sees 
 in the night, swift and soft, along the left wall, his 
 breast pressed to it, until, coming to the servant's 
 bed-room door, he gave a twist to the handle to go in. 
 
 The handle turned a little, but not much. The 
 door would not open. It seemed to be held by some 
 one within, for it was not locked, since there happened 
 to be no key in it. 
 
 Here, at any rate, was something tangible at last. 
 
 141 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 And, when it came to be a question of main force, 
 natural or supernatural, David was in his element. 
 He set himself to get that door-handle round, and it 
 turned. He put liimself into the effort to press that 
 door open, and it opened a little. But, all at once, it 
 opened too much! and he plunged staggering within. 
 At the same time he was aware of something rushing 
 out; he had just time to snatch his revolver from the 
 waist of his pajamas and fire, when his silent adver- 
 sary was gone, and had vehemently slammed the 
 door upon him. Almost at the same moment another 
 door slammed — the kitchen-door. Then all was 
 still again. 
 
 It was as when a mighty momentary wind seizes 
 upon a house in the dead of night, slams two doors, 
 causes something to bark, and passes on its way. The 
 two slammings and the bark of the revolver were almost 
 simultaneous — and silence swallowed them together. 
 
 David flew after the thing which had evaded him to 
 the kitchen-door. His blood was up. During his 
 first experience of something queer in the flat he had 
 had an impression of a woman, perhaps on account 
 of the scent of violets. But this time there seemed to 
 be no such scent, and this latest impression was of a 
 man — an impression hardly perhaps due to sight, 
 for the servant's room was about the darkest spot in 
 the flat, its one small window being shrouded with 
 tapestry curtains, and the outer night itself dark. But 
 he somehow believed now that it was a man, and he 
 
 142 
 
The Night-Watches 
 
 flung himself again and again against the kitchen-door 
 with no good meaning toward that man. For there 
 could be no doubt that whoever or whatever it was, 
 his visitant was now in the kitchen, since the door 
 would not open. 
 
 After some vain effort to force it, he stopped, pant- 
 ing, thinking what he should do. There was a little 
 pointed poker in the dining-room by which he might 
 pick the lock; but before deciding upon this he again 
 tried his power of shoulder and will against the door, 
 and this time felt something give within. The door, 
 too, was not really locked, having no key in it, as, in 
 general, the keys of old flats become displaced. It 
 was apparently only fastened, if it were fastened at all, 
 by some catch or hook, for, after two or three more 
 thumps, it flew wide. 
 
 David, catching the handle, held it a little ajar, and 
 now again the stillness of the night was outraged by 
 his shout through the slit: "Hands up! or I fire!" At 
 the same instant he rushed in, and flooded the kitchen 
 with light. 
 
 But no one was there! A pallor struck from the 
 corners of his mouth to his cheek, even while his brow 
 was flushed, and he stood aghast, with an astounding 
 question in his eyes and in his heart. 
 
 143 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NO MORE VIOLET 
 
 There was little sleep for David Harcourt that 
 night. After his inrush into the kitchen, and his long 
 amazement to find it empty, he again searched the 
 flat throughout; no one but he was in it, and no one 
 had gone out through the front door, for there stood 
 his barricade of table, chair, and hat-stand, just as he 
 had left it. 
 
 Tliis seemed surely to show that he had to do with 
 that which is beyond and above natural. Yet there 
 were points against that view, too. There was, first 
 of all, the spot of blood, for in the passage between 
 the servant's room and the kitchen he saw what seemed 
 to be a spot of blood. The carpet was a brown pat- 
 tern on a pink ground, and in one place the brown 
 looked redder than elsewhere, — that was all. If it 
 was blood, then the bullet shot by him, which he now 
 found imbedded in the frame of the kitchen-door, 
 may have passed through some part of a man; but he 
 could not assert to himself that it was blood. 
 
 There were, however, the pictures. Unless he was 
 dancing mad, the fact was certain that he had left 
 only three of them with their backs undone, and now 
 
 144 
 
No More Violet 
 
 there were five — and he refused to believe that he 
 was indeed moonstruck. 
 
 So, then, a man had been in the flat, since no ghost 
 could materialize to the extent of picking tacks out 
 of picture-frames. And, if there had been a man, 
 that man was Van Hupfeldt, and no other. Van 
 Hupfeldt's motive would be clear enough. Miss 
 L'Estrange had told Van Hupfeldt that the certifi- 
 cates had fallen out of the back of a picture. David 
 himself had had the rashness, in his rage at the loss of 
 the certificates, to say over the door of Van Hupfeldt's 
 landau that there "might be other things where the 
 certificates came from. " Mrs. Grover had been seen 
 that afternoon talking to Van Hupfeldt's servant. 
 She was evidently in process of being bribed and won 
 over to the enemy. She may have told how David 
 had had all the pictures taken down and was at work 
 on them, and how he was to be out at an annual dinner 
 that night. She may possibly have handed over to 
 Van Hupfeldt the key of the flat, and Van Hupfeldt, 
 in a crazy terror lest an3i;hing should be found by 
 David in the pictures, may have come into the flat to 
 search for himself. 
 
 All this seemed plausible enough. But, then, how 
 had Van Hupfeldt got away? Had he a flying-ma- 
 chine ? Was he a griffin ? Were there holes in the 
 wall? 
 
 But if, as a matter of fact, he or some other had been 
 in the flat, and had some way got out other than by 
 
 145 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 the front door, here was a new thought — that Gwen- 
 doHne Mordaunt may not, after all, have committed 
 suicide. Suicide had been assumed simply because 
 of the locked and bolted front door. But how if there 
 existed some other mysterious exit from the flat.? In 
 that case she might have been done to death — by 
 Strauss, by Van Hupfeldt, if Van Hupfeldt was Strauss. 
 
 David, no doubt, was all too ready to think evil of 
 this man. Nevertheless the question confronted him. 
 Why, he asked himself, should Gwendoline have com- 
 mitted siucide ? She was a married woman — the 
 certificate, seen by Miss L'Estrange, proved that. 
 True, Gwendoline had received some terrible letter 
 four days before her death, as her servant had told 
 David, and she had said to the girl: "I am not mar- 
 ried. You think that I am; but I am not." Still, a 
 doubt arose now as to her suicide. Her sister Violet 
 did not believe in the suicide. Nothing was certain. 
 
 However, this new theory of the tragedy put David 
 upon writing to Violet the first thing in the morning. 
 Vague as his doubt, it was a set-off against his shame 
 of defeat in the matter of the certificates. It was 
 something with which to face her. He resolved to tell 
 her at once all that was in his mind, even his shocking 
 suspicion that Van Hupfeldt was Strauss, and he 
 wrote : 
 
 "Mr. David Harcourt has unfortunately not been 
 able to secure the certificates of which he had the 
 honor of speaking to Miss Mordaunt, but believes 
 
 146 
 
No More Violet 
 
 that her fiance, Mr. Van Hupfeldt, may be in a posi- 
 tion to give her some information on the subject. 
 However, Mr. Harcourt has other matters of pressing 
 importance to communicate to Miss Mordaunt for 
 her advantage, and, in case she lacks the leisure to be 
 alone in the course of the day, he will be pleased to be 
 at her sister's grave this evening about five, if she will 
 write him a line to that effect." 
 
 He posted this before eight in the morning, went 
 off to seek his old charwoman in Clerkenwell, break- 
 fasted outside, came home, and set to work afresh 
 upon the pictures. 
 
 And that proved a day of days for him. For, be- 
 fore noon, on opening the back of a mezzotint of the 
 "Fighting Temeraire," he found a book, large, flat, 
 and ivory-white. Its silver clasp was locked. He 
 could not see within, yet he understood that it was no 
 printed book, but in manuscript, and that here was 
 the diary of Gwendoline Mordaunt. He was still 
 exulting over it, searching now with fresh zeal for 
 more treasure, when he received a note: "Miss 
 Mordaunt hopes to lay some flowers on her sister's 
 grave this evening about five." 
 
 Her paper had a scent of violets, and David, in 
 putting it to his nostrils, allowed his lips, too, to steal 
 a kiss ; — for happy men do sometimes kiss scented 
 paper. And he was happy, thinking how, when he 
 presented the diary to her, he would see her glad and 
 thankful. 
 
 147 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 At the very hour, however, when he was thus re- 
 joicing, Van Hupfeldt was going up the stairs at 60A, 
 Porchester Gardens. He was limping and leaning on 
 his valet, and his dark skin was now so much paler 
 than usual that on his entrance into the drawing- 
 room Mrs. Mordaunt cried out: 
 
 "Why, what is the matter?" 
 
 "Do not distress yourself at all," said Van Hup- 
 feldt, limping on his stick toward her. "Only a 
 slight accident — a fall off a stumbling horse in the 
 park this morning — my knee — it is better now — " 
 
 "Oh, I am so sorry! But you should not have 
 come; you are evidently still in pain. So distressing! 
 Sit here; let me — " 
 
 "No, really," said he, "it is nearly all right now, 
 dear Mrs. Mordaunt. I have so much to say, and so 
 little time to say it in. Where is Violet.'^'* 
 
 "She is in her J^ed-room; will soon be down. Let 
 me place this cushion 
 She is well, I hope ? " 
 Yes; a little strange and restless to-day, perhaps 
 
 " What is it now .? " 
 
 "Oh, some little fall of the spiritual barometer, I 
 suppose. She has not mentioned anything specific to 
 
 me." 
 
 "You received my telegram of this morning.^" 
 "Saying that you would come at half -past one? 
 Yes." 
 
 "Well, I am lucky to have found you alone, for in 
 
 148 
 
No More Violet 
 
 what I have now to suggest to you, I do not wish my 
 influence to appear — let it seem to be done entirely 
 on your own impulse — but I have to beseech you, 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, to return to Rigs worth this very day.'* 
 
 " To-day ? Rigsworth ? But there are still a host 
 of things to be seen to before the wedding — " 
 
 "I know, I know. Even at the cost of putting off 
 the wedding for a week, if you will do all that is to 
 be done from Rigsworth instead of in London, you 
 will profoundly oblige me. I had hoped that you 
 would this do for me without requiring my reason, but 
 I see that I must give it, and without any beating 
 about the bush. Only give me first your assurance 
 that you will breathe not one word to Violet of what 
 I am forced to tell you." 
 
 " Good gracious ! What has happened ? " 
 
 "Promise me this." 
 
 "Well, I shall be discreet." 
 
 "Then, I have to tell you that Violet has made an 
 undesirable acquaintance in London, one whom it is 
 of supreme importance, if our married life is to be 
 a success, that she should see not once again. It is a 
 man — No, don't be unduly alarmed — I don't for a 
 moment suspect that their intimacy has proceeded 
 far, but it has proceeded too far, and must go no farther. 
 I may tell you that it is my belief that letters, or notes, 
 have passed between them, and, to my knowledge, 
 they have met at least once by appointment in Kensal 
 Green cemetery, for I have actually surprised them 
 
 149 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 there. Now, pray, don't be distressed. Don't, now, 
 or I shall regret having told you. Certainly, it is a 
 serious matter, but don't think it more serious than it 
 is—" 
 
 "Violet.^" breathed Mrs. Mordaunt, with a long 
 face. 
 
 "The facts are as I have stated them," proceeded 
 Van Hupfeldt, "and when the knowledge of them 
 came to me, I was at some pains to make inquiries into 
 the personality of the man in question. He turns out 
 to be a man named Harcourt." 
 
 "Oh, you mean Mr. Harcourt, the occupier of the 
 flat in Eddystone Mansions ? Why, he was here 
 yesterday. Violet herself told me — " 
 
 "Here.^ Yesterday?" Van Hupfeldt turned sud- 
 denly greenish. "But why so? What did the man 
 
 " Violet did not seem to wish to be explicit," answered 
 Mrs. Mordaunt; "but I understood from her that he 
 is interested in Gwendoline's fate." 
 
 "He? By what right does he dare? He is in- 
 terested in Violet! That is whom the man is in- 
 terested in, Mrs. Mordaunt, I tell you! And do you 
 know what this man is ? I have been at the pains to 
 discover — a scribbler of books, a man of notoriously 
 bad character who has had to fly from America — " 
 
 "How awful! But Mr. Dibbin, the agent, had 
 references — " 
 
 "References are quite useless. It is as I say, and I 
 
 150 
 
No More Violet 
 
 am not guessing wiien I assert to you that Violet has a 
 penchant for this man — a most dangerous penchant, 
 which can lead to nothing but disaster, if it be not now 
 scotched in the bud. I demand it as my right, and I 
 beseech it as a friend, that she never see him again.*' 
 
 " Yet it is all most strange. I think you exaggerate. 
 Violet's fancies are not errant." 
 
 "Well, say that I exaggerate. But you will at least 
 sympathize, Mrs. Mordaunt, with my sense of the 
 acute danger of your further stay in London at pres- 
 ent—" 
 
 "I think you make a mountain of a molehill, Mr. 
 Van Hupfeldt," said Mrs. Mordaunt with some dry- 
 ness, "and I am sorry now that I have promised not 
 to speak with Violet on the subject. Of course, I 
 recognize your right to have your say and your way, 
 but as for leaving London to-day at a moment's notice, 
 really that can't be done." 
 
 "Not to oblige me? not to please me.^" said he, 
 grasping the old lady's hand with a nervous intensity 
 of gesture that almost startled her. 
 
 "We might go to-morrow," she admitted. 
 
 " But if they correspond or meet to-night ? " 
 
 "Well, you are a lover, of course; but you shouldn't 
 start at shadows. Here is Violet herself.'* 
 
 "Leave us a little, will you.^" whispered Van Hup- 
 feldt, rising to meet the girl in his impulsive foreigner's 
 way, but, forgetting his wounded leg, he had to stop 
 short with a face of pain. 
 
 151 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 " Are you ill ? " asked Violet, and a certain aloofness 
 of manner did not escape him. 
 
 " A small accident — " he told over again the his- 
 tory of his fall from a horse which had never borne 
 him. Mrs. Mordaunt went out. Violet stood at a 
 table, turning over the leaves of a book, while Van 
 Hupfeldt searched her face under his anxious eyes, 
 and there was a silence between them, until Violet, 
 taking from her pocket David's first unsigned note 
 to her, held it out, saying: "It was you who sent me 
 this .? " 
 
 "I have told you so," answered Van Hupfeldt, 
 gray to the lips. '* Why do you ask again } " 
 
 "Because I am puzzled," she answered. "I have 
 this morning received a note in this same handwriting, 
 unless I^am very much mistaken, a note from a cer- 
 tain Mr. — " 
 
 " Yes. Harcourt — Christian name David." 
 
 " Quite so. David Harcourt — I can say it," she 
 answered quietly. "But how, then, comes it that 
 your note and his are in the same handwriting ? " 
 
 Van Hupfeldt's lips opened and shut, his eyes 
 shifted, and yet he chuckled with the uneasy mirth of 
 a ghoul: "The solution of that puzzle doesn't seem 
 difficult to me." 
 
 "You mean that you got Mr. Harcourt to write 
 your note for you ? " asked Violet. 
 
 "You are shrewdness itself," answered Van Hup- 
 feldt. 
 
 152 
 
No More Violet 
 
 "I did not know that you even knew him." 
 
 "Ah, I know him well." 
 
 "Well, then, have you brought the certificates?" 
 she asked keenly. 
 
 "Which certificates?" 
 
 " Which ? You ask that ? Surely, surely, you know 
 that a certificate of marriage and one of birth were 
 found in the flat by a Miss L'Estrange ? " 
 
 "No, I didn't know. How could I know?" 
 
 " But am I in a dream ? I have made sure that it 
 was upon some knowledge of them that you relied 
 when you wrote in the unsigned note, *It is 
 now a pretty certain thing that your sister was a 
 duly wedded wife.' " And she looked at David's letter 
 again. 
 
 "No, I had other grounds. I needn't tell you what, 
 since they are not yet certain — other grounds. I 
 have not heard yet of any certificates — " 
 
 "Well, God help me, then!" she murmured, half- 
 crying. "What, then, does Mr.. Harcourt mean? He 
 says in the note of this morning: *Mr. Harcourt has 
 not been able to secure the certificates, but believes 
 that Miss Mordaunt's fiance, Mr. Van Hupfeldt, may 
 be in a position to give her some information on the 
 subject.' What does that mean when you never even 
 heard of the certificates ? " 
 
 Van Hupfeldt, looking squarely now at her, said: 
 "It means nothing at all. You may take it from me 
 that no certificates have been found." 
 
 153 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Violet flushed angrily. "Some one is untrue!" she 
 cried out. 
 
 "I fear that that is so," murmured Van Hupfeldt, 
 dropping his eyes from her crimsoned face. 
 
 There was silence then for a while. 
 
 "With what object did this Harcourt come to you 
 yesterday, Violet ? " asked Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 "He wished to obtain my mother's authorization 
 for him to spend one hundred pounds in buying the 
 certificates from Miss L'Estrange's servant." 
 
 "Ah, that was what he said was his object. But 
 his real object was slightly different, I'm afraid. I 
 know this man, you see. He is poor, and not honest." 
 
 " Not honest .^ " 
 
 "No, not honest." 
 
 •'You say such a thing?" 
 
 " But what is it to you ? Why do you care ? Why 
 are you pale? Yes, I say it again, not honest! the 
 miserable ruffian." 
 
 "If he heard you, I think he might resent it with 
 some vigor," she said quietly. 
 
 " Why do you speak so strangely ? What is it ? Do 
 you doubt what I tell you ? " asked Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 "I neither doubt nor believe. What is it to me? 
 I only feel ashamed to live in the same world with such 
 people. If it was not to obtain my authorization to 
 spend the one hundred pounds for the certificates, why 
 did he come ? " 
 
 "There were no certificates!" cried Van Hupfeldt, 
 
 154 
 
No More Violet 
 
 vehemently. "The certificates were an invention. 
 What he really wanted was, not your authorization, 
 but the one hundred itself. He hoped that when he 
 asked for your authorization, you, in your eagerness 
 to have the certificates, would produce the one hundred 
 pounds, which to a man in his position is quite a large 
 sum, whereupon he would have decamped, and you 
 would have heard no more either of him or of your 
 one hundred pounds. But, as you did not hand him 
 the money, he now very naturally writes to say that 
 he can't get the certificates. I know the fellow very 
 well. I have long known him. He comes from 
 America, where he has played such ingenious pranks 
 once too often." 
 
 Violet sighed with misery, like one who hears the unfa- 
 vorable verdict of a doctor. " Oh, don't ! " she murmured. 
 
 "I am sorry to offend your ears," said Van Hup- 
 feldt, looking with interest at his nails, for they had 
 nearly dug into the palms of his hands a few minutes 
 earlier, "but it was necessary to tell you this. This 
 is not the sort of man who ought ever to have entered 
 your presence. How, by the way, did you come to 
 know him ? " 
 
 "I met him by chance at my sister's grave. He 
 told me that he is the tenant of the flat. He seemed 
 good. I don't know what to do!" She let herself 
 fall into a chair, leaned her head on her hand, and 
 stared miserably into vacancy, while Van Hupfeldt, 
 limping nearer, said over her: 
 
 155 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 » 
 
 "You ought to promise me, Violet, never again to 
 allow yourself to hold any sort of communication with 
 this person. You will hardly, indeed, be able to see 
 him again, for Mrs. Mordaunt has just been telling 
 me of her sudden resolve to go down to Rigsworth 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 " To-morrow ? " 
 
 "So she says; and perhaps on the whole it is best, 
 don't you think "? " 
 
 Violet shrugged hopeless shoulders. "I don't care 
 one bit either way," she said. 
 
 "So, then, that is agreed between us. You won't 
 ever write to him again." 
 
 "I don't undertake anything of that kind," she 
 retorted. " I must have time to think. Are you quite 
 sure that all this infamy is the God's truth ^ It is as 
 if you said that mountain streams ran ink. The man 
 told me that there were certificates. They fell out 
 of a picture-frame, he said. He looked true, he 
 seemed good and honest; he is a young man with dark- 
 blue eyes — " 
 
 "He is a beast!" 
 
 " I don't know that yet, I have no certain proof. I 
 was to see him this evening." 
 
 " To see him ? Ah, but never again, never again ! 
 And would you now, after hearing — " 
 
 "I am not sure. I must have time to think, I must 
 have proof. I have no proof. It is hard on me, after all." 
 
 "What is hard on you?" demanded Van Hupfeldt; 
 
 156 
 
No More Violet 
 
 and, had not the girl been so distraught, she would 
 have seen that he had the semblance more of a mur- 
 derer than of a lover. "What proofs do you want 
 beyond my word ? The man said that there were 
 certificates, did he not? Well, let him produce them. 
 The fact that he can't is a proof that there were none." 
 
 " Not quite. No — there is a doubt. He should 
 have the benefit of the doubt. A man should not be 
 condemned before he is tried, after all. If Miss 
 L'Estrange was to say that there were no certificates, 
 that would be proof. You must know her address — 
 give it to me, and let me go straight to her — " 
 
 "Certainly, I have her address," said Van Hup- 
 feldt, his eyes winking a little with crafty thought, 
 " but not, of course, in my head. You shall have it in 
 a day or two. You can then write and question her 
 from Rigsworth, and she will tell you that no cer- 
 tificate ever fell out of any picture." He thought to 
 himself: "for I shall see that she tells you what I wish, 
 if she has any love of money." 
 
 "But couldn't you give me the address to-day?" 
 asked Violet. "That would settle everything at once." 
 
 "To-day I'm afraid it is out of the question," an- 
 swered Van Hupfeldt. "I have it put away in some 
 drawer of some bureau. It may take a day or two; 
 but find it I will, and, meantime, is it much to expect 
 that my angel will believe in her one best and eternal 
 friend ? Assure me now that you will not see this un- 
 desirable person this evening." 
 
 157 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "I do not mean to at this moment, but I do not 
 decide. I said that I would. He pretends he has 
 something to say to me — " 
 
 "He has nothing! He is merely impudent. Where 
 were you to see him ? At the grave, I tliink ? At the 
 grave r 
 
 Violet blushed and made no answer. Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt came in. "So, mother," said Violet to her, 
 " we go home to-morrow ^ " 
 
 "I have thought that it might be well, dear," an- 
 swered her mother, "in which case we shall have 
 enough to do between now and then." 
 
 " But why the sudden decision ? " 
 
 "We are not at all moments our own masters and 
 mistresses, dear. This at present seems the indicated 
 course, and we must follow it." 
 
 " May I have the pleasure to come with you, if only 
 for a day or two ? " asked Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 "Of course, we are always glad of your company, 
 Mr. Van Hupfeldt," answered Mrs. Mordaunt; "but 
 it is such a trying journey, and it may affect your 
 injury." 
 
 "Not trying to me where Violet is," said Van Hup- 
 feldt. 
 
 "Violet should be a happy girl to have so much 
 devotion lavished upon her, I am sure," said Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, with a fond smile at her daughter. "I do 
 hope that she is duly grateful to you, and to the Giver 
 of all our good." 
 
 158 
 
No More Violet 
 
 Violet said nothing. In iier gloomy eyes, if one had 
 looked, dwelt a rather hunted look. She presently 
 left Van Hupfeldt and her mother, and in her own 
 room lay on a couch thinking out her problem. "To 
 go to the grave, or not to go ? " 
 
 She had promised: but how if David Harcourt was 
 truly the thing which he was said to be ? Her maiden 
 mind shrank and shuddered. It was possibly false, 
 but, then, it was possibly true — all men seemed to be 
 liars. She had better wait and first hear the truth 
 from Miss L'Estrange. If Miss L'Estrange proved 
 him false, she, Violet, would give herself one luxury, 
 the writing to him of one note — such a note ! sting- 
 ing, crushing, killing! After which she would forget 
 once and forever that such a being had ever lived, 
 and seemed nice, and been detestable. Meantime, it 
 would be too unmaidenly rash to see him. It could 
 not be done; however much he drew her with his 
 strong magnetism, she should not, and would not. 
 Why could he not have been good, and grand, and 
 high, and everything that is noble and wonderful, as a 
 man should be? In that case, ah, then! As it was, 
 how could she ? It was his own fault, and she hated 
 him. Still, she had promised, and one should keep 
 one's word unless the keeping becomes impossible. 
 Moreover, since she was to leave London on the 
 morrow, she should dearly like to see the grave once 
 more. The new wreath must be already on its way 
 from the florist's. She would like to go, dearly, 
 
 159 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 dearly, if only it were not for the lack of dignity and 
 reserve. 
 
 Thinking such thoughts, she lay so long that Van 
 Hupfeldt went away without seeing her again; but he 
 had no intention of leaving it to chance whether she 
 saw David that evening or not. Certain that the 
 rendezvous was at the grave, his cautious mind pro- 
 ceeded to take due precautions, and by three o'clock 
 the eyes of his spy, a young woman rather overdressed, 
 were upon the grave in the Kensal Green cemetery, 
 while Van Hupfeldt himself was sitting patient in the 
 smoking-room of a near hotel, ready to be called the 
 moment a sign of Violet should be seen. 
 
 Violet, however, did not go to the grave. About 
 four o'clock one of the servants of 60 A, Porchester 
 Gardens, arrived at the cemetery in a cab, went to the 
 grave, put the new wreath on it, and on the wreath 
 put an envelope directed to "David Harcourt, Esq," 
 and went away. The moment she was gone. Van 
 Hupfeldt's spy had the envelope, and with it hurried to 
 him in the hotel. Breaking it open without hesitation, 
 he read the words : " Miss Mordaunt regrets that she is 
 unable to visit her sister's grave to-day, as she hoped, 
 and from to-morrow morning she will be in the country; 
 but if Mr. Harcourt really has anything of importance 
 to communicate to her, he may write, and she will 
 reply. Her address is Dale Manor, Rigsworth, near 
 Kenilworth, Warwickshire." 
 
 "What do you think of this handwriting?" Van 
 
 160 
 
No More Violet 
 
 Hupfeldt asked of his she-attendant, showing her the 
 note. " Do you think you could imitate it ? " 
 
 "It is big and bold enough; it doesn't look difficult 
 to imitate," was the critical estimate. 
 
 " Just have a try, and let me see your skill. Write — " 
 
 He dictated to her the words: "Miss Mordaunt 
 has duly received from her fiance, Mr. Van Hupfeldt, 
 the certificates of which Mr. Harcourt spoke to her, so 
 that all necessity for any communication betw^een Mr. 
 Harcourt and Miss Mordaunt is now at an end. Miss 
 Mordaunt leaves London to-day." 
 
 The scribe, after several rewritings, at last shaped 
 the note into something really like Violet's writing. 
 It was then directed to "David Harcourt." The 
 young woman took it to the grave, and it was placed 
 on the wreath of violets where the purloined note had 
 lain. 
 
 Twenty minutes later, David, full of anticipation 
 and hope, the diary in his hand, drew near to Kensal 
 Green. For some time he did not go quite to the 
 grave, but stood at the bend of the path, whence he 
 should be able to see her feet coming, and the blooming 
 beneath them of the March daisies in the turf. But 
 she did not come. The minutes went draggingly by. 
 Strolling presently nearer the grave, he noticed the 
 fresh wreath, and the letter laid on it. 
 
 He stood a long while by the lona cross over the 
 violets, while the dusk deepened to a gloom like that 
 of his mind. How empty seemed London now ! And 
 
 161 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 all life, how scantless and stale now, without the 
 purple and perfume of her! For she was gone, and 
 "all necessity for any communication between her 
 and him was now at an end." He went away from the 
 cemetery whistling a tune, with a jaunty step, in order 
 to persuade himself that his heart was not hollow, nor 
 his mind black with care. 
 
 162 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE DIARY 
 
 For some time after this disappearance of Violet, 
 David needed the focusing of all his manhood to set 
 himself to work. His feeling was that nothing is 
 worth while. He wished to sit in his easy-chair, stare, 
 and be vaguely conscious of the coming and going of 
 his charwoman. An old Londoner now, he no longer 
 heard the roar, nor stifled at the smoke of that torrent 
 that goes up forever. He could have sat over his fire 
 in a sort of abstract state, without thought, hope, or 
 care, for days. If he took up the pen he groaned ; but 
 he did take it up, and it proved medicinal. Little by 
 little he acquired tone. 
 
 Meantime, he would often re-read the note which 
 had had so powerful an effect on him, until one day, 
 in the ripening of his mind, the thought rose in him: 
 "There's something queer here. She must have been 
 very agitated when she wrote this!" 
 
 Then he began to think that it was not quite like 
 Violet's writing. Presently hope, energy, action burst 
 into blossom afresh within him. Suppose, he thought, 
 that the whole business was somehow a trick of that 
 man ? Suppose that she was in London all the time ? 
 
 163 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 He wrote to her at Porchester Gardens that day, but 
 received no answer. Van Hupfeldt had given orders 
 that all letters for the Mordaunts should be sent to him, 
 nor did he send on David's letter to Violet, for he knew 
 David's writing. Moreover, he had warned the pro- 
 prietors at Porchester Gardens that a certain man, 
 who was likely to make himself troublesome to the 
 Mordaunts, might present himself there in the hope of 
 learning their address in the country, in view of which 
 they had better give the address to no one. 
 
 Now, at David's only meeting with Violet at the 
 grave, she had mentioned to him her country address, 
 but, having heard it only once and that heedlessly, 
 when his brain was full of new notions, it had so far 
 passed out of his mind in the course of time that all 
 that he could remember of it was that it was in War- 
 wickshire. Nor could any racking of his brains 
 bring back more of it than the name of the county. 
 After some days he betook himself to Porchester 
 Gardens. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Mordaunt at home?" he asked. 
 
 "No," was the answer, "she isn't staying here now. 
 She is in the country." 
 
 That much, then, of the note found on the grave 
 was true. 
 
 " When did she go ? " he asked. 
 
 "Last Tuesday week," was the answer. 
 
 The note was true! 
 
 "I have written Miss Mordaunt a letter," said 
 
 164 
 
The Diary 
 
 David, " telling her that I have in my possession some- 
 thing which I know that she would like to have, and 
 have received no answer. I suppose you forward her 
 letters on to her ? " 
 
 "Yes; we send them to a gentleman who forwards 
 them on." 
 
 " Ah .^ What gentleman is that ^ " 
 
 "A Mr. Van Hupfeldt." 
 
 "I see. But can you give me Mrs. Mordaunt's 
 address .^ " 
 
 "We are not to give it; but any letters will be sent 
 
 on." 
 
 " Through Mr. Van Hupfeldt .? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But suppose I send you one with a cross on the 
 envelope, would you do me the special favor to send 
 that one on direct, not through Mr. Van Hupfeldt ? " 
 
 "We have instructions as to the Mordaunts' letters," 
 said the landlady, "and, of course, we follow them." 
 
 "Well, but you seem very inflexible, especially as I 
 tell you—" 
 
 " Can't help that, sir. We were told that you would 
 be turning up, and I give you the answer which I was 
 directed to give. It is quite useless to come here mak- 
 ing any request as to the Mordaunts." 
 
 David went away discomforted. There remained 
 to him one hope — Dibbin. He ran round to Dibbin's 
 and asked for the address. 
 
 "I*m afraid I'm hardly authorized to do that," 
 
 165 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 answered the agent, to whom such appeals were 
 matters of every-day business. 
 
 "Do be reasonable," urged David. "Miss Mor- 
 daunt herself gave me her address, only I have let it 
 slip out of my mind." 
 
 Dibbin shook his head like an emblem of doubt. 
 "Of course," he said, "I shall be happy to send on 
 anything which you commit to me." 
 
 "Direct?" asked David, "or through Van Hup- 
 feldt .? " 
 
 "Direct, of course," answered Dibbin. "I have 
 no sort of instructions with respect to Mr. Van Hup- 
 feldt." 
 
 " Have you ever seen him, Dibbin ? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Don't happen to know his address ? " 
 
 "No; I merely knew his name quite lately by repute 
 as that of a man of wealth about town, and as an 
 acquaintance of the Mordaunts." 
 
 "'Acquaintance' is good, as a phrase," David could 
 not help blurting out. "Well, I have something be- 
 longing to Miss Mordaunt, and will send you a letter 
 to forward." 
 
 That day the letter was written and sent, a stiff- 
 stark little missive, informing Miss Mordaunt that Mr. 
 Harcourt had duly received the note left on the grave, 
 and had once before written her to say so, as well as 
 to tell her that he had in his possession a book which 
 he believed to be the diary of her sister. He did not 
 
 166 
 
The Diary 
 
 care to send it her through another, but would at once 
 forward it on receiving a Hne from her. 
 
 After two days came an answer: Miss Mordaunt 
 thanked Mr. Harcourt extremely for his pains, and 
 would be glad to receive the book to which he referred 
 at " the above address, " that address being : " The 
 Cedars, Birdhp, Gloucestershire." 
 
 David actually had the diary wrapped up to send to 
 this address. Then he paused. The handwriting of 
 the note was not quite like that of the note in which 
 she had made the appointment with him at the grave. 
 It was rather Uke the writing of the note which he 
 had found with the wreath — not quite, perhaps, the 
 same. And then again the address which she had 
 given him by word of mouth that jfirst evening at 
 Kensal Green was in Warwickshire. He remembered 
 that much, beyond doubt. Was she, then, spending 
 some time with friends at " The Cedars " in — Glou- 
 cestershire .^ He thought that it might be a good 
 thing, before sending the diary, if he took a run down 
 into Gloucestershire to make sure that she was really 
 there. 
 
 This he did the next day, and found that "The 
 Cedars" was a mansion two miles from the village 
 of Birdhp, old, somewhat dismantled, shut up, occu- 
 pied only by a few retainers. No Violet was there. 
 
 He learned at one of the village taverns that the place 
 was the property of Van Hupfeldt. He took the diary 
 back to London with him that same night. 
 
 167 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 What seemed certain to him now was that Van 
 Hupfeldt himself or some agent of Van Hupfeldt's 
 must be in the Mordaunts' house, and that this letter 
 sent through Dibbin had never reached Violet. So 
 again he was cut off from her. Not one word could 
 he speak to her. He craved only for one small word. 
 When that marriage of hers with Van Hupfeldt was 
 to take place he did not know; but he felt that it might 
 be soon. He had taken upon himself to say to her 
 that it should never be, and not one word could he 
 utter to prevent it. He had forgotten, and his brain 
 would not give up its dead. He beat his brow 
 upon his dining-room table where his head had dropped 
 wearily on his coming home that early morning from 
 the country. 
 
 To go to her, to tell her all, to stop the indecent 
 marriage, to cast himself at her feet, and call upon 
 her pity for his passionate youth — this impulse drove 
 him; but he could not stir a step. A great "No" 
 bewitched him. His straining was against ropes of 
 steel. Half -thoughts, half-inventions of every im- 
 possible kind passed like smoke through his mind, and 
 went away, and came wearily again. The only one 
 of any likelihood was the thought of kneeling to Dib- 
 bin, of telling him that Van Hupfeldt was probably 
 Strauss, and beseeching him for the Mordaunts' sake 
 to give the address. But he had not the least faith 
 in the success of such a thing. To that dried man, 
 fossilized all through, incrusted in agency, anything 
 
 168 
 
The Diary 
 
 that implied a new departure, a new point of view, 
 was a thing impossible. His shake of the head was 
 as stubborn a fact in nature as any Andes. There 
 was only the diary left — the diary might contain the 
 address ! 
 
 David did not wish to open those locked thoughts. 
 He had hardly the right, but, after a whole day spent 
 in eying the book, he laughed wildly and decided. It 
 was a question of life, of several lives. He put the 
 book to his lips, with a kiss of desperation, inhaling 
 its faded scent of violets. 
 
 At once he rushed out with it to a tradesman skilled 
 in locks, and was surprised at the ease with which 
 the man shot back the tiny lever with a bit of twisted 
 wire. 
 
 "I can make you a key by the morning," said the 
 man, squinting into the lock, and listening to its 
 action as he turned the wire in his fingers. "It is a 
 simple mechanism with two wards. Meantime, here 
 it is, opened." 
 
 He refused even to be paid for "so slight a thing." 
 David handed him a cigar — and ran ; and was soon 
 deep in it. The first passage thrilled him as with 
 solemn music: 
 
 O silent one, I must tell my sweets and bitters to you, since I 
 mayn't to others. You will treasure each syllable, and speak of 
 me as I am, "nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice." 
 
 But please, as you are good, bring not upon me any further decla- 
 mation of the unhappy Moor! Pray Heaven you may not have to 
 record the " unlucky deeds " of " one that lov'd, not wisely, but too 
 
 169 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 well," nor your pallid cheeks reveal your grief because my " sub- 
 dued eyes, 
 
 Albeit unused to the melting mood, 
 Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
 Their med'cinable gum ! " 
 
 I was married last Tuesday. As the carriage rolled back along 
 the sea front, and my darhng husband's arm clasped my waist as 
 tightly as a silver arm clasps you, Httle book, the old jingle came into 
 my head: "Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the 
 best day of all." The nasty things predicted for the other days of 
 the week do not matter a jot, do they? Well, thank God, I am 
 healthy enough, and Harry says that we shall have plenty of money 
 by and by. Given health and wealth, there remains but happiness, 
 and that is of our own contriving. And I am happy. Of that 
 there can be no manner of doubt. Of course, I should have 
 enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of marriage in the parish 
 church with its joy-bells, its laughing tears, its nice speeches, while 
 
 the dear old rector beamed on me, and the good folk of R set 
 
 their eyes a-goggle to see how I looked and how Harry carried him- 
 self. 
 
 I flatter myself I should have made a pretty bride, and, as for 
 Harry, even under the chilling influences of a registrar's office he 
 had the air of a man who knows his own mind. How often, titter- 
 ing at my thoughts, have I pictured my wedding-day long before 
 Prince Charming hove in sight! And how different it all has been 
 to the conceits of girlhood! When he did come, he hoisted an un- 
 known flag and bore me off like any pirate. 
 
 Then references to life in a hotel, not named, and 
 the good-natured scrutiny of strangers "who knew us 
 at once as a newly-married couple, though we tried 
 to be offhand to each other." 
 
 Later she described the beginning of housekeeping 
 in London, "where all is so strange"; then a few 
 phrases which sighed. 
 
 170 
 
The Diary 
 
 I have come to hate the word "Miss." It is a constant reminder 
 of the compact. Harry says it will not be long now before om* 
 marriage can be proclaimed; but meantime I always catch myself 
 smiling graciously when a shop- walker hails me as "madam." 
 There is a recognition in the word! "Miss" is only a trifle less 
 endurable than the "my dear" of the theater, which I heard to-day 
 for the first time. 
 
 After some days there was a darker mood: 
 
 It has given me a shock to find myself described as "domesti- 
 cated." I came home to an empty house, after to-day's rehearsal, 
 tired and a bit peevish, perhaps. It is so slow, this novitiate. Harry 
 says that his influence will quickly bring me to the front, that I 
 must have patience, that the theatrical world is so compact, yet so 
 split up into cliques, that, were our relationship suspected, I should 
 encounter hostihty instead of the indifference which I now resent. 
 So, in unamiable mood, I began to rate my charlady about the dust 
 which gives its brown tone to London interiors. Thinking that a 
 display of energy might prove a tonic, I cleared out the dining- 
 room and made things shine. My help raised her eyebrows and a 
 duster in astonishment. "Lor', miss," she said, "you are domesti- 
 cated! You must have had a good mother?" A good mother! 
 She didn't know how that word felt. 
 
 How odiously some of the men speak, gaze. If a woman is 
 attractive, they ogle her; if she is passee, she is less than nothing. 
 Men did not talk and leer in that way at R. Did they think so? 
 I cannot say. Even Harry laughed when I lost my temper in de- 
 scribing the impudence of a young fop who had bought his way 
 into the chorus. "You must get used to that sort of thing in town!" 
 he said. Then: "Bear with it a little while, sweetheart. Soon the 
 pretense will be ended, and I shall be only too happy if you have 
 lost the glamour of the footlights by that time. It was no wish of 
 mine that you should become an actress." That is quite, quite 
 true. But I wish now — no, I don't. I am silly and miserable. 
 Please, diary, don't be angry if I weep over you, and if I write foolish 
 things. 
 
 Then, some four months after marriage: 
 
 171 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Harry away a whole week now. Telegram from Paris: "Cannot 
 leave Mrs. S. for some time yet." He is glad that I have decided 
 to give up the stage without delay. So soon, so soon! I am glad, 
 too, for some reasons, and sorry for others. Is not that life in a 
 few words? . . . 
 
 Creature d'un jour qui t'agites une heure, 
 De quoi viens-tu te plaindre et que te fait gemir? 
 Ton ame t'inquiete et tu crois qu'elle pleura: 
 Ton ame est immortelle, et tes pleurs vont tarur. 
 
 It is strange that I should regret the passing of the stage, now 
 that it becomes a necessity. There I found companionship, of a 
 sort. I shall be so lonely. But not for long. Harry returns next 
 week, " on the 10th " his second message says, and then I think really 
 that I must begin to insist upon seeing my mother. He can hardly 
 refuse now. To meet her again! though our eyes will be flooded 
 with tears. And Vi! dear, dear Vi! Will she be eager to hear all 
 about it.'^ But the reproach in her eyes! What did she think 
 when she opened that letter of mine? How she would weep over 
 her old flighty Gwen! Oh, darling mother, and sweet, ever-for- 
 giving sister, how I long to hold you in my arms! If Harry only 
 knew you he would surely trust you, and then I would not care if 
 the publication of the marriage was delayed another year. 
 
 17a 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN PAIN 
 
 Hour after hour David read on, dead to all things 
 in the world but to the soul in pain in that book 
 and to his hope that, if only once, she had written 
 the name of her home. Every time he came upon 
 that letter R (by which she meant Rigsworth) he 
 groaned; and anon he looked with eyes of despair 
 and something of fond reproach at her face over the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 He read of her leaving the stage, because of the 
 necessity that was now upon her, and then of the 
 months of heaviness and tears. The worst trial of 
 all in her lot seemed to be the constant separations, 
 due to the tyranny of one " Mrs. S,'* who ever drew her 
 husband from her. She wrote: 
 
 I actually should be jealous, if she wasn't old! From Paris to 
 Homburg, from Homburg to Siena: and everywhere poor Harry 
 dragged at her chariot-wheels! I should like to have one peep at 
 her in the flesh, just to see what she is really like. Her photographs 
 show a fat, cross-looking old thing, but she can't be quite like that, 
 with her really good affectionate heart. Has she not been the best 
 of mothers to Harry? From the time she adopted him, he says, 
 when he was a quite poor boy of fifteen, she has never been able to 
 live a month without seeing him, even when he was at Heidelburg 
 
 173 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 University. I must be content only to share him with her, but 
 just now I think I have the stronger claim, unless she is really so 
 very ill. I have heard that tale before of her "dying state," but 
 that sort of old things don't die so easily. I believe that I write 
 as if I wished her to ! God forbid ! I don't allow all Harry's dreams 
 of the grandeurs to be enjoyed after her death to excite me much. 
 I hope that I shall take it as coldly as doing up my hair when the let- 
 ter comes, "Mrs. S. is dead! you are a millionaire." 
 
 Mercenariness is not one of my faults, anyway. It is true that 
 since I have ceased to earn anything, I do sometimes feel a wee 
 pinch of scarcity, and wish that he could send me even a few shill- 
 ings a week more. But if that was only all of my trouble! No, 
 Mrs. S., may you Uve as long as Heaven wills. If I thought that in 
 any part of me there lurked one little longing to hear of that good 
 woman's death, I should never forgive myself. Still, I don't think 
 it right of her to play the despot over Harry to the extent to which 
 she carries it. A man thirty-eight years old has surely the right to 
 marry, if he wishes to. If it hadn't been for her, my marriage could 
 have been made public from the first, and all that woe at R. would 
 have been spared. Harry says that she hates the very word "mar- 
 riage," and that if she was to get the least scent of his marriage, 
 she would cut him off with a shilling. 
 
 He has run a risk, poor old Hal, for my sake, and if now and 
 again he can't help longing to be rich and free, it is hard to blame 
 him. The day he is rich and free there will be a spree, Gwen! 
 It is wrong lo anticipate it, but see if I don't make the street of R. 
 glow, if not with the wine of France, at least with beer, and if I 
 don't teach a certain staid Miss Violet Mordaunt how to do the 
 high-kick, girls ! I wonder if all will be over by then, and if I shall 
 go back to dear old R. not only a wife but a mother ? 
 
 Then again, a month later: 
 
 What a thing! to be a mother! Sometimes the thought hits me 
 suddenly between the eyes, and I can't believe it is I myself — that 
 same powerlessness to recognize myself which I had for fully a week 
 after the marriage. But this is greater still, to have something 
 which will be to me what I have been to my own mother. Gwen, 
 
 174 
 
In Pain 
 
 Gwen, how exquisitely droll! How one grows into something else 
 quite different, without at all noticing how and when! But will 
 it never be over? It is like heaving a sigh a century long. Won't 
 it be nice to dance again, and fling one's hmbs? But meantime, 
 such a weight of care, strange fears, gazings into I don't know what 
 abyss, and never a day without its flood of tears. I want my mother. 
 It is no good; I want to go back to where I was born. I am not 
 strong enough to bear this. But after Tuesday's promise to him, 
 what can I do ? I have said now that I won't write until after, and 
 I won't if God gives me strength. 
 
 For two months there was no entry, and then came 
 joy that a son was born; but from the time of that 
 birth, the diary which had before been profuse and 
 daily became short and broken. 
 
 A deadlock seemed to have arisen. "Harry" 
 allowed one letter to be written home to tell of the 
 birth; but would not permit any direct statement as 
 to the marriage, nor any meeting, nor any further 
 letter, until "Mrs. S.," who was now "near her end," 
 should be dead. She wrote: 
 
 To-day is six weeks since I have seen him, and altogether he has 
 seen baby only twice. Yesterday's letter was divided into "heads," 
 like a sermon, giving the reason why I may not go to him in Paris, 
 why I may not write home, even without giving my address, and 
 why he cannot come back yet. But it is a year now, and I have a 
 mother and a sister. Thei'e is no certainty that Mrs. S. may not 
 hve ten years longer; and in last night's letter I said that on the 
 4th of July, one month from now, if nothing has then happened to 
 change the situation, I shall be compelled to risk displeasing him, 
 and I shall go to R. That's crossing the Rubicon, Gwen, and I'm 
 awfully frightened now. He will call it defiance, and rave, I know. 
 "Be bold, be bold, be not too bold." But, then, I can always tame 
 the monster with one Delilah kiss. I think I know my man, and 
 
 175 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 can conquer my conqueror, and it is time now to begin to assert 
 myself a little. . . . 
 
 Isn't there something queerish in his relation with "Mrs. S"? 
 He stands in such mortal fear of her! I don't think it is quite pretty 
 for a man to have such tremors for any earthly reason. One day I 
 asked him why he could not introduce me to her as — a friend ? 
 She might take a fancy to me, I said, since I am generally pop- 
 ular. He looked quite frightened at the mere suggestion of such 
 a thing. . . . 
 
 That last night, coming home from the theater, he said some- 
 thing about "Anna." I asked him who Anna was. He said: "I 
 mean Mrs. S.," looking, it seemed to me, rather put out. I had 
 never heard him call her Anna before. . . . 
 
 My voice is certainly not what it was, and not through any want 
 of practise, I'm sure. People so hopelessly worried as I am at 
 present can't sing really well. For the second time yesterday I 
 wrote that I shall really go to mother after the fourth of next month, 
 and I mean it, I do mean it! I owe something to her, too, and to 
 myself, and I still don't see what harm it can do to Harry. Poor 
 dear, he is awfully frightened! "If you persist in this wild notion, 
 you will compel me to take a step which will be bitter to you and 
 to myself." I don't know what step he can mean. That's only 
 talk. I'll do it just to see what happens, for one oughtn't to threaten 
 a woman with penalties which she can't conceive, or her curiosity 
 will lead her to do the very thing. It was an ill-understood threat 
 that made Eve eat the apple, my Hal. "Thou shalt surely die"; 
 but, not knowing what "to die" was like, she thought to herself: 
 "Well, just to see." There's no particularly "bitter step" that 
 he can take, and the time is really come for me to assert myself a 
 little now. Men love a woman better when she is not all milk and 
 honey. . . . 
 
 It is near now, Vi! He has her chin, her hands, her dark grave 
 eyes, her very smile. I am on the point at last of seeing him in her 
 arms. How will she look ? What will she think of me, the httle 
 girl whom she used to guide with her eye, beating her a hundred 
 miles, an old experienced mummie while she is still a maid! I can 
 no more resist it than I could fly! I shall do it! I am going to do 
 
 176 
 
In Pain 
 
 it! I told Harry that I should. There's no danger, and I can't 
 resist it any longer. I am just back from P. He is looking too 
 sweet now for anything, and can blow the whistle of the rattle. I 
 told Mrs. C. that in three days' time I shall be taking him from her 
 for at least ten days, perhaps for good. Only three days! Sarah 
 is beginning to get things ready. . . . 
 
 Yes, it was "a bitter step" enough, poor Hal! God help you 
 and me, and all the helpless! . . . 
 
 I told poor Sarah just now: "I am not married. You only 
 think that I am; but I am not. I have a child; but I am not 
 married. Sarah, this is no fit place for a girl like you." She 
 thinks that I am mad, I know, but I keep quite sane and myself. 
 I am only sorry for poor old Hal. He loves me and I loved him 
 when I had a heart. . . . 
 
 I thought of seeing the boy once more, but I haven't the energy. 
 I don't seem to care. If I should care, or love, or hate, or eat, 
 it wouldn't be so horrible. But I am only a ghost, a sham. I am 
 really dead. My nature is akin with the grave, and has no appetite 
 but for that with which it is akin. Well, I will soon come. It shall 
 be to-morrow night, just after Sarah is gone. But I must rouse 
 myself first to do that which is my duty. I ought, as a friend, to 
 cover up poor Hal's traces, and yet I must be just to the boy, too. He 
 ought to know when he grows up that, if his mother was unfortunate, 
 she was not abandoned, and it is my duty to leave for him the proofs 
 of it. But how to do that, and at the same time protect Harry, is 
 the question, for I suppose that the police will search the flat. It 
 is very wearisome. I doubt if my poor head is too clear to-day. . . . 
 
 It shall be like this: I'll hide the things somewhere where tJie 
 police won't readily find them. 1 11 invent a place. Then I shall 
 write to Vi, not telling her what is going to happen to me, but telhng 
 her that if in a few months' time she will thoroughly search a cer- 
 tain flat in London, she will find what will be good for her and 
 mother and the boy. And I shall give the address; but I won't tell 
 her exactly where I hide the things; for fear of the police getting 
 hold of the letter and arresting Harry. And I will post it after 
 Sarah is gone to-morrow night, just before I do it. That's what I 
 shall do. I'm pretty artful, my brain is quite clear and calm. I 
 
 177 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 don't know yet where I shall hide the things; but I shall find a place, 
 I shall hoodwink them all, and manage everything just nicely. Sarah 
 thinks that I'm mad, but I'm not. It is she who is raving mad, 
 and people who are mad think that every one is, except them- 
 selves. 
 
 I'll hide the diary in one place, the certificates in another, and 
 the photograph of the boy's father in another. That's what I'll do. 
 Then I'll tear up all other papers small. No, I'll hide as well the 
 letter in which he says that he is Mrs. S's husband, and that I'm not 
 his legal wife; for some day I should like Vi to know that I did not 
 take my life for nothing, but was murdered before I killed myself. 
 Then I'll do it. It isn't bitter; it's sweet. Death's a hole to creep 
 in for shelter for one's poor head. Harry will be in England in five 
 days' time, so I'll write him a letter to the Constitutional to say 
 good-by. He loves me. He didn't mean to kill me. He only told 
 me in order to stop me from going home. It is such a burden to 
 write to him, but it is my duty to give him one last word of comfort, 
 and I will. 
 
 Then, when all this world of business is over and done, I'll do it. 
 It isn't bitter; it's sweet. God, I couldn't face them! Forgive me! 
 I know that it is wicked; but it is nice, is death. Things are as they 
 are. One can't fight against the ocean. It is sweet to close one's 
 eyes, and drown. t 
 
 That word "drown" was the last. David closed 
 the book with a blackness in his heart and brain. 
 
 The reading of it had brought him only grief and 
 little light for practical purposes. That "Mrs. S." 
 meant "Mrs. Strauss" he had no doubt, nor any 
 doubt that "Harry" meant Henry Van Hupfeldt. 
 Still, there was no formal proof of it. The name of 
 her home, to learn which he had dared to open the 
 diary, appeared only as "R." The only pieces of 
 knowledge which the reading brought him were, 
 firstly, that there were a photograph and a letter still 
 
 178 
 
In Pain 
 
 hidden in the flat — certainly, not in any of the pic- 
 tures, for he had searched them all; and secondly 
 that "Harry" was a member of the Constitutional 
 Club. As for the child, it was, or had been, at "P.," 
 in the care of one "Mrs. C." 
 
 179 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HAND TO HAND 
 
 The necessity that was now strong upon David 
 was to act, to fight for it. To hunt for the still hidden 
 photograph and letter was far too slow a task in his 
 present mood of turbulence and desperation. The 
 photograph, indeed, would furnish certain proof 
 as to whether Strauss and Van Hupfeldt were one. 
 So might the letter. But of what use would proof 
 of anything whatever be, when he was all shut out 
 from access to the Mordaunts ? He thought, how- 
 ever, that if he could come within earshot and striking 
 distance of Van Hupfeldt, then something might 
 result, he was not clear what. He put on his hat and 
 went out, as grim a man as any on the streets of 
 London that afternoon. He did not know where 
 Van Hupfeldt lived, but he turned his steps toward 
 the Constitutional Club. 
 
 He meant at least to discover if Van Hupfeldt was 
 a member there, and he might discover more. But 
 he was spared the pains of inquiry, for he was still at 
 a distance of thirty yards from the club when he saw 
 Van Hupfeldt come out and step into a carriage. 
 
 David cringed half under a dray, till the carriage 
 
 180 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 began to move, then followed some way behind at his 
 long trot. He thought now that perhaps he was about 
 to track Van Hupfeldt to his house. 
 
 The carriage drove straight to Baker-St. Station, 
 into which Van Hupfeldt went, and took a ticket. 
 David, listening outside the outer entrance to the 
 small booking-office, could not catch the name of his 
 destination, but when Van Hupfeldt had gone down 
 into the gloom and fume, David, half-way down the 
 flight of stairs, stood watching. He had no little 
 finesse in tracking, and ferreting, and remaining in- 
 visible, and when Van Hupfeldt had taken his seat, 
 David was in another compartment of the same train. 
 
 The dusk of evening was thickening when their 
 train stopped at the townlet of Pangley, twenty-five 
 miles from London, where Van Hupfeldt alighted. 
 
 David saw him well out of the little station before he 
 himself leaped, as the train began to move. He then 
 took the precaution to ascertain the times of the next 
 up-trains. There would be one at quarter past eight 
 and another at ten p.m. While he asked as to the 
 trains, and paid the fare of some excess charge, he kept 
 his eye on the back of Van Hupfeldt, walking down 
 the rather steep street. And, when it was safe, he 
 followed. 
 
 At the bottom of the street they crossed a bridge, 
 and thenceforward walked up a road with heath on 
 both sides. David was angry with his luck, for the 
 road was straight and long, and there was little cover 
 
 181 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 in the heath, where he walked some distance from the 
 road. Once Van Hupfeldt turned, and seemed to 
 admire the last traces of color in the western sky, 
 whereat David, as if shot, dropped into gorse and 
 bracken. He hoped that Van Hupfeldt, being a man 
 of cities and civilization, was unconscious of him; 
 but he felt that he in Van Hupfeldt's place would have 
 known all, and he had a fear. The light was fast 
 failing, but he could clearly see Van Hupfeldt, who 
 swung a parcel in his hand; and he thought that if he 
 could see Van Hupfeldt well, then Van Hupfeldt 
 might have seen him dimly. Van Hupfeldt, however, 
 gave no sign of it. 
 
 David saw him go into the gateway of a pretty 
 dwelling, and a big hearty countrywoman ran out to 
 meet him, her face beaming with good cheer. Carry- 
 ing a child in her arms, she escorted Van Hupfeldt into 
 the house with, it was clear, no lack of welcome, and, 
 when they had disappeared, David, vaulting over a 
 hedge into the orchard, crept nearer the house and hid 
 behind a shed in which he saw a white calf. He 
 waited there for a long time, how long he did not know, 
 for once, when he peered at his watch, he could see 
 nothing. The night had come moonless and black. 
 The place where he lurked was in the shadow of trees. 
 
 Meantime, within the house. Van Hupfeldt sat with 
 the child on his knee. He was so pale that Mrs. 
 Carter, the child's foster-mother, asked if he was well. 
 Some purpose, some fear or hope, agitated him. Once, 
 
 182 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 when the countrywoman left the room to fetch a glass 
 of milk, the moment he was alone he put down the 
 child, sped Hke a thief to the grandfather's clock tick- 
 ing in its old nook by the settee, opened it, put the 
 minute-hand back twenty minutes, and was seated 
 again when the milk came in. 
 
 These visits of his to the child, of which he paid 
 one every week, always lasted half an hour. This 
 time he stayed so much longer that Mrs. Carter glanced 
 at the clock, only to be taken aback by the earliness 
 of the hour. 
 
 "Bless us!" she cried. "I thought it was later 'n 
 that. You still have plenty of time to catch the quar- 
 ter past eight, sir." 
 
 But Van Hupfeldt stood up, saying that he would 
 go. Putting on his coat, he added: "Mrs. Carter, I 
 have been followed from London by a man who, I 
 fancy, will present himself here presently when I am 
 gone. He wishes to know more about my affairs 
 than he has a right to know. If he comes, I have a 
 reason for wishing you to receive him politely, and 
 to keep him in talk as long as he will stay. But, of 
 course, you won't satisfy his curiosity in anything that 
 concerns me. In particular, be very careful not to 
 give him any hint that my name was Strauss during 
 my wife's lifetime." 
 
 "You may rely on me," said Mrs. Carter, in the 
 secret voice of an accomphce. 
 
 "Now, little one, to bed," said Van Hupfeldt, a 
 
 183 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 thin and lanky figure in his long overcoat, as he bent 
 with kisses over the boy in Mrs. Carter's arms. 
 
 Five minutes after he was gone David was at the 
 farmhouse door.: He, too, would like a glass of milk. 
 
 "You're welcome, I'm sure," said Mrs. Carter. 
 "Step inside." 
 
 His first glance was at the clock, for he did not 
 wish to lose the quarter past eight train, since that 
 would mean the losing of his present chance of track- 
 ing Van Hupfeldt to his address. But the clock re- 
 assured him. He indolently took it for granted that 
 it was more or less near the mark, and it pointed to 
 twenty minutes to eight. He would thus have time 
 to strike up an acquaintance with Mrs. Carter, as a 
 preliminary to closer relations in the future. 
 And where is baby.^" he asked. 
 Oh, you know about him ? " said Mrs. Carter. 
 "He's in bed, to be sure." 
 
 "I saw him in your arms as I was passing up the 
 road half an hour ago." 
 
 "What, you passed along here.^ I didn't notice 
 you." 
 
 " I came up from the station. Now, this is something 
 like good milk. You have a nice little farm here, too. 
 Do you manage it yourself .^ " 
 
 "Yes; my husband died a twelvemonth come May." 
 
 "It must be hard work with baby, too, as well, 
 especially if you've got any youngsters of your own." 
 How can you know that this baby isn't my own ? " 
 
 184 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 "Oh, as to that, I'm not quite so much in the dark 
 about things. Why, I'm Hving in the very flat which 
 its poor mother occupied. I know its aunt, I know 
 its father — " 
 
 "Oh, well, you seem to know a lot. What more 
 do you want?" 
 
 " I only know the father by sight — that is, if he 
 was the father who was in here just now. I take it 
 he was." 
 
 "Ah, there, now, you're asking." 
 
 "Oh, there's no secret, Mrs. Carter. Mr. Johann 
 Strauss is a well-known man." 
 
 " Is that his name — Strauss ? Well, well, live and 
 learn." 
 
 "That's his name, and that's his writing, Mrs. 
 Carter ! " — words which David uttered almost with 
 a shout, as he caught an envelope out of the coal scuttle, 
 and laid it on the table, pointing fixedly at it. 
 
 Mrs. Carter was startled by his sudden vehemence. 
 The envelope was one directed to her in the same 
 flourishing writing which Dibbin had long since shown 
 David as that of Strauss. 
 
 "You are bound to admit," said David, imperatively, 
 " that this envelope was directed to you by the gentle- 
 man who was just here." 
 
 "Well, so it was; what of that.^" asked Mrs. Carter, 
 in a maze as to what the row was about. 
 
 "That's all right, then," said David, quieting down. 
 "I only wanted to be sure." 
 
 185 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 This, then, settled it. Van Hupfeldt was Strauss. 
 David kept the envelope, sipped his milk, and for 
 some time talked with Mrs. Carter about her cows, 
 her fruit, and whether the white calf was to be sold 
 or kept. When it was ten minutes to eight by the big 
 parlor clock he rose to go, said that he hoped to see 
 baby next time, if he might call again, and shook 
 hands. But in going out, from force of habit, he 
 glanced at his watch, and now saw that it was really 
 ten minutes past eight. 
 
 " Great goodness ! " he exclaimed, " your clock is all 
 wrong ! " 
 
 " No, sir — " began Mrs. Carter. 
 
 David was gone. He had five minutes in which to 
 run a good deal over a mile, and he ran with all his 
 speed; but some distance from the station he saw the 
 train steaming out, and pulled up short. 
 
 At that moment Van Hupfeldt in the train was think- 
 ing: "It has worked well. He is late, and there is no 
 other train till ten — an hour and three quarters. He 
 has only a charwoman. She will not be in the flat at 
 this hour. No one will be there. Will it be my luck 
 that the diary is not under lock and key ? " 
 
 As a matter of fact, the diary was lying openly on 
 the dining-room table in the flat, caution of that sort 
 being hardly the uppermost quality in David's charac- 
 ter. 
 
 David strolled about Pangley, looked into the tiny 
 shop-windows, dined on fruit, wished that he had not 
 
 186 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 been born some new variety of a fool, and found that 
 hour and three quarters as long as a week. Not 
 much given to suspicions of meanness and cunning, 
 it did not even now come into his head that he was 
 where he was by a trick. He blamed only destiny 
 for imposing upon him such penal inactivity in the 
 little town that night when a thousand spurs were 
 urging him to action. But at last ten o'clock came, 
 and when he stepped into the train he asked himself 
 why he had been so impatient, since probably nothing 
 could be done that evening. He reached London 
 before eleven, and drove home weary of himself and 
 of his cares. 
 
 It was too late then, he thought, to go hunting after 
 Van Hupfeldt. On the morrow morning he would 
 again try at the Constitutional. Meantime, he lit 
 himself a fire, and sat over it brooding, cudgeling his 
 brains for some plan of action. Then the diary drew 
 him. He would re-read that tragedy throughout. He 
 put out liis arm, half-turning from over the fire to get 
 the book. 
 
 It was no longer on the table. 
 
 He stood up and stared at the table. No diary was 
 there. Yet he seemed to remember — He set to 
 work to search the flat. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of his work, a flood of light 
 broke in upon him. He thought that, if the letter 
 which he had written to Violet, telling her that he had 
 the diary, had already fallen into Van Hupfeldt's 
 
 187 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 hands, then Van Hupfeldt knew that he had the 
 diary; in which case, it was Van Hupfeldt who had 
 put back the clock's hand in the farmhouse at Pang- 
 ley! Van Hupfeldt knew all the time that David was 
 shadowing him, had put back the clock, and now 
 held the diary, for which both he and David would 
 have given all that they were worth, and all is every- 
 thing, whether ten pounds or a million. 
 
 "Is that it?" thought David to himself. "Oh, is 
 that \i? All right, let it be like that." 
 
 He lost not two minutes in thought, but with a 
 lowering brow went out into the streets, high-strung, 
 liis fingers cramped together. 
 
 An hour before this he had said to himself that the 
 hour was too late for action. Now, an hour later, 
 such a thought did not occur to him in the high pitch 
 of his soul. That night, and not any other night or 
 day, he would have it out with Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 He jumped into a cab, and drove to the flat in King- 
 St., Chelsea. 
 
 "But what on earth can the man mean," said Miss 
 L'Estrange, peeping through the slit of her slightly- 
 opened door, "coming to a lady's flat at this hour of 
 the morning ? " 
 
 In reality it was about half-past twelve. 
 
 "No, it's no use talking," said David, "you must 
 let me in. I know you have a right good heart, and I 
 rely upon its action when I tell you that it is a matter 
 of life and death this time." 
 
 188 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 "But I'm alone/' 
 
 "So much the better." 
 
 " Well, I like your cheek ! " 
 
 "You like the whole of me; so you may as well own 
 up to it, and be done." 
 
 "Rats! You only come here when you want some- 
 thing done. It isn't me you come to see." 
 
 "I'll come to see you some other time. Just throw 
 something on, and let me in." 
 
 "'Throw something on,' indeed! I'll throw some- 
 thing on you, and that'll be hot water, the next time 
 you come bothering about at this hour. Oh, well, 
 never mind; you're not a bad sort. Come in." 
 
 The door opened. Miss L'Estrange fled, and David 
 went into the drawing-room, where he waited some 
 minutes till she reappeared, looking fresh and washed 
 from the night's stage-paint, with something voluminous 
 wrapped about her. 
 
 "Now, what is it.^" said she. "Straight to the 
 point — that's me." 
 
 "You must give me Strauss's address," said David. 
 
 "That I sha'n't," said she. "What do you take me 
 for? I promised the man that I wouldn't. I have 
 told you once that he isn't a thousand miles from 
 Piccadilly, and that's about all you'll get from me." 
 Good! I understand your position," said David. 
 But before you refuse out and out, hear what I 
 have to say. This man Strauss is a man who induced 
 Gwendoline Barnes, whom you know, to leave her 
 
 189 
 
 it 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 home, married her while his first wife was ahve, and 
 so caused her to make away with herself. And now 
 this same man, under the name of Van Hupfeldt, is 
 about to marry her sister, without telling her that he 
 even knew the girl whom he has murdered. I don't 
 know what the sister's motive for marrying him is — 
 quite possibly there's some trick about it — but I 
 know that the motive is not love. Now, just think a 
 moment, and tell me if this is fair to your woman's 
 mind." 
 
 " Oh, that's how it is ! " exclaimed Ermyn L'Estrange. 
 
 "All the facts which I have mentioned I know for 
 certain," said David. 
 
 "Then, that explains — " 
 
 " Explains what ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you; but this is between us, mind. Some 
 time ago Strauss comes to me, and he says: 'I have 
 given your address to a young lady — a Miss Violet 
 Mordaunt — who is about to write you a letter asking 
 whether you did or did not find any certificates in a 
 picture in the Eddystone Mansions flat; and I want 
 you in answer to deny to her for my sake that any 
 certificates were ever found.' " 
 
 " And you did ? " cried David with deep reproach. 
 
 "Now, no preaching, or I never tell you anything 
 again," shrilled Miss L'Estrange. "Here's gratitude 
 in man! Of course I did! He said it was only an 
 innocent fib which could do no harm to anybody, and 
 if you saw the bracelet I got for it, my boy — " 
 
 190 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 "You wrote to say that no certificates were ever 
 found!" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Then what can she think of me?" he cried with 
 a face of pain. "I told her — " 
 
 "Ah, you are after her, too.^ I see now how it is," 
 said Miss L'Estrange. 
 
 "But she might at least have given me a chance of 
 clearing myself!" groaned David. "She might have 
 written to me to say that she had found me out in a lie." 
 
 Violet had, indeed, promised herself the luxury of 
 writing one " stinging, crushing, killing " note to David 
 in the event of Miss L'Estrange proving him false. 
 And, in fact, not one but many such notes had been 
 written down at Dale Manor. But none of them had 
 ever been sent — her deep disdain had kept her silent. 
 
 "But," cried David, at the spur of a sudden glad 
 thought, " since Miss Mordaunt wrote to you, and you 
 to her, you know her address, and can give it me ! " 
 
 "No, I don't know her address," answered Miss 
 L'Estrange. "I believe now that Strauss may have 
 been afraid that if I knew it I might give it to you, so 
 he must have prevented her from putting it on her 
 letter. There was no address on it, I don't think, for 
 when I wrote back to her I gave my letter to Strauss 
 to send." 
 
 "Ah, he's a cautious beast!" said David, bitterly. 
 " Still — I'll have him — not to-morrow, but to-night. 
 Quick, now — his address." 
 
 191 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "Well, I promised not to tell it to any one," vowed 
 Miss L'Estrange in her best soubrette manner, "and 
 I'll be as good as my word, since I never break a 
 promise when my word is once passed. I'll just write 
 it down on a piece of paper, and drop it on the floor 
 by accident, and then if anybody should happen to 
 notice it and pick it up without my seeing, that will 
 be no business of mine." 
 
 She rose, walked to a desk, and went through this 
 pantomime in all seriousness. The address was 
 dropped on the carpet, and David "happening" to 
 notice it, picked it up behind Miss Ermyn L'Estrange's 
 unconscious back. It had on it the number of a house 
 near Hanover Square; and in another moment David 
 had pressed the lady's hand, and was gone, crying: 
 "I'll come again!" 
 
 " Not even a word of thanks," said Miss L'Estrange 
 to herself, as she looked after his flying back : " * Blow, 
 blow, thou winter's wind.' " 
 
 David leaped into liis waiting cab, and was off 
 across London. 
 
 Light was still in Van Hupfeldt's quarters, and Van 
 Hupfeldt himself, at the moment when David rang, 
 was poring over the last words of the diary of her who 
 had been part of his life. He was livid w^ith fear at 
 the knowledge just learned for certain from the written 
 words, that there were still hidden in the flat a photo- 
 graph of him, and his last letter to Gwendohne, when 
 he heard an altercation between his man Neil and 
 
 192 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 another voice outside. A moment later he heard Neil 
 cry out sharply, and then he was aware of a hurried 
 step coming in upon him. The first thought of his 
 secretive nature was the diary, and, with the trepida- 
 tions of a miser surprised in counting his gold, he 
 hustled it into a secret recess of the bureau near which 
 he had been reading. He had hardly done this when 
 he stood face to face with David. 
 
 At that moment Van Hupfeldt's face seemed lit with 
 a lunacy of affright, surprise, and rage. David, with 
 his hat rather drawn over his eyes, and with a 
 frowning severity, said : " I want four things of you — the 
 diary, the key of my flat which you have in your posses- 
 sion, those certificates, and Mrs. Mordaunt's address." 
 
 A scream went out from Van Hupfeldt: "Neil! the 
 pohce ! " 
 
 "Quite so," said David; "but before the police 
 come, do as I say, or I shall kill you." 
 
 Van Hupfeldt could hardly catch his breath suf- 
 ficiently to speak. A man so wholly in the grip of 
 terror it was painful to see. David understood him 
 to say: " Man, I warn you, my heart is weak." 
 
 " Heart weak ? " growled David. " That's what you 
 say ? Well, then, keep cool, and let me have my way. 
 We must wrangle it out now somehow. You have 
 the police on your side for the moment, and I stand 
 alone — " 
 
 Now the outer door was heard to slam; for Neil had 
 run out to summon help. 
 
 193 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "I'm not acting on my own behalf," said David, 
 "but for the sake of a girl whose life, I feel sure, you 
 are going to make bitter. She cares nothing for you — " 
 
 "How dare you!" came in a hoarseness of con- 
 centrated passion from Van Hupfeldt's bosom. 
 
 " No, she cares nothing for you — " 
 
 "You interloper!" 
 
 "And even if she did, she is sure to find out sooner 
 or later that you are Strauss — " 
 
 " Oh ! had I but guessed ! " 
 
 "Which would be the death of her—" 
 
 "I never dreamed of this." 
 
 "So, on her behalf, I'll just make a hurried search 
 before the police comes. The things are not yours. 
 If your heart wasn't weak, I'd maul you till you were 
 willing to hand them over of your own accord." 
 
 With that David made a move toward the bureau, 
 whereupon Van Hupfeldt uttered a scream and flew 
 upon liim like a cat-o'-mountain, but David flung him 
 away to the other end of the room. 
 
 Scattered over the bureau were a number of letters 
 in their envelopes ready for the post, and the first of 
 these upon which David's eye fell was directed to 
 "Miss Violet Mordaunt." 
 
 Here was luck! Even as his heart bounded, before 
 even he had seen a word of the address, he was in 
 darkness — Van Hupfeldt had switched off the light. 
 
 And now once again David felt himself outdone by 
 the cunning of this man. The room was large, crowded 
 
 194 
 
Hand to Hand 
 
 with objects of luxury, and the switch a needle in a 
 bundle of hay. In which direction to grope for it 
 David did not know. He ran to where he had flung 
 Van Hupfeldt, to compel him by main force to turn 
 on the light. But Van Hupfeldt was no longer there. 
 The suddenness of the darkness made it black to the 
 eyes. David could not find the switch, and fearing 
 lest Van Hupfeldt might snatch away the letter to 
 Violet in the dark, he flew back to the bureau, over- 
 setting first a chair, and then colliding upon Van Hup- 
 feldt a little distance from the bureau. Again he 
 flung Van Hupfeldt far, and, keeping near the bureau, 
 groped along the beading of the wall, to see if he could 
 encounter another switch. 
 
 In the midst of this search, his ears detected the 
 sound of a key in the outer door, and understanding 
 that help had arrived for the enemy, instantly he took 
 his decision, felt for the eight or ten envelopes on the 
 bureau, slipped them all into his pocket, and was gone. 
 In the hall, coming inward he met Neil and an ofiicer, 
 but, as if making a deep bow to the majesty of the 
 law, he slipped as easily as a wave under the ofiicer's 
 hand, and disappeared through the wide-open door. 
 The officer ran after him. This was simple. From 
 the moment when David pitched through the house- 
 door below the stairs, he was never more seen by that 
 particular officer to the day of his death. 
 
 Under a lamp in Oxford-St., when he stopped run- 
 ning, he took out Strauss's letters from his pocket with 
 
 195 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 a hand that shook, for in his heart was the thought: 
 "Suppose I have left hers behind!" 
 
 But no; that fifth one was hers: "Miss Violet Mor- 
 daunt, Dale Manor, Rigsworth, near Kenilworth." 
 Remembrance came to him with an ache of rapture. 
 Within twenty-four hours he would see her. He was 
 so pleased that he was at the pains to throw Strauss's 
 other letters into the first pillar-box. What did it 
 matter now that the diary, certificates, anything or 
 everything, had been filched from him ^ To-morrow, 
 no, that day, he would see Violet. 
 
 196 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 DAVID MORE THAN REGAINS LOST GROUND 
 
 Harcourt was now in the position of a man who 
 thinks he has invented a flying-machine — enthusiasm 
 became stronger than knowledge, behef was made to 
 do service as evidence. To meet Violet, to look again 
 into those sweet eyes of hers, that was the great thing 
 he promised himself next morning. Indeed, it is to be 
 feared he deliberately surrendered himself to dreams 
 of such a meeting, while he smoked pipe after pipe in 
 his lonesome flat, rather than set himself to an orderly 
 review of his forces for the approaching trial of strength 
 with Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 No sooner was he well clear of Van Hupfeldt's house 
 than he knew that he was safe from active interference 
 by the law. The man whom he now looked on as his 
 rival, the subtle adversary whom he had scorned to 
 crush when appealed to for mercy on the score of physi- 
 cal inferiority, would never dare to seek the aid of 
 authority. Nursing that fact, ready enough to wel- 
 come the prospect of an unaided combat, David did 
 not stop to consider that an older head in counsel 
 would not be a bad thing. There was Dibbin, for 
 instance. Dibbin, whose ideas were cramped within 
 
 197 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 ledgers and schedules, had, nevertheless, as he said 
 himself, "been young once." Surely David could 
 have sufficiently oxygenized the agent's thin blood 
 with the story told by the hapless Gwendoline that 
 the man should hie with him to Rigsworth and there 
 be confronted with the veritable Strauss. Dibbin was 
 a precise man. It would have been hard for Van 
 Hupfeldt to flout Dibbin. 
 
 But no; David smoked and dreamed, and saw a 
 living Violet in the chalk portrait of the dead Gwendo- 
 line, and said so many nice words to the presentment 
 thus created that he came to believe them; and so he 
 consigned Dibbin to his own musty office, nor even 
 gave heed to the existence of such a credible witness 
 as Sarah Gissing, poor Gwendoline's maid. 
 
 He left a penciled note on his table that the char- 
 woman was to call him when she came at eight — for 
 in such wise does London conquer Wyoming — and 
 with the rattle of her knuckles on the door he was out 
 of bed, blithe as a lark, with his heart singing greetings 
 to a sunny morning. 
 
 The manner of dress, the shade of a tie, the exact 
 degree of whiteness of linen, were affairs of moment 
 just then. Alack! here was our erstwhile rounder-up 
 of steers stopping his hansom on the way to the station 
 in order to buy a smart pair of doeskin gloves, while he 
 gazed lovingly at a boutonniere of violets, but forbore. 
 
 It was noon ere he reached Rigsworth, and inquiry 
 showed that the Mordaunts' house was situated at the 
 
 198 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 farther end of the small village. He walked through 
 the street of scattered houses, and attracted some 
 attention by the sure fact that he was a stranger. At 
 any rate, that was how he regarded the discreet scrutiny 
 to which he was subjected. 
 
 " A big house with a lodge-gate, just past the church 
 on the left," were the station-master's directions, and 
 David had no difficulty in finding his way. His heart 
 fell a little when he saw the style of the place. The 
 lodge was a pretty villa in itself. Its garden would be 
 of great worth within the London suburban area. 
 Behind it stretched the park of Dale Manor, and the 
 turrets of a mansion among many lordly elms seemed 
 to put Violet on a somewhat inaccessible pinnacle. 
 David did not know that people of moderate means 
 can maintain a good sporting estate by letting the 
 shooting, but he had learned in the free air of the 
 States to rate a man on a different level to parks; if a 
 half-bred rascal like Van Hupfeldt was able to enter 
 this citadel Hke a thief for one daughter of the house, 
 why should not an honest man storm it for the sake 
 of another ^ 
 
 At the lodge, however, he met with a decided rebuff. 
 "No visitors admitted," was the curt response of a 
 gamekeeper sort of person who was lurking in a door- 
 way when David tried to open the locked gale. 
 
 "My business is important," urged David, quietly, 
 though his face flushed a little at the man's impudent 
 manner. 
 
 199 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "So's my orders," said velveteens. 
 
 "But I must see either Mrs. Mordaunt or Miss 
 Violet." 
 
 "You can't see either. Absolute orders. Your 
 name's Harcourt isn't it?" 
 
 Then David knew that Van Hupfeldt had over- 
 reached him by the telegraph, and the shattering of 
 his dream-castle caused such lightnings to gleam 
 from within that the surly gamekeeper whistled to a 
 retriever dog, and ostensibly revealed a double-barreled 
 gun which lay in the corner of the porch. 
 
 David was likely to have his own way with clod- 
 hoppers, even in the hour of tribulation. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "my name is Harcourt. And 
 your s r 
 
 "Mine is no matter." 
 
 " Very well, ' No Matter.' You are obeying orders, I 
 have no doubt; but you must be taught civility. I 
 give you notice, No Matter, that a little later I shall 
 lick you good and plenty, and if you don't take it like 
 a man you will probably be fired into the bargain." 
 
 The keeper was for abusing him, but David turned 
 away. And now he was not the well-dressed, gloved, 
 spick-and-span Londoner, but the Indian of the prairie, 
 with a heart from which the glow had gone, with eyes 
 that saw and ears that heard and a brain that recorded 
 everything. 
 
 He was instantly aware that the country policeman 
 who had lolled through the village behind him was a 
 
 200 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 forewarned spy. He knew that this functionary 
 watched his return to the railway station, from which, 
 as David happened to remember, the time-table had 
 shown a train London-wards at one o'clock. 
 
 The station-master was affable enough, gave him 
 some bread and meat and a glass of milk, and refused 
 any payment. When the train came in, David, sourly 
 smiling, saw the constable loll onto the platform. He 
 could not resist the temptation to lean out of the car- 
 riage window. 
 
 "Good-by, P. C. 198," he said. 
 
 Now, he was traveling first-class, and, in England, 
 even a villain demands respect under that circum- 
 stance. 
 
 " Good-by, sir," said the man, surprised. 
 
 " You will know me again, eh ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." 
 
 "I am glad of that. Tell that chap at the gate of 
 Dale Manor that I shall keep my fixture with him 
 
 soon." 
 
 P. C. 198 scratched his head. "Funny affair," he 
 muttered as the train moved off. "Looks an' talks 
 more of a gentleman than van Wot's-his-name, any 
 
 day." 
 
 At the next station, four miles away, David slipped 
 out of his carriage quickly and waited in a shed until 
 the train had gone again. Then he interviewed the 
 station-master, and somewhat astonished the oflficial 
 by tendering a return ticket from Rigsworth to London. 
 
 201 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 " Can't break your journey," said the regulations. 
 
 "But I've done it," said David. 
 
 "It's irregular," complained the other. 
 
 "And the train is half a mile distant." 
 
 "Well, if you pay the fare — " 
 
 David meant to forfeit his ticket. This was a new 
 light. He paid a few pence, took a receipt, and 
 promised himself some fun at Rigsworth. 
 
 He asked for no information. From the train he 
 had noted a line of telegraph posts in the distance, and 
 he stepped out smartly along a by-road until he gained 
 the main thoroughfare. Then, being alone, he ran, 
 and the newly bought gloves burst their seams, so he 
 flung them off. 
 
 When less than a mile from Rigsworth he heard the 
 wliistle of a train. Springing to a high bank, he 
 made out the sinuous, snake-like curling of an engine 
 and coaches beyond the hedge-rows — a train coming 
 from London. " Van Hupfeldt is in it, of course," he 
 decided. "I must make sure." 
 
 It needed a fine sprint, aided by the exercise of quick 
 judgment when he neared Dale Manor; but he was 
 hidden in a brake of brambles in the park as Van 
 Hupfeldt, exceedingly palhd this glorious day of 
 spring, walked up the drive, accompanied by the 
 gamekeeper, dog and gun. The dog came near to 
 undoing David; but a rabbit, already disturbed, ran 
 out of the thicket, and a sharp command from the 
 keeper brought the retriever to heel. 
 
 202 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 Van Hupfeldt entered the gardens; the keeper made 
 off across the park. Green and brown buds, almost 
 bursting into leaf, were already enriching the shrubs 
 and trees of Dale Manor, especially in a sheltered 
 hollow on the left front of the house where nestled a 
 pretty lake. There the cover was good. The hunter 
 instinct sent him that way. 
 
 "That Dutchman will make Violet bolt just as the 
 dog started the rabbit," thought David, and he took 
 a circuitous route to reach a summer-house on the 
 most distant side of the ornamental water, whence, 
 he fancied, he could command a fair view of the house 
 and grounds. He waited with stubborn patience two 
 long hours. At last he saw a man arrive in a dog-cart, 
 and it was the coming of this person which apparently 
 drove Violet forth, as, five minutes after the newcomer 
 was admitted, a tall graceful figure in black, a girl 
 wearing a large black hat and draping a white shawl 
 elegantly round her shoulders, stepped out of a French 
 window to the smooth lawn, and looked straight at 
 the sheet of water beyond which David lay ensconced. 
 
 No need to tell him who this was. His heart did 
 not beat now. He was glad, and something warmed 
 his whole body, for it was chill waiting there in the 
 shade after his run, but neither man nor water could 
 interpose further barrier between him and his Violet, 
 so he was calm and confident. 
 
 The girl glanced back once toward the room she 
 had quitted, and then strolled on, ever coming nearer 
 
 203 
 
The Later Tenant 
 
 the glistening lake and the summer-house. She 
 crossed the fine stretch of turf and stood for an instant 
 near a marble statue which guarded a fountain. The 
 distance was not great, and David thought his eyes 
 were deceiving him when he saw that the white marble 
 and the black-garbed girl were singularly alike in 
 feature. It was not surprising, since the sculptor had 
 taken Violet's great-grandmother, a noted beauty of 
 early Georgian days, as his model for the face of the 
 dryad, and it was one of the honored traditions of 
 Dale Manor that this figure should be promptly 
 shielded from inclement weather, even from the 
 dew. Just then David was not inclined to cavil at 
 any discovery of fresh charms in Violet, but he set 
 aside this fanciful idea, as he deemed it, and bent his 
 mind on attracting her attention without causing a 
 flutter either to her or to the other occupants of the 
 house. 
 
 But she came on again, reached the lake-side path, 
 and made him hope for a moment that she would pass 
 by the door of his retreat. If that was so, he would 
 reveal himself to her soon enough to save her from 
 being unduly alarmed by the unexpected apparition of 
 a man in that secluded place. 
 
 Now she actually passed abreast of him, with 
 the lake between, and soon she would round the 
 curve of the water and face him again. Her fig- 
 ure was mirrored in the silver and blue of the re- 
 flected sky. So light was her step that the living, 
 
 204 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 moving body seemed to be as impalpable as its spirit 
 image. 
 
 Then David's heart did jump of a sudden, for a 
 faint hail of "Vi!" twice repeated, caught his ears, 
 and he saw Mrs. Mordaunt, outside the French window, 
 calling to her daughter. 
 
 The girl turned, facing David, almost. He made 
 up his mind without a moment's hesitation. 
 
 "Violet," he said, softly but clearly, "Violet, don't 
 go! Come here. It is I, David." The cheek of him! 
 as Miss Erymn L'Estrange would have put it. Violet! 
 David ! What next ? 
 
 Violet was bewitched for a second or two. She 
 looked wildly toward the house, and at him; for he 
 stood so that she might see him plainly, though to her 
 mother he was invisible. 
 
 "Please come!" he pleaded. "I am here for your 
 sake, for Gwen's sake, too, and they have kept us apart 
 so long by lies!" 
 
 That the girl was greatly excited was obvious. She 
 pressed her hands together on her bosom, though the 
 action might pass as a simple adjustment of her shawl. 
 "I must go," she murmured brokenly. "They want 
 me there to — to sign some documents. And I can- 
 not meet you." 
 
 "Violet, sign nothing until you have heard my 
 story. I appeal to you for a hearing. If you refuse 
 I shall come with you to the house. But hear me 
 first. Make some excuse." 
 
 205 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 There was ever that in David's voice which won 
 belief. Some men ring true, some false. David had 
 in him the clear sound of metal without flaw. 
 
 And no woman is worth her salt who cannot act 
 more than a little. " Give me ten minutes, mother,'* 
 shrilled Violet, excitedly. "Only ten minutes; then I 
 shall be with you." 
 
 David, peeping through the rustic timber-work, 
 noted with satisfaction that Mrs. Mordaunt waved a 
 hand of agreement and reentered the house. What 
 then, of devil's work was Van Hupfeldt plotting in 
 that drawing-room that Violet should be wanted to 
 sign documents, and that the girl's mother should 
 recognize the need of her daughter being allowed some 
 few minutes of grace if she so desired ? 
 
 But here came Violet, all rosy now with wonder, 
 for her blood was racing, though in her eyes, which 
 reflected her thoughts, was an anger which David 
 missed in his joy. She stood framed in the narrow 
 doorway of the summer-house, and half turned as 
 though to leave it quickly. "Now, what have you to 
 say to me 't " she breathed hurriedly. 
 
 David, who thought he was shy with women, soon 
 found winged words to pierce the armor of a disdain 
 he did not yet understand. "If I obeyed my heart, 
 Violet," he said, and she thrilled a little under the 
 shock of hearing her Christian name so glib on his lips, 
 "I would begin by telling you that I love you, and so 
 throw to the winds all other considerations." 
 
 206 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 She turned and faced him, palpitating, with a cer- 
 tain deer-Kke readiness to fly. " How dare you ? " 
 
 "I am not daring. Daring springs from the heart, 
 you know. Moreover, though the knowledge of my 
 love is old to me, old as weary days and sleepless nights 
 can make it, it may be new to you, unless, somehow, 
 my love has bridged the void, and made you responsive 
 to my passion. Ah, don't be afraid, now," for David 
 thought she shrank from him — though in very truth 
 this maiden's soul was all a-quiver with the conviction 
 that not so had Van Hupfeldt spoken, not so had his 
 ardor shaken her. "I am not here to-day as your 
 lover, as your avowed lover I would rather say, but 
 only as your self-appointed guardian, as one who 
 would save you from a fate worse than death. Listen 
 now, and believe me, for I can prove the truth. Van 
 Hupfeldt, who would marry you, is none other than 
 Strauss, the man who married your sister." 
 
 Violet's eyes dilated. Her lips parted as if to utter 
 a shriek. David caught her by the wrist and drew 
 her gently toward him. Before either of them knew 
 what was happening, his arms were about her. 
 
 " Be brave, there's a dear girl ! " he whispered. *' Be 
 brave and silent! Can you listen.^ Tell me you are 
 not afraid to listen." 
 
 Again Violet was conscious that the touch of David 
 Harcourt's arms was a different thing to the impetuous 
 embrace of Van Hupfeldt. A sob came from her. 
 She seemed to lose a little of her fine stature. She 
 
 207 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 was becoming smaller, more timidly womanlike, so 
 near this masterful man. 
 
 "He married your sister," went on David. "He 
 married Gwen in his own name of Van Hupfeldt, and 
 the birth of their child is registered in that name. I 
 wrote and told you of the certificates being in existence. 
 He obtained them by bribery and a trick. That is 
 nothing. Even if they are destroyed, they can be 
 replaced by the proper authorities. I know where the 
 child is living. I can take you to it. I can bring 
 Dibbin, the agent, here, to face Van Hupfeldt and 
 prove that he is none other than Strauss, your sister's 
 husband and slayer. I can bring Sarah Gissing, 
 your sister's servant, to identify him as the man whom 
 poor Gwen loved as her husband and the father of her 
 child. Were it not for my own folly, I could have 
 brought you her diary — " 
 
 "Her diary! Has it been found .^" gasped Violet, 
 lifting up her eyes to his in sheer amazement. 
 
 " Yes. I found it." 
 
 "But where, and how.?" 
 
 " It was fastened into the back of a picture, a mezzo- 
 tint of Turner's." 
 
 "In the back of a picture!" she murmured, with a 
 certain strange dejection which David found adorable; 
 nor should it be forgotten that the only time David 
 possessed absolute and undeniable evidence of the 
 presence of some unseen person in his flat, he had shot 
 at and wounded a man. 
 
 208 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 " Yes, dear — may I call you dear ? " 
 
 "And you have it ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "No!" He felt a spasm of doubt in her very 
 shoulders, a slight withdrawing from him, for Violet 
 was ever being denied proof, the actual, tangible proof 
 which alone can banish suspicion from a sorely-tried 
 nature. 
 
 "Van Hupfeldt stole it from the flat during my 
 absence." 
 
 "How could that be?" 
 
 "He has duplicate keys, I suppose. Once before 
 I have reason to believe he was there. We struggled 
 together, one on each side of a door. It was in the 
 dark, and he managed to dodge past me, but I fired at 
 him and drew blood, I think." 
 
 "When was that.^" she demanded with a quickness 
 which did not escape him. 
 
 "On the morning of the day you were to have met 
 me at the cemeterv, but sent such a bitter little note 
 instead." 
 
 "A bitter little note!" 
 
 And thus were the words said which, pursued for 
 another sentence, must have unmasked Van Hupfeldt 
 wholly; but they were both so excited, so carried out 
 of all bounds of reasoned thought, that Violet flew off 
 at a tangent, and David doubled after her, so delight- 
 ful was it to hear the words coming from her lips, to 
 watch her eyes telegraph their secret meanings. 
 
 209 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "He was lame that day," she whispered. "He is 
 not quite free from stiffness in his walk yet." 
 
 " Ah ! I hit him then ? " And David smiled a 
 different kind of smile to that which Violet was learn- 
 ing to like. 
 
 " But if all that you say is true, the man is a monster," 
 she cried in a sudden rage. 
 
 " I am coming to think that he is not in his right 
 mind," said David, a surprising charity springing up 
 in him. 
 
 " And do you know what they are waiting for now ? " 
 she asked vehemently. 
 
 " I cannot tell, save that it is for you." 
 
 " They want me to sign a marriage settlement. Oh, 
 what a vile world ! " 
 
 "Not a vile world, dear; nor are its humans alto- 
 gether bad. Even this Van Hupfeldt, or Strauss, 
 seems to have loved your sister. And she did love him. 
 Poor girl! She meant to kill herself on his account, 
 owing to some secret he revealed to her, something 
 about another woman who had adopted him as her 
 son. That was not clear in her story. She purposely 
 kept the definite things out of her diary." 
 
 The girl's mind was driven back, with quick re- 
 bound, to the memory of her sister's fate. The mere 
 mention of the name of Strauss touched a poignant 
 chord. Strauss was a blacker, more Satanic creature 
 in her imagination than Van Hupfeldt. She wrenched 
 herself free and sprang toward the door. 
 
 210 
 
David More Than Regains Lost Ground 
 
 "Do you swear that you are telling me the truth?" 
 she cried. 
 
 "I swear it." 
 
 "Then I go now to meet him, and his lawyer, and 
 my mother. Poor mother! How she will suffer!" 
 
 *' Shall I come with you ? " 
 
 She blushed. She began to remember, more vividly 
 each instant, how long she had been there in his arms, 
 almost clinging to him. 
 
 "Better not," she said. "I shall drive him away, 
 and when mother and I have cried together we shall 
 see you. Are you staying in the village.^" 
 
 "Yes. At the inn, the Feathers I think it is called." 
 
 "Then I shall send for you to-night, or perhaps to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Make it to-night, if possible. Tell your mother 
 I will not add to her sorrows, and it is best she should 
 know all." 
 
 Good-by, then, Violet." 
 Good-by, David." 
 
 He held out his hand, so frankly that she placed her 
 white fingers within the grasp of his strong ones. He 
 was tempted to draw her nearer, but her color rose 
 again, her eyes dropped, and she tore herself away, 
 breaking almost into a run. 
 
 David, careless whether he was seen or not, walked 
 off towards the lodge, glancing every now and then 
 over his shoulder to watch Violet hastening to the house. 
 Once, when crossing the lawn, she looked around and 
 
 211 
 
 a 
 
 (( 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 waved a hand to him. He replied. Then she van- 
 ished, and David walked on, the happiest man in 
 England. 
 
 What a pity it is that ignorance should so often be 
 an essential part of bliss. David should either have 
 gone with Violet, or, failing that, he should have let 
 Van Hupfeldt believe that he was well on his way to 
 London. As it was, Van Hupfeldt saw him crossing 
 the park, and such a man forewarned is forearmed. 
 
 212 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS 
 
 Violet entered the drawing-room with the air of 
 one who rejoices in good news. Consider that she 
 had just learned the certainty of her sister's fair fame, 
 and that, in the same breath, she was freed from Van 
 Hupf eldt's pestering : was it to be wondered at if, since 
 the dread day she received a letter from a loved one 
 already dead, she had never once looked so light- 
 hearted, so full of the wine of life, as when she danced 
 into the house after her interview with David. And 
 this quickening of her pulses boded no good to Van 
 Hupfeldt. 
 
 A lawyer-like man was arranging parchments on a 
 table — a large, square table which had evidently 
 been brought from a library for the purpose, as the 
 day was chill indoors and the drawing-room was cozy 
 with a log fire. Van Hupfeldt, who had turned from 
 the window before Violet appeared, affected to be 
 examining the great red seals on the green ribbons 
 laced into the vellum. That weak heart of his was 
 knocking hard at his ribs; but his lips were tight set: 
 he was fighting with his back to the wall, for that 
 interloper, David Harcourt, must have told Violet 
 
 213 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 everything. So, really, Van Hupfeldt deserved some 
 consideration for his splendid nonchalance. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt sat in an easy-chair, stroking her 
 toy Pom. She was anxious for these preliminaries to 
 be done with. Dale Manor was an expensive place to 
 keep up; Van Hupfeldt's millions would restore the 
 Falerian order. So she hailed her daughter pleasantly, 
 after one critical glance. 
 
 "Your little walk did, indeed, bring out the roses, 
 Vi. But you were rather beyond the ten minutes, 
 and Mr. Sharpe is a business man, dear; we must not 
 detain him unduly." 
 
 Mr. Sharpe coughed with deference. He was open 
 to be detained or retained for the rest of his life, at the 
 price fer diem. 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Violet, softly, giving Van Hupfeldt a 
 queer look which he alone understood. "There are 
 things to be signed, something about some one of the 
 first part and some other person of the second part. 
 Why do you use such odd terms, Mr. Sharpe ? " 
 
 " It is the jargon of the law. Miss Mordaunt. Every 
 line adds a mite to the small incomes of us poor 
 lawyers." 
 
 "But who are these people?" 
 
 Sharpe looked puzzled. " The first deed recites the 
 marriage contract between you and Mr. Van Hup- 
 feldt," he began to explain. 
 
 But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of 
 ice in a glass : " Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt ? " 
 
 214 
 
From the Veptfis 
 
 "Vi!" This from Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 "Mother, better not interfere. You don't seem to 
 understand, Mr. Sharpe. You spoke of a Mr. Henry 
 Van Hupf eldt. Who is he ? " 
 
 The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed 
 to the man standing by the table. "Of course, that 
 is he," he said. 
 
 "Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who 
 married and, it may be found, killed my sister. You 
 must look further into your papers, Mr. Sharpe. 
 There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went 
 on your knees and prayed to God for guidance in your 
 work, it might be better!" 
 
 "Vi!" shrieked her mother again, and the dog in 
 her lap sprang off in alarm. 
 
 The solicitor stood dumfounded, still thinking that 
 some bizarre piece of humor was toward. 
 
 It was Van Hupfeldt who saved Mrs. Mordaunt 
 from imminent hysteria. "Violet has been talking to 
 that fellow Harcourt, of whom I told you," he said 
 coolly. "She is, unfortunately, only too ready to be- 
 lieve him, and a further wall of distrust is built between 
 us at a most inopportune moment. I am sorry, Mrs. 
 Mordaunt; it is not my fault. And I would have 
 saved you from this, Violet. I knew he had left 
 London, so I wired precautions. But he is a scamp 
 of unparalleled audacity and resource. Surely you 
 have given him no money ? " 
 
 Violet, scarce trusting her ears, listened to the calm, 
 
 215 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 smooth sentences with rising indignation. But she 
 mastered herself sufficiently to say: *'He has told 
 me everything — about the certificates, the diary, all. 
 The time of lies has passed. Did you, then, kill my 
 sister ? " 
 
 "Why condense the tale? Of course he assured 
 you that Dibbin, the agent who let the flat to your 
 sister's husband, will readily identify me as Strauss; 
 that Sarah Gissing, her servant, will hail me as her 
 former master .p" 
 
 "Yes. He did say that." 
 
 " Why did he not bring them here ? " 
 
 "He will bring them to-morrow." 
 
 Van Hupfeldt smiled wearily. It seemed as though 
 he could not help himself. "Forgive me, Violet," 
 he said. " It is I who will bring them — not Har- 
 court. He dare not. His bubble bursts the moment 
 you ask for proof. Indeed, I am beginning to think 
 the man is mad. He must have conceived an insane 
 affection for you, and you are committing a great 
 wrong in giving him these clandestine meetings." 
 
 This was too much. Violet advanced toward him 
 with eyes aflame. "There were days in the history 
 of the world when men were struck dead from Heaven ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 "That is yet possible," he answered with a strange 
 humility. 
 
 Do you deny all, all ? " she almost screamed. 
 
 Not only do I deny, but I affirm, and I have my 
 
 216 
 
 (( 
 
 i( 
 
From the Depths 
 
 proofs. I have known for some time, not very long, it 
 is true, that a man named Johann Strauss did assume 
 my name when he married your sister. There is 
 nothing remarkable in that. I am a rich man, known 
 to many. The adoption of a pseudonym is a common 
 device of actors. There was no real resemblance be- 
 tween this person Strauss and myself. Of that fact 
 those who were well acquainted with him — Dibbin 
 and Sarah Gissing — will assure you to-morrow in 
 this house. I have your sister's marriage certificate, 
 and the birth registration of her child. I know where 
 the child is. I will bring the foster-mother to tell you 
 that I was not the man who intrusted the infant to her 
 care. I have your sister's diary, which this Harcourt 
 did really secure. I got it from him by a trick, 1 ad- 
 mit, but only to save you from becoming his dupe. 
 Now I have placed all my cards on the table, by the 
 side of your marriage settlement. Can David Har- 
 court do as much?" 
 
 The girl's lips quivered a little. What was she to 
 believe.^ In whom was she to trust.'' She wanted to 
 cry, but she dug her nails into her white hands; for the 
 encircling clasp of David's arms still tingled on her 
 shoulders. *'AMiy do you tell me all this only when I 
 force it from you ? " she asked. 
 
 "You answer your own question. You force it 
 from me. Exactly I would prefer that my promised 
 wife should have trust in me. I wished to spare you 
 certain sordid revelations; but because some American 
 
 217 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 * 
 
 adventurer happens upon a family tragedy and uses 
 it for his own purposes — whether base or not I do not 
 stop to inquire — you treat me as the one quite un- 
 worthy of behef. Violet, you hurt me more than you 
 know." The man's voice broke. Tears stood in his 
 eyes. 
 
 The girl was nearly distraught under the stress of 
 the struggle going on with her. "Henry Van Hup- 
 feldt," she said solemnly, looking him straight in the 
 face, " may the Lord judge between me and you if I 
 have wronged you ! " 
 
 "No, sweet girl, you cannot wrong me; for my con- 
 science is clear, but it is a hard thing that you should 
 incline rather to this blackmailer than to me." 
 
 "Blackmailer!" The ugly word came from her 
 lips in sheer protest; the lash of a whip could not have 
 stung as cruelly. 
 
 "Yes, most certainly. Did he not demand a hun- 
 dred pounds from you .^ Let me go to him and offer 
 five hundred, and you will never see or hear of him 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, if that is so, there is no faith or honesty in the 
 world." 
 
 " Is lie your world, then .^ " demanded Van Hup- 
 feldt, bitterly, and even Mrs. Mordaunt broke in with 
 her moan: 
 
 " Oh, Vi ! " 
 
 "Let us end this distressing scene," went on Van 
 Hupfeldt with a repressed indignation that was ex- 
 
 218 
 
From the Depths 
 
 ceedingly convincing. "Mr. Sharpe, you see, of 
 course, that Miss Mordaunt cannot be expected to 
 complete these agreements to-day. Please be here 
 to-morrow at the same time. Before that hour I 
 shall be back from London with all the witnesses and 
 documents which shall prove to Miss Mordaunt's 
 complete satisfaction that she has been grossly misled 
 by a cleverly concocted story. Indeed, I would be 
 glad if, subsequently, you interviewed this David 
 Harcourt. It seems to me almost credible now that 
 he himself believed the extraordinary tale he has 
 made up." 
 
 "Whatever you please shall be done, sir," said the 
 lawyer. " And may I add, for the benefit of these two 
 ladies, that — er — my own knowledge of your posi- 
 tion and — er — career completely excludes such a 
 preposterous — er — " 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Sharpe," broke in Van Hupfeldt. 
 "You mean that kindly, I know; but this is a matter 
 between Miss Mordaunt and mvself at the moment." 
 
 t/ 
 
 The solicitor gathered up his papers and withdrew. 
 For a little while there was no sound in the room except 
 the mother's sobbing and the daughter's labored 
 breathing; for unhappy Violet w^as so torn with doubt 
 that her breast appeared to be unable to harbor its 
 agitation. A few minutes ago she deemed herself 
 free from a compact hateful to her soul; yet, here was 
 Van Hupfeldt more convincing, more compelling, than 
 ever. To her terrified eyes the man assumed the shape 
 
 219 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 and properties of a python, a monstrous snake from 
 which there was no escape. 
 
 And then the sibilant hiss of his voice reached her 
 dulled ears. "Mrs. Mordaunt, may I appeal to your 
 authority.^ Surely this Harcourt will not be admitted 
 here in my absence .^ I do not ask much, only a respite 
 of twenty-four hours. Then I return, with all the 
 proofs." 
 
 "Why have they been withheld so long.?" came 
 Violet's agonized protest. 
 
 "I do declare, Vi," broke in her mother, "that you 
 would try the patience of Job! Have you lost all 
 your fine sense of honor and fairness ? What more 
 can Mr. Van Hupfeldt do to please you ^ And where 
 do you meet tliis young man who so unwarrantably 
 thrusts himself into our affairs, I should like to know ? " 
 
 Poor Violet knew that the British matron instinct 
 was fighting against her now. And there never was 
 a girl more bound up in her family ties than this one. 
 "Forgive me, mother," she said wearily. "The long 
 struggle is at an end, now. Let Mr. Van Hupfeldt 
 keep his promise, and I shall not cause further diffi- 
 culty." 
 
 "Well said!" cried Van Hupfeldt, eagerly. "That 
 is a brave resolve. I accept it implicitly. Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, I trust you will not be angry with my Violet 
 wliile I am away. I know how she has suffered. It is 
 for me to make amends for all that. And I promise 
 her happiness, a full cup. And, meanwhile, Violet — " 
 
 220 
 
From the Depths 
 
 "I agree. I neither see nor speak to nor send any 
 message to David Harcourt, as far as lies in my power, 
 until your return to-morrow." 
 
 "I kiss my hand to you both!" cried Van Hupfeldt 
 with the gallant air which came natural to him, and 
 he went out. His preparations were soon made. A 
 carriage took him to the station; but before he quitted 
 the manor, he sent for the gamekeeper. 
 
 "You were remiss in your duty," he said sternly to 
 the man. "The person of whom I warned you has 
 been in the park and has spoken to Miss Violet. Now, 
 listen carefully to what I say. Obtain any help you 
 require and guard this house and its grounds so that 
 not a bird can fly over it nor a rabbit scamper among 
 the bushes without your knowledge. Do this until I 
 return to-morrow and I give you fifty pounds, but fail 
 in the least particular and you will be dismissed in- 
 stantly." He was gone, with a rush of whipped 
 horses. 
 
 Velveteens took thought. "Twiced in one day!" 
 he growled. "A licking or the sack, an' fifty quid or 
 the sack — which is it to be ? " 
 
 It might be one, or all, or none. Of such firsts, 
 seconds, and thirds is the acrostic of life made up. 
 But the promise of money stirred the man's dull wits. 
 No watch-dog Could have been more faithful to his 
 trust, and, by lavish oft'ers of silver and beer — de- 
 ferred luxuries, of course — he secured the aid of 
 certain local poachers, his lasting enemies, but his 
 
 221 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 friends for the night. In g, word, if David had crept 
 again into the park, he would probably have been 
 beaten to a jelly. 
 
 But David attempted nothing of the sort. He was 
 loyal to his pact with Violet, never dreaming of the 
 ordeal to which the girl had submitted. Nevertheless, 
 having no sort of occupation, he kept his eyes and 
 ears open. He saw Sharpe drive through the village, 
 and was told that the lawyer was head of a trusted 
 firm in the county town. He saw Van Hupfeldt pass 
 toward the station, and the ostler learned from a rail- 
 way porter that the "gentleman from the manor" had 
 gone to "Lunnon." 
 
 This gave David cause to think, seeing that there 
 was no news from Violet. But he waited, with much 
 hope and some spasms of miserableness, through the 
 long dull evening; heard nothing from her; went to 
 bed; tossed restlessly until the sun rose; met the village 
 postman at the door of the inn; and still received no 
 tidings. He breakfasted, hung about, watched the 
 road, sauntered as far as the lodge, nodded aifably to 
 velveteens behind the bars, and caught no glimpse 
 of Violet. Then he determined to break the spell of 
 silence. He returned to the inn and wrote a letter, 
 which he intrusted to His Majesty's Postmaster- 
 General for express delivery. 
 
 Sure enough, the postmistress's young sister re- 
 fused to be turned back by the Cerberus at the gate, 
 nor would she tell her business. The man knew her, 
 
 222 
 
From the Depths 
 
 suspected her errand, but dared not interfere, having 
 a wholesome regard for the law; so all he could do 
 was to note her coming and going, and report to his 
 briber, for he was Mrs. Mordaunt's servant. 
 And this is what David wrote: 
 
 My dear One — Can it be that some newly conceived lie has 
 
 kept you from sending for me? I only ask your full inquiry: I 
 
 stand or fall by that. But spare me this silence; for I am eating 
 
 mv heart out. _, 
 
 Yours, 
 
 David. 
 
 The messenger tripped back. "No answer, sir," 
 she said, and the words smote David such a blow that 
 his cheek blanched, while the girl wondered. 
 
 " To whom did you hand my note ? " he managed to 
 ask. 
 
 "To Miss Violet, sir." 
 
 " Are you sure ^ " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir. Gave it to her myself." 
 
 " And she read it ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Did she say anything?" 
 
 "Just that, sir; no answer." 
 
 Then David, in a mighty wrath and fume, dashed 
 off another note. 
 
 Very well, be it so. I return to London. Grod help you if you 
 marry that man ! You will sink to the pit, and the angels alone 
 will be able to lift you therefrom. Let there be no error this time. 
 I leave for London at one fifteen, p.m. If you want me you must 
 either detain me now or come to me in London. 
 
 223 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Back went the postmistress's sister, marveling at 
 the strangeness of these one-sided missives between 
 the young woman of the manor and a handsome young 
 man at the Feathers. Being seventeen, she took 
 David's side as against Violet. So she added, on her 
 own account, when she saw the white-faced aristocrat 
 in the house, the explanatory statement that "the 
 young gentleman seemed to be very much upset at 
 receiving no reply." 
 
 Poor Violet, in whom loyalty was hereditary, could 
 not break her word. But she did say: *'I have no 
 message to-day; but I know Mr. Harcourt's address." 
 
 That was the only crumb of comfort vouchsafed to 
 David. Away he went at quarter-past one, nor did 
 the volcano in him show any sign of subsidence when 
 he reached the gloom and shadows of No. 7 Eddystone 
 Mansions. 
 
 For a little drop of acutest poison had been poured 
 into his ear by the gossip of the village. In the bar 
 overnight he heard yokels talking of the need of money 
 at the big house, how Van Hupfeldt's wealth would 
 make the flowers grow again in Rigsworth. He 
 smiled at the conceit then; now he knew that deadly 
 nightshade was sown in the garden of his hopes, for 
 he imagined that money had proved more potent than 
 love. 
 
 It was a remarkable thing that of all the pictures 
 in the flat he had left untouched the portrait in chalk 
 which hung over the dining-room fireplace. It savored 
 
 224 
 
From the Depths 
 
 too much of sacrilege to disturb that ethereal face; 
 but David was in far too savage a mood to check at 
 sentiment during those dark hours. He surveyed the 
 portrait almost vindictively, though had he been less 
 bitter he might have seen a reassuring smile in the 
 parted lips. So it came to pass that, after eating some 
 dry bread, which was the only food he found in the 
 larder, he lit a pipe, looked at the picture again, and 
 yielded to the impulse to examine it. 
 
 Strong as were his nerves, he had to force himself 
 to apply a knife to its brown-papered back. And 
 then, with a queer vindictive howl of triumph, he drew 
 forth a curiously insipid portrait of Van Hupfeldt, 
 inscribed "To Gwen," with a date, and, folded be- 
 hind it, a terrible little note, merely dated "Paris; 
 Tuesday," which read: 
 
 My Poor Girl — At last, then, you force the miserable truth 
 from me. Mrs. Strauss is my wife. She is twice my age. She 
 forced me to marry her ten years ago for her money. She is, indeed, 
 dying, and then I can fly to you. For the sake of our boy, forgive 
 
 me. TT 
 
 Harry. 
 
 "Ah!" There was something sadly animal in 
 David's triumph. He felt like a dog which has seized 
 the rat after which it has been straining, and, in a 
 minute or two, he had the grace to be ashamed of 
 himself. Then he thought of Violet, and he broke 
 down, crying like a child. Those tears were good for 
 him; they brought him back to sanity and garnished 
 the dark places of his heart. 
 
 225 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 But what to do? That was more than ever the 
 problem. He bolted and barred his door that night, 
 and the photograph and letter lay beside his revolver 
 under his pillow. Not forty Van Hupfeldts nor a 
 legion of ghosts should reave him of those telling 
 pieces of evidence ! 
 
 226 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 VIOLET DECIDES 
 
 Violet, waked from broken rest by the cooing of 
 doves, had rue in her soul. She met her mother at 
 breakfast, and the good woman, thinking her daughter 
 not altogether in her right senses, was disposed to be 
 somewhat snappish. So the girl was driven back on 
 her sad imaginings, nor were they dissipated by David's 
 two little notes. When she sent the messenger away 
 the second time she was in a strange state of calm. 
 Despair had numbed her: she thought persistently of 
 her sister, and wondered if the only true rest was to 
 be found in that dark nook of the grave. 
 
 She saw a carriage depart for the railway station to 
 bring Van Hupfeldt. In half an hour its wheels 
 grated on the gravel of the drive, and a servant came 
 to her room to summon her to the fateful conclave. 
 She was on her knees, in dry-eyed prayer, and the 
 frightened maid, who loved Miss Violet, had a little 
 catch in her voice as she said: 
 
 "You are wanted in the drawing-room, miss, and 
 please, miss, I do hope you won't take on so. Every- 
 body says you ought to be happy; but I " — snifT — "I 
 know yer ain't, miss." 
 
 227 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Violet rose and kissed the girl. It was good to have 
 such honest sympathy. 
 
 In the big, cheerful salon beneath she found her 
 mother, stiff and self-conscious, wondering what people 
 would think if Violet persisted in her folly; Van Hup- 
 feldt, collected and deferential, wearing a buttonhole 
 of violets (of all flowers in creation!), and, seated 
 gingerly on the edge of a chair, a quietly dressed young 
 woman with "domestic servant" writ large upon her. 
 But Dibbin, for whom Violet's eyes searched dreamily, 
 was not there. 
 
 Van Hupfeldt, who seemed to have an uncanny trick 
 of reading her thoughts when they were hostile, ex- 
 plained instantly: "Not all my persuasions could 
 bring Mr. Dibbin from his office to-day. He had 
 some business engagement which was imperative, he 
 said. But I have done the next best thing. Here is 
 a letter from him. He will substantiate its statements 
 in person some later day." 
 
 He held out a letter. The girl took it mechanically. 
 The envelope bore her name, typed. She broke the 
 seal and began to read; but her mother, resolved to 
 have "no nonsense this time," interrupted, with an 
 unusual sharpness: 
 
 "Aloud, please!" 
 
 So Violet read: 
 
 Dear Miss Mordaunt: — For some reason, not explained to 
 me, a gentleman named Van Hupfeldt has asked me to assure you 
 that he is not Johann Strauss, who rented the flat No. 7, Eddystone 
 
 228 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 Mansions, some two years since. Of course, I do that readily. I 
 much regret that I cannot travel to Rigsworth with Mr. Van Hup- 
 feldt to-day; but I do not suppose that the odd request he makes 
 is really so urgent as he would have me believe. Please convey my 
 respectful regards to Mrs. Mordaunt. y - . , » ,, 
 
 John Dibbin. 
 
 Excepting the signature, the letter was typewritten. 
 Violet knew the old agent's scrawling handwriting 
 very well. He had never sent her a typewritten letter 
 before. She laid the document on the table which had 
 borne the parchments of yesterday. 
 
 " Well ? Is that satisfactory ? " said Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 "Quite conclusive," murmured Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " Who is this ? " asked Violet, turning toward the 
 nervous young person on the edge of a chair. 
 
 "That is Sarah Gissing, poor Gwen's maid." 
 
 It was not Sarah Gissing; but Jenny, loaned by 
 Miss Ermyn L'Estrange for the day at a stiff figure 
 paid to both — Jenny, schooled for her part and glib 
 enough at it, though her Cockney pertness was momen- 
 tarily awed by the old-world grandeur of Dale Manor 
 and its two "real" ladies. 
 
 So Van Hupfeldt was playing vdih loaded dice; 
 he had discarded the dangerous notion of trjing to 
 buy Dibbin for the simpler expedient of a forged 
 letter. The marriage ceremony was now the great 
 coup; let that be an irrevocable fact and he believed 
 he would be able to manage everything. 
 
 "Ah!" said Violet, with a pathos that might have 
 
 229 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 touched even a calloused heart, "you are Sarah Giss- 
 ing. You knew my dear sister? You saw her in her 
 last hours ? You heard her last words ? " 
 
 "Yes, miss," sniveled Jenny, "an* this gentleman 
 ain't Mr. Strauss, though he do resemble him a 
 bit." 
 
 Now, this assurance came too quick on the heels of 
 a natural question. It had not been asked for as yet. 
 Violet was ready to bare her heart to this common- 
 looking girl for sake of the knowledge that she was 
 Gwendoline's only confidante. But the exceeding 
 promptitude of Jenny's testimony forced back the 
 rush of sentiment. Violet even recoiled a little. Could 
 it be possible that her sweet and gracious sister, the 
 laughing sprite of bygone days, had been driven to 
 make something of a friend of this coarse, small- 
 faced, mean-eyed wench .'^ How pitiful, how sordid, 
 was each fresh chapter of Gwen's hidden life ! 
 
 Van Hupfeldt saw that a check had occurred, 
 though his seething brain, intent only on securing an 
 unalterable verdict, was unable to appreciate the 
 delicate poise of Violet's emotions. "Question her," 
 he said gently. "She will tell you all about her mis- 
 tress, to whom she was very greatly attached. Were 
 you not, Sarah?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir. She were such a lovely lady, and so 
 nice an' kind in her ways, that nobody could help 
 lovin' her." 
 
 That was better. Violet thawed again. "I hardly 
 
 230 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 know what to ask you," she said wistfully. "Did she 
 ever speak of us, of my mother and me ? " 
 
 "She would talk about you for hours, miss. Many 
 a time I could hardly get on with my work, she was so 
 anxious to have some one to gossip with. Bless your 
 'eart, miss, I know your name as well as my own." 
 
 Strange, most unutterably strange, thought Violet; 
 but she said, with a sad smile: "You were much 
 favored, Sarah. I would have given all I have in the 
 world to have changed places with you. Tell me, was 
 this man — this Mr. Strauss — kind to her ? " 
 " He must have been, miss. He — " 
 " Must have been ? But you saw and heard ! " 
 Jenny kept her head, though she flushed a little. 
 "People often do put on a different way before ser- 
 vants, miss, to what they have in private. Not that 
 I have reason to think anyways bad of Mr. Strauss. 
 He was a very generous sort of gentleman, always free 
 with his money. What I meant was that Miss — er 
 — Miss Gwendoline used to speak of him as a lovin' 
 husband." 
 
 Jenny caught her breath a trifle. She did not dare 
 to look at Van Hupfeldt, as he had specially warned 
 her against doing so. Like most of her class, she was 
 prepared now to cover any mistake by excessive 
 volubility. 
 
 " Did you address her as * Miss Gwendoline,' then ? " 
 "Yes, miss. That is the way on the stage, you 
 know." 
 
 231 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "But this was not on the stage." 
 
 "Quite right, miss, only ladies in the profession 
 mostly uses their stage names in private." 
 
 "My sister never appeared on any stage, to my 
 knowledge." 
 
 Jenny became a little defiant. "Of course, miss," 
 she answered tartly, "I didn't know much about my 
 missus's comin's and goin's, but she used to go regular 
 to rehearsal. The call was for eleven and two most 
 days." 
 
 Violet found herself in a new world. What could 
 have come to Gwendoline that she should have quitted 
 her home and gone away among these strange people ? 
 And what had she said that this servant-girl should 
 suddenly show the shrew in her? 
 
 She glanced toward her mother, who, indeed, was 
 as greatly perturbed as herself. The old lady could 
 scarce comprehend that the talk was of her darling 
 GwendoHne. Then Van Hupfeldt, thinking to lead 
 Violet's ideas into a fresh channel, broke in: 
 
 "I was sure that these things would distress you," 
 he said in the low voice of sympathy. "Perhaps you 
 would prefer to send Sarah to the housekeeper's room 
 while you look at the documents I have brought." 
 
 Violet, in whose brain a hundred wild questions as 
 to her sister's life were jostling, suddenly faced Jenny 
 again. "What was my sister's baby called?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Henry, miss, after its father." 
 
 232 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 "But why * Henry,' since the father's name was 
 Johann ? " 
 
 "That is a puzzle, miss. I'm only tellin' you what 
 I know." 
 
 " And what became of the child ? Why was it 
 spirited away from its mother.^ or was it not taken 
 away until after her death .^" 
 
 Jenny had been told to be close as an oyster on this 
 matter. " I don't know why the baby was sent out 
 to nurse, miss," she said. "I can only tell you it was 
 never in the flat." 
 
 Violet passed a hand across her eyes as though to 
 clear a bewildered brain. This domestic lived in a 
 small flat with her sister, who " gossiped " for " hours " 
 with her, yet the girl knew little about a child which 
 Gwen must have idolized. 
 
 " Then you never saw the baby ? " she asked. 
 
 "No, miss; that is, once, I think," for Jenny did 
 now venture to look at Van Hupfeldt, and his slight 
 nod came at the instant of her denial. He thought 
 the infant a safe topic, in regard to its appearance, 
 and the mother's love of it. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, who had been listening intently 
 enough, caught Jenny's hesitation. " It is odd," she 
 said, "that you should have forgotten, or be uncer- 
 tain of, such a definite fact as seeing my daughter's 
 child." 
 
 A maid entered with a telegram which she handed 
 to Violet. In a quiet country mansion the advent of a 
 
 233 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 telegram is a rare event. People in rural England 
 regard this curt manner of communication as reserved 
 only for important items. Mrs. Mordaunt was a 
 little alarmed. Her mind quickly reviewed all her 
 relatives' ailments. 
 
 "What is it, Vi.^" she asked anxiously, while Van 
 Hupfeldt wondered if any unoccupied fiend had 
 tempted David Harcourt to interfere at this critical 
 moment. 
 
 Violet opened the buff envelope and read the mes- 
 sage slowly. It was a perfectly marvelous thing that 
 she retained her self-control, for the telegram was 
 from Dibbin at Dundee. 
 
 Have just concluded sale, after three days' private negotiation 
 here. Your moiety five hundred pounds. Letter follows. 
 
 It referred to a long-deferred bequest from a cousin, 
 and was a simple matter enough. But Dibbin realiz- 
 ing an estate in the north of Scotland and Dibbin 
 writing typewritten testimonials of Van Hupfeldt in 
 London on one and the same day was a Mahatma 
 performance, a case of psychic projection which did 
 not enter into the ordinary scheme of things. 
 
 Nevertheless, Violet, save for one flash of intensest 
 surprise in those deep eyes of hers, maintained her 
 self-control. She had been so tried already that her 
 mind could withstand any shock. "It is nothing, 
 mother — merely a reference to the Auchlachan affair," 
 she said, crushing the telegram into a little ball in her 
 hand. 
 
 234 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 "Ah!" said Mrs. Mordaunt, greatly relieved. "I 
 dreamed of Aunt Jane last night." 
 
 "Well, now," said Van Hupfeldt, after a bound or 
 two of his heart, " what do you say ? Mr. Sharpe will 
 be here soon." 
 
 "You have the certificates and the diary?" said 
 Violet. 
 
 "The certificates, yes; not the diary. On calm 
 thought, I have decided irrevocably that the diary 
 shall not be placed in your hands until the lapse of 
 our six months' agreement. I have yielded every 
 other point; there I am rigid." 
 
 " Do you assign any reason ? " 
 
 " Yes, my right as your affianced husband to preserve 
 you from the grief and morbidness of reading a record 
 of suffering. I would not have you a weeping bride. 
 When we return from our wedding-tour I shall hand 
 you the diary, no sooner." 
 
 "The certificates, then," said Violet, composedly. 
 
 Van Hupfeldt took two papers from a pocket-book. 
 One recorded the marriage of Henry Van Hupfeldt 
 to Gwendoline Mordaunt at the office of the Brighton 
 registrar. The other was the certificate of the birth 
 of the child in the same town a year later. 
 
 It was a fine piece of daring for the man to produce 
 these documents. His own name; his age, thirty eight; 
 his occupation, gentleman, were set forth on the long 
 narrow strip, and the address was given as No. 7, 
 Eddystone Mansions, London, W. Even Mrs. Mor- 
 
 235 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 daunt was startled when she glanced over her daughter's 
 shoulder at the papers. 
 
 Suddenly Violet thought she saw a ray of light. 
 " Was this man a brother, some near relative, of yours ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "No, no relation." Van Hupfeldt was taken aback, 
 and the negative flew out before he realized that this 
 might have been a good card to play. But no; Violet 
 would never have married him then. 
 
 "What a mystery! To think that he should adopt 
 your name, be of your apparent age, and yet that you 
 should come here to Rigsworth and make our acquaint- 
 ance ! " 
 
 "No mystery at all. You drag everything from me 
 like a skilled lawyer. Strauss did more than borrow 
 my name; he forged it. There was a police inquiry. 
 I was called into it. My curiosity was aroused. I 
 learned something of your sister's story, and I took 
 steps to meet you." 
 
 "Introduced by Lord Vanstone!" murmured Mrs. 
 Mordaunt. 
 
 "Yes, some one. I quickly forgot all else when I 
 was granted the privilege of your friendship." 
 
 And he took Violet's hand and kissed it, with a 
 delicate grace that was courtly in him. 
 
 Sharpe was announced. Mrs. Mordaunt sent Jenny 
 away in a maid's escort, and Violet knew that her 
 hour of final yielding was near. 
 
 She still held the certificates. "Am I to keep 
 
 236 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 these?" she asked, while her mouth quivered shghtly. 
 She was thinking, thinking, all the time, of David and 
 Dibbin and of the queer collapse of Gwendoline which 
 made that little Cockney woman her companion. 
 But what plea could she urge now? She could only 
 ask for a few days' respite, just to clear away some 
 lingering doubts, and then — But, for mother's sake, 
 no protests now, nor tears, nor questions. 
 
 Sharpe's ferret eyes took in the altered situation. 
 Yesterday's clouds had passed. A glance from Van 
 Hupfeldt brought him to business. There was a 
 marriage settlement of five thousand pounds per 
 annuiUy to be increased to twice the amount in the 
 event of widowhood — and Sharpe explained the 
 legal proviso that Violet was to be free to marry again, 
 if so minded, without forfeiting any portion of this 
 magnificent yearly revenue. 
 
 "Most generous!" Mrs. Mordaunt could not help 
 saying, and even the girl herself, miserable and droop- 
 ing as a caged thrush, knew that Van Hupfeldt was 
 showing himself a princely suitor. 
 
 "And now follows a somewhat unusual document," 
 said Sharpe in his brisk legal way. "Mr. Van Hup- 
 feldt has instructed me to prepare a will, leaving all his 
 real and personal estate to Miss Violet Mordaunt, he 
 being confident that she will faithfully carry out cer- 
 tain instructions of his o^\ti. Of course, this instru- 
 ment will have a very brief life. Marriage, I may 
 explain, Miss Mordaunt, invalidates all wills previ- 
 
 237 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 ously executed by either of the parties. Hence, it is 
 intended only to cover the interregnum, so to speak, 
 between to-day's bachelordom and the marriage cere- 
 mony of — er — 
 
 " Of this day week ? " asked Van Hupfeldt, eagerly. 
 
 "Be it so," said Violet, for she had a plan in her 
 mind now, and whatever happened, a week's grace 
 was sufficient. 
 
 "Mrs. Mordaunt and I are appointed trustees fro 
 tern for the purposes of the marriage settlement," went 
 on Sharpe. "Mr. Van Hupfeldt will, of course, 
 execute a fresh will after marriage. All we need now 
 are two witnesses for various signatures. My clerk, 
 who is waiting in the hall, will serve as one." 
 
 "The girl, Sarah Gissing, who was here just now, 
 might be called in," said Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Van Hupfeldt. " She is a stranger. 
 After to-day she vanishes from our lives. Please 
 summon one of your own servants — the housekeeper, 
 or a footman." 
 
 So Violet and Van Hupfeldt and Mrs. Mordaunt 
 and the witnesses signed their names on various 
 parchments at places where the lawyer had marked 
 little crosses in pencil. 
 
 Violet, as in a dream, saw the name "Henry Van 
 Hupfeldt" above that of "Violet Mordaunt," just as 
 it appeared over " Gwendoline Mordaunt " in the 
 marriage certificate. In her eyes, the tiny crosses 
 made the great squares of vellum look like the chart 
 
 238 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 of a cemetery. Yet there was soniething singing 
 sweetly in her ears : *' You still have a week of liberty. 
 Use your time well. Not all the law in the land can 
 force you to the altar unless you wish it." And this 
 lullaby was soothing. 
 
 Soon the solicitor took off himself and his duplicates, 
 for he handed certain originals to Violet, advising her 
 to intrust them to the care of a bank or her mother's 
 legal advisers. Van Hupfeldt, with a creditable tact, 
 set himself to entertain the two ladies, and when 
 Violet wished to interview "Sarah Gissing" again, he 
 explained that the girl had been sent back to London 
 by his orders. 
 
 "No more tears," he said earnestly; "no more 
 doubtings and wonderings. When we return from a 
 tour in the States you shall meet her again and satisfy 
 all your cravings." 
 
 Evidently his design was to remain at Dale Manor 
 until they were quietly married, and, meanwhile, 
 surround the place with every possible protection. It 
 came, therefore, as a dreadful shock to him when 
 Violet disappeared for a whole hour after breakfast 
 next morning, and then Mrs. Mordaunt, red-eyed and 
 incoherent, rushed to find him with a note which had 
 just reached her from the station. 
 
 It read: 
 
 Dear Mother — I suppose I have freedom of action for two 
 days out of my seven. I wish to make certain inquiries; so I am 
 going away until to-morrow night, or, possibly, the next morning. 
 
 239 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 I think Mr. Van Hupfeldt will say this is fair, and, in justice to him, 
 I wish to state that I shall not see Mr. David Harcourt by design. 
 Should I see him by chance I shall refuse to speak to him. 
 
 Your loving daughter, 
 
 Violet. 
 
 "It is ended! I have done with her! She has 
 played me false!" screamed the man when he under- 
 stood that Violet had really quitted Rigsworth. His 
 paroxysm of rage was so fierce that Mrs. Mordaunt 
 was terrified that he would die on the spot; but his 
 passion ended in an equally vehement declaration of 
 sorrow and affection. He would follow her and bring 
 her back. Mrs. Mordaunt must come with him in- 
 stantly. The girl must be saved from herself. Surely 
 they would find her, even in London, whither he was 
 certain she had gone, for she would only go to her 
 accustomed haunts. 
 
 He infected the grief-stricken mother with some of 
 his own frenzy. She promised to be at the station in 
 time for the next train; he tore off to the telegraph 
 office, where he wrote messages in a white fever of 
 action. First, he bade his factotum Neil meet the 
 train from Rigsworth in which Violet traveled, and 
 ascertain her movements, if possible. 
 
 The second was to Dibbin: 
 
 A client has recommended you to me. Leave by earliest train 
 
 for Portsmouth and call at offices of (a named firm of solicitors) 
 
 for instructions. I forward herewith fifty pounds for preliminary 
 
 expenses. „ _, „ 
 
 Henry Van Hupfeldt. 
 
 240 
 
Violet Decides 
 
 The fifty pounds which he thus telegraphed to Dibbin 
 were notes which he had brought for the gamekeeper; 
 so this payment was deferred, at the least. 
 
 Then he sent word to the Portsmouth firm that Dib- 
 bin was to be dispatched on a secret estate-hunting 
 quest in Devonshire, at any terms he chose to demand. 
 His next telegram was to Mrs. Carter at Pangley: 
 
 Take baby at once by train to Station Hotel, New-street, Bir- 
 mingham. Leave word with neighbors and at station to say 
 where you have gone. I will write you at Birmingham and send 
 money to-night. 
 
 Finally to David he wired: 
 
 I now know everything. Mrs. Carter is about to take my sister's 
 
 child away from Pangley. Please go there at once, find out where 
 
 she has gone, and follow her. Wire me to-morrow, or next day, 
 
 what you have discovered. Forgive yesterday's silence; it was 
 
 unavoidable. -, 
 
 Violet. 
 
 That was all he could devise in the present chaos of 
 his mind. But it would serve, he thought, to give a 
 few hours' breathing-space. He was hard pressed, 
 but far from beaten yet. And now that Violet and her 
 mother were away from Dale Manor, he would take 
 care that they did not return to the house until Violet 
 was his wife. Perhaps even in this desperate hour 
 things had happened for the best. 
 
 241 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 DAVID HAS ONE VISITOR, AND EXPECTS OTHERS 
 
 David had to rise pretty early to admit his char- 
 woman. Behind her, in the outer lobby, he saw the 
 scared face of the hall-porter, who remembered that a 
 certain loud knocking and difficulty of gaining access 
 to that flat on one other occasion had been the prelude 
 to a tragic discovery, though he, not being in the 
 building at the time, had heard of the affair only from 
 his mates. 
 
 David smiled reassurance at him, and went back 
 to his bed-room to dress. He placed the portrait and 
 the letter in an inner pocket of his waistcoat provided 
 for paper money, and, the hour being in advance of 
 breakfast-time, went out for a stroll. 
 
 Regent's Park was delightful that morning. Not 
 spring, but summer, was in the air. Nature, to com- 
 pel man to admire her dainty contrivances, v/as shut- 
 ting in the vistas. Already trees and hedge-rows flung 
 their leafy screens across the landscape. So David 
 wandered on, promising himself many such mornings 
 with Violet; for it passed his wit to see how Van Hup- 
 feldt could wriggle out of the testimony of his own pic- 
 ture and his own handwriting. 
 
 242 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 Hence, instead of being earlier he was somewhat 
 later than usual in sitting down to breakfast, and he 
 was a surprised young man when, his charwoman hav- 
 ing gone to answer a ring at the door, the announce- 
 ment came of: 
 
 "A lady to see you, sir." 
 • "A lady!" he gasped. "Who is she?" and he 
 hoped wildly that it might be Violet. 
 
 "You know her well enough, old boy," came the 
 high-pitched voice of Miss Ermyn L'Estrange, who 
 now appeared in the dining-room, a pink-faced vision 
 in a flower-garden hat and muslins. "Poof!" she 
 cried. "I have not been out for many a day before 
 the streets were aired. Say, young party, that bacon 
 and egg has a more gratifying scent than violets. I 
 have come all the way from Chelsea on one cup of tea." 
 
 The charwoman, eying the visitor askance, admitted 
 that more supplies could be arranged. 
 
 "Hurry up, then, fairy," said Miss L'Estrange. 
 "And don't look so shocked. Your master here is 
 the very goodest young man in London." 
 
 David said that even the just man fell seven times 
 a day; but, anyhow, he was delighted to see her. 
 
 "You look it," was the dry response. "I never 
 knew anybody who threw their heart into their eyes as 
 you do. You will never get on in London if you don't 
 learn to lie better. When you say that sort of thing 
 you should gush a little and leer — at any rate, when 
 you are talking to a woman." 
 
 243 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "But I mean it," he vowed. "You can't tell how 
 nice it is to have some frills on the other side of the 
 table. That hat, now, is a picture." 
 
 "The hair is a bad color to suit, you know." 
 
 "Ah, no, it has the gold of the sun in it. Perhaps 
 I may be phrasing the words awkwardly, but you 
 look ten years younger this morning. Miss L'Estrange." 
 
 She turned her eyes to the ceihng. "Ye gods!" 
 she cried, " if only I had those ten back again ! " Then 
 she gave David a coy glance. " I don't mind betting 
 you half a quid," she said, "that you are only pleased 
 to see me here because I bring to your mind the pos- 
 sibility of another girl being your vis-a-vis at break- 
 fast." 
 
 "Now you would make me dumb when I am most 
 anxious to talk." 
 
 "Oh, you candid wretch! Why did I come here? 
 Don't you believe that there are twenty men in London 
 who would give quite a lot if I honored them by this 
 morning call ? " 
 
 "I do believe it," said David, gravely, "and that is 
 just why you are here, and not with one of the twenty. 
 You are a far more upright little lady than you profess 
 to be. Miss L'Estrange." 
 
 She actually blushed, for, like most women who are 
 compelled to make up professionally, never an atom 
 of grease or rouge was on her face at other times. 
 "David," she said, "you are a nice boy. I wish you 
 were my brother." 
 
 244 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 "You would be fine and dandy as a sister." 
 
 " Well, let's be friends. And the first sign of friend- 
 ship is a common alliance. I've taken your side 
 against Strauss." 
 
 "What of him?" demanded David, warily; for Miss 
 Ermyn was a slippery customer, he fancied. 
 
 "Now, no fencing, or the alliance is off. You were 
 down at Rigsworth yesterday, remember, and you 
 came back in a mighty temper. Not even your pretty 
 Violet was all perfection last evening, was she ? " 
 
 *' Things did go wrong, I admit," said he, marveling 
 at this attack. 
 
 " Well, I am not here to pump you, or else I would 
 surprise you a bit more. No, David, I'm here just 
 because I'm a woman, and as full of mischief as an 
 egg is full of meat; so that I can't help interfering in a 
 love affair, though it isn't my own. Did you know 
 that Strauss brought Jenny to Rigsworth yesterday?" 
 
 " Jenny ? Why Jenny ? " 
 
 " That is what I wanted to know. And she wouldn't 
 tell me, the cat, until I got my Irish up and offered to 
 drag her over the furniture by the hair of her head. 
 And it was no use her lying to me, either. Every time 
 she tried to think of a plausible tale I told her it would 
 hurt to cross the chiffonier head first. At last she 
 owned up, and then I opened a small bottle — she 
 wanted it, I assure you — and I got the whole story 
 while we finished it." 
 
 " But, for goodness' sake — " 
 
 245 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 ''Whoa, my boy! Don't rush your fences. I'll tell 
 you everything, so keep calm. First, the night before 
 last, Strauss comes to me — " 
 
 " One moment," broke in David. " Is this Strauss ? " 
 and he handed her the portrait. 
 
 She looked at it and laughed. "Why, of course it 
 is!" she said. "Fancy you keeping his picture over 
 your heart ! Now, if it had been Violet, or me — " 
 
 " Sorry to have interrupted you," he said. 
 
 "Funny idea! Anyhow, Strauss turned up the 
 night before last and wanted to borrow Jenny for the 
 whole of next day. It was beastly awkward, as she 
 was helping me to re-hem this dress and put new 
 sleeves in the bodice; but he badgered me so that I 
 could hardly refuse," and she thought for an instant 
 of certain notes crumpled up in the gold purse which 
 was slung from her neck; "so I packed Jenny off 
 about eight o'clock next morning — yesterday, that is. 
 I was in a temper all day, and tore two flounces out 
 of my frock, and scraped my shin on the step of a 
 hansom; so when the minx came smirking home about 
 midnight, to find me making my own fire, I let her 
 have it, I can tell you. But it fairly gave me the 
 needle when she wouldn't say what Strauss wanted 
 her for, and then the row sprang up. Guess you want 
 to smoke, eh .? I would like a cigarette myself." 
 
 David was most docile outwardly when all of a boil 
 within. He awaited her pleasure, saw her seated in a 
 comfortable chair, joined in her own admiration of a 
 
 246 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 pair of really pretty feet, and lit a pipe. Then she 
 continued : 
 
 " There was poisonous trouble for about five minutes. 
 I might have let her off if she hadn't said things. Then 
 I frightened her. I believe I did yank her hat off. At 
 last, she confessed that Strauss told her that his name 
 now was Van Hupfeldt, and he wanted her to go down 
 to Rigsworth to be introduced to two ladies as Sarah 
 Gissing, Gwen Barnes's maid." 
 
 "What.'^" yelled David, springing to his feet. 
 
 " Oh, chuck it ! " said Miss L'Estrange in a voice of 
 deep disgust. "You nearly made me swallow my 
 
 cigarette.' 
 
 "But the man is a devil." 
 
 "Sit down, boy, sit down. You men are all six of 
 one and half a dozen of the other where a woman is 
 concerned. Poor things! I wonder how any of us 
 escape you at all. Still, Strauss is pretty artful, I 
 admit. You see, Jenny, having been in service here, 
 could lie so smoothly about Gwen Barnes that it would 
 be hard to find her out." 
 
 "Did she do this?" asked David in a fierce excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Miss L'Estrange laughed again as she selected a 
 fresh cigarette to replace the spoiled one. 
 
 " Did the cat steal cream ? Fancy Jenny being 
 offered twenty pounds for a day's prevarication and 
 refusing it! Why, that girl lies for practise." 
 
 " Oh, please go on ! " he groaned. 
 
 247 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "Queer game, isn't it? I often think the ha'penny 
 papers don't get hold of half the good things that are 
 going. Well, Jenny, according to her own version, 
 spoofed Mrs. Mordaunt and your Violet in great 
 shape. What is more, Strauss and a lawyer man 
 wheedled them into signing all sorts of papers, includ- 
 ing a marriage settlement. Will you believe it.^ The 
 Dutchman had the cheek to give your Violet the cer- 
 tificates which Jenny sold to him." 
 
 David said something under his breath. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss L'Estrange, "he deserves it. I 
 can't abide a man who goes in for deceiving a poor 
 girl. So, at my own loss, mind you, I determined to 
 come here this morning and give you a friendly tip." 
 
 "Heaven knows I shall endeavor to repay you!" 
 sighed David, in a perfect heat now to be out and 
 doing, doing he knew not what. 
 
 " Is she very beautiful, your Violet ? " asked his 
 visitor, turning on him with one of her bird-like move- 
 ments of the head. 
 
 "That is her sister," said David, flinging a hand 
 toward the portrait. 
 
 " Ah, I knew Gwen Barnes. Saw her in the theater, 
 you know. A nice girl, but notliing to rave about. 
 Rather of the clinging sort. You men prefer that type 
 I do believe. And now that you have heard my yarn, 
 you want me to go, eh ? " 
 
 "No, no. No hurry at all." 
 
 "You dear David! Mouth all 'No,' eyes all 'Yes.' 
 
 248 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 That's it. Treat me like an old shoe. Bless you! 
 we women worship that sort of thing, until, all at once, 
 we blaze up. Well, you will give Strauss a drubbing 
 one of these days, and I shan't be sorry. I hate pretty 
 men. They are all affectation, and waxy like a bar- 
 ber's doll. Well, ta-ta! You're going to have a nice, 
 pleasant day, I can see. But, fair play, mind. No 
 telling tales about your little Ermyn. I have done 
 more for you to-day than I would do for any other 
 man in creation. And some day you must bring 
 your Violet to tea; I promise to be good and talk nice. 
 There, now ; ain't I a wonder ? " 
 
 And she was gone, in a whirl of flounces and high 
 heels, the last he heard of her when she declined to let 
 him come to the door " with that glare " in his eye being 
 her friendly hail to the lift-man : " Hello, Jimmie ! Like 
 old times to see you again. How's the wife and the 
 kiddies ? " 
 
 Left to his own devices, David was at his wits' end 
 to know how to act for the best. At last he wrote a 
 telegram to Violet: 
 
 The girl you met yesterday as Sarah Gissing was not your sister's 
 maid, but another woman masquerading in her stead. I implore 
 you and your mother to come to London and meet me in Mr. Dib- 
 bin's oflSce. He knows the real Sarah Gissing, and will produce 
 her. 
 
 This was definite enough, and he thought the in- 
 troduction of Dibbin's name would be helpful with 
 Mrs. Mordaunt. Then he rushed off to see Dibbin 
 
 249 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 himself, but learned from a clerk that the agent would 
 not arrive from Scotland until six- thirty p.m., "which 
 is a pity," said the clerk, ruefully, "because a first-rate 
 commission has just come in for him by wire." 
 
 "Some one in a hurry?" said Harcourt, speaking 
 rather to cloak his own disappointment than out of 
 any commiseration for Dibbin's loss. 
 
 " I should think so, indeed. Fifty golden sovereigns 
 sent by telegraph, just to get him quick to Portsmouth." 
 
 David heard, and wondered. He made a chance 
 shot. "I expect that is my friend. Van Hupfeldt," 
 he said. 
 
 "The very man!" gasped the clerk. 
 
 " Oh, there is no harm done. Mr. Dibbin comes to 
 King's Cross, I suppose.'^" 
 
 "Yes. I shall be there to meet him." 
 
 Certainly things were lively at Rigsworth. David 
 had a serious notion of going there by the next train. 
 But he returned to Eddystone Mansions, in case there 
 might be an answer from Violet. Sure enough, there 
 he found the telegram sent in her name by Van Hup- 
 feldt. The time showed that it was despatched about 
 the same hour as his own. At first, his heart danced 
 with the joy of knowing that she still trusted him. 
 And how truly wonderful that she mentioned Pangley, 
 a town he had not named to her; there must, indeed, 
 have been a tremendous eruption at Dale Manor. 
 Yet it was too bad that he should be forced to leave 
 London and go in chase of Mrs. Carter and the baby. 
 
 250 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 Why, he would be utterly cut off from active com- 
 munication with her for hours, and it was so vitally 
 important that they should meet. Of course, he would 
 obey, but first he would await the chance of a reply 
 to his message. So he telegraphed again: 
 
 Will go to Pangley. Tell me when I can see you. 
 
 He was his own telegraph messenger. While he 
 was out another buff envelope found its way to his 
 table. Here was the confusion of a fog, for this screed 
 ran: 
 
 Miss Violet Mordaunt traveled to London this morning by the 
 
 nine-eleven train. This is right. t-. 
 
 *' Friend. 
 
 There was no name; but the post-office said the in- 
 formation came from Rigsworth, and the post-office 
 indulges in cold official accuracy. Somehow, this 
 word from a friend did strike him as friendly. It 
 made him read again, and ponder weightily, the longer 
 statement signed "Violet." 
 
 He could not tell, oh, sympathetic little sister of the 
 Rigsworth postmistress, that you wheedled the grocer's 
 assistant into writing that most important telegram. 
 It was a piece of utmost daring on the part of a village 
 maid, and perhaps it might be twisted into an infringe- 
 ment of the "Official Secrets Act," or some such 
 terrifying ordinance; but your tender little heart had 
 gone out to the young man who got " no answer " from 
 the lady of the manor, and you knew quite well that 
 
 251 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 Violet had never sent him to Pangley to hunt for a 
 missing baby. 
 
 Anyhow, David was glowering at both flimsy slips 
 of paper, when a letter reached him. It was marked 
 *' Express Delivery," and had been handed in at Euston 
 Station soon after twelve o'clock. 
 
 This time there could be no doubt whatever that 
 Violet was the writer. Here was the identical hand- 
 writing of the first genuine note he had received from 
 her. And there was Violet herself in the phrasing of 
 it, though she was brief and reserved. She wrote: 
 
 Dear David — I am in London for the purpose of making 
 certain inquiries. I must not see you if I can help it. I must be 
 quite, quite alone and unaided. Please pardon my seeming want 
 of confidence. In this matter I am trusting to God's help and my 
 own endeavors. But I want you to oblige me by being away from 
 your flat to-night between midnight and two a.m. That is all. 
 Perhaps I may be able to explain everything later. 
 
 Your sincere well-wisher, 
 
 Violet Mordahnt. 
 
 Then David ran like a beagle to Euston Station; 
 but Violet had been gone from there nearly an hour, 
 because he found on inquiry that the nine-eleven train 
 from Rio:sworth had arrived at noon. Yet he could 
 not be content unless he careered about London look- 
 ing for her, first at Porchester Gardens, then at Dib- 
 bin's office, at which he arrived exactly five minutes 
 before she did, and he must have driven along Picca- 
 dilly while she was turning the corner from Regent's. 
 
 252 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 London is the biggest bundle of hay when you want to 
 find anybody. 
 
 Amidst the maelstrom of his doubts and fears one 
 fact stood out so clearly that he could not fail to recog- 
 nize it. Not Violet alone, but some other hidden 
 personality, most earnestly desired his absence from 
 the flat that night. In a word. Van Hupfeldt, who 
 knew of the photograph and the letter being hidden 
 there, had the strongest possible reason for seeking an 
 opportunity to make an absolutely unhindered search 
 of every remaining nook and crevice. But how was 
 Violet's anxiety on this head to be explained.? Was 
 she, too, wishful to carry out a scrutiny of pictures, 
 cupboards, and ornaments on her own account ? 
 
 Then, with a sort of intuition, David felt that it was 
 she who had already visited her sister's latest abode 
 at such uncanny hours of gloom and mystery that her 
 presence had given rise to the ghost legend. And with 
 the consciousness that this was so came a hot flush of 
 shame and remorse that he had so vilified Violet in 
 his thoughts on the night of his long run from Chal- 
 font. It was she whom he had seen standing at the 
 end of the corridor on the first night of his ever-memor- 
 able tenancy of this sorrow-laden abode, and, no 
 doubt, her earlier efforts at elucidating the dim tragedy 
 which cloaked her sister's death had led to the eery 
 experiences of Miss L' Estrange and Jenny. 
 
 Well, thank goodness! he held nearly all the threads 
 of this dark business in his hands now, and it would go 
 
 253 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 hard with Van Hupfeldt if he crossed his path that 
 nisrht. For David resolved, with a smile which had 
 in it a mixture of grimness and tenderness, that he 
 would obey the letter of Violet's request while decidedly 
 disobeying its spirit. She wished him to be "away 
 from the flat between midnight and two a.m." Cer- 
 tainly he would be away ; but not far away — near 
 enough, indeed, to know who went into it and who 
 came out, and some part of their business there if he 
 saw fit. Violet, of course, might come and go as she 
 pleased; not so Van Hupfeldt or any of his myrmi- 
 dons. 
 
 Thereupon, determined to oppose guile to guile, he 
 dismissed his charwoman long before the usual time, 
 and called the friendly hall-porter into consultation. 
 
 *' Jim," he said, when the lift shot up to his floor in 
 response to a summons, *' I guess you want a drink." 
 
 Jim knew Harcourt's little ways by this time. *' Well 
 sir," he said, stepping forth, and unshipping the motor 
 key, "I'm bound to admit that a slight lubrikytion 
 wouldn't be amiss." 
 
 "In fact, it might be a hit, a palpable hit. Well, 
 step lively. Here's the whisky. Now, Jim, listen 
 while I talk. I understand there is to be a meeting 
 of ghosts here to-night — no, not a word yet; drink 
 steadily, Jim — and it is up to you and me to attend 
 the convocation. There is nothing to worry about. 
 These spirits are likely to be less harmful than those 
 you are imbibing ; indeed, we may be called on to grab 
 
 254 
 
David has One Visitor and Expects Others 
 
 one or two of them, but they will turn out to be ordi- 
 nary men. You're not afraid of a man, Jim ? " 
 
 "Not if 'e is a man, sir. But will there be any 
 shootin' ? " 
 
 "Ah, you heard of that?" 
 
 "People will talk of bullet-marks, sir, to say noth- 
 ing of drops o' blood." 
 
 "Drops of blood? Where?" 
 
 " All round our front door. They wasn't there over- 
 night, an' next day there was a revolver bullet stuck 
 in your kitchen skirting-board." 
 
 " Excellent ! Clear proof that our sort of ghosts will 
 bleed if you punch them hard enough on the nose. 
 Now, I want your help in three ways. In the first 
 place, I am going out about seven and will return 
 about nine. I want you to make sure that no one 
 enters my flat within those hours. Secondly, when I 
 come back, I wish to reach this floor without coming 
 in by the front door. You understand ? If any one 
 should be watching my movements, I would like to be 
 seen leaving the mansions but not returning. Thirdly, 
 I want you to join me on guard when you close the 
 front door at midnight, hiding the pair of us some- 
 where above, so that we can see, without fear of mis- 
 take, any persons who may possess keys which fit 
 my front door." 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it ? " said the porter, setting down 
 his glass. "Well, I'm your man, sir. Leave every- 
 thing to me. When you comes home at nine just pop 
 
 255 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 along the other street until you sees a door leadin' to a 
 harea. Drop down there, an' you'll find yourself in 
 our basement. At twelve sharp I'll come up in the lift 
 and fix you up proper." 
 
 " Jim, you're a treasure ! " said David. 
 
 9.5Q 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT GATHERING 
 
 When the train from Rigsworth brought Violet into 
 Euston Station, she hurried through the barrier and 
 asked an official to direct her to the nearest post- 
 office. At this instant a slight accident happened 
 which had a singular bearing on the events of the day. 
 Neil, the valet, who had driven to Euston just in time 
 to meet the incoming train, had seen her, and was 
 pressing in close pursuit when he tripped over a lug- 
 gage barrow and fell headlong. 
 
 He was not much injured, but shaken more than a 
 little, and when he was able to take up the chase again, 
 Violet had vanished. Hence she was freed from 
 espionage, and Van Hupfeldt could only curse his 
 useless emissary. The man Neil certainly did rush 
 about like a whirlwind as soon as he recovered his 
 breath; but Violet was in the post-office writing to 
 David, and securely hidden from his ferret eyes. 
 
 Oddly enough, the first person she wished to see 
 was Miss Ermyn L'Estrange. She remembered the 
 actress well, as she had visited her once (Jenny, the 
 maid, was out on an errand at the time), and it was one 
 of the many curious discrepancies in the tissue of 
 
 257 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 mingled fact and fiction which obscured her sister's 
 fate that such a volatile and talkative woman should 
 have written the curt little note sent at Hupfeldt's 
 bidding. Violet could not understand the reason, 
 but she saw a loophole here. The long journey in 
 the train had enabled her to review the information 
 she possessed with a certain clarity and precision 
 hitherto absent from her bewildered thoughts. In 
 a word, there were several marked lines of inquiry, 
 and she was resolved to follow each separately. 
 
 She felt that she had gone the wrong way to work in 
 the first frenzy of her grief. She was calm now, more 
 skilled in hiding her suspicion, less prone to jump at 
 conclusions. All unknown to her, the little germ of 
 passion planted in her heart by David's few words in 
 the summer-house was governing her whole being. 
 From the timid, irresolute girl, who clung to unattain- 
 able ideals, she was transformed into a woman, ready 
 to dare anything for the sake of the man she loved, 
 while the mere notion of marriage with Van Hupfeldt 
 was so loathsome that she was spurred into the physi- 
 cal need of strenuous action to counteract it. 
 
 So it was in a restrained yet business-like mood that 
 she climbed the stairs leading to Miss L'Estrange's 
 flat and rang the electric bell. The door was opened 
 by Jenny. 
 
 Not all the resources of pert Cockneyism availed 
 that hapless domestic when she set eyes on Miss Mor- 
 daunt. She uttered a helpless little wail of dismay, 
 
 258 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 and retreated a few steps, as though she half expected 
 the wonder-stricken young woman to use strong 
 measures with her. 
 
 "Well, what is it now?" came her mistress's sharp 
 demand, for in that small abode there reigned what 
 the Italians call "a delightful confidence," Jenny's 
 scream and rush being audible in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Ow!" stammered Jenny, "it's a young lady, miss." 
 
 " A young lady ? Is she nameless } " 
 
 "No," said Violet, advancing toward the voice; "but 
 your maid seems to be alarmed by the sight of me. 
 You know me. Miss L'Estrange. I only wish I had 
 discovered sooner that you employed my sister's ser- 
 vant, Sarah Gissing." 
 
 Ermyn was accustomed to stage situations. She 
 instantly grasped her part; for she was fresh from the 
 interview with David, and there could be no doubt 
 that the unmasking of Van Hupfeldt was as settled 
 now as the third act of the farcical comedy in which 
 she would play the soubrette that night. 
 
 " Sarah Gissing ! " she said with a fine scorn. " That 
 is not her name. She is Jenny — Jenny — blest if I 
 have ever called her anything else. Here, you! what 
 is your other name ? " 
 
 " Blaekey, miss," sobbed Jenny, in tears. 
 
 "But you said only yesterday that you were Sarah 
 Gissing ? " cried Violet. 
 
 "Y-yus, miss, an' it wasn't true." 
 
 "So you have never seen my sister?" 
 
 259 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 " Why did you lie to me so shamelessly ? " 
 
 "Please, miss, I was pide for it." 
 
 " Paid ! By Mr. Van Hupf eldt ? " 
 
 " There is some mistake," broke in Miss L'Estrange, 
 who was a trifle awed by Violet's quiet dignity. "It 
 was a Mr. Strauss who came here and asked permission 
 for Jenny to have the day free yesterday in order to 
 give some evidence he required." 
 
 " Are you quite sure it was Mr. Strauss ? " asked 
 Violet, turning away from Jenny as though the sight 
 of her was offensive. 
 
 " Positive ! I rented, or rather I took your sister's flat 
 from him, and he has been plaguing my life out ever 
 since about some papers he imagined I found there." 
 
 "But you wrote to me a little while ago," pleaded 
 Violet. 
 
 "Strauss is a plausible person," countered the other 
 woman readily. " He came here and spun such a yarn 
 that I practically wrote at his dictation." 
 
 " There is no mistake this time, I hope." 
 
 Miss L'Estrange's color rose, and her red hair 
 troubled her somewhat; but she answered with an 
 effort : " There has never been any mistake on my part. 
 Had you come to me in the first instance, and taken me 
 into your confidence, I would have helped you. But 
 you stormed at me quite unjustly. Miss Mordaunt, 
 and it is not in human nature to take that sort of thing 
 lying down, you know." 
 
 260 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 Then, seeing the sorrow in Violet's eyes, she went 
 on with a real sympathy: "I wish we had been more 
 candid with each other at first. And I had nothing 
 whatever to do with Jenny's make-believe of yesterday. 
 The girl is a first-rate cook, but she can tell lies faster 
 than a dog can trot." 
 
 This poetic simile popped out unawares; but Violet 
 heard the kindly tone rather than the words. 
 
 "I may want you again," she said simply. "May 
 I rely on you if the need arises .'' " 
 
 " Indeed you may ! " was the impulsive reply. " I 
 have wept over your sister's unhappy fate. Miss Mor- 
 daunt, and I always thought Strauss was a \dllain. I 
 hope that nice young fellow, David Harcourt, who 
 has been on his track for months, will catch him one 
 of these days, and give him a hiding, at the very least." 
 
 "Oh, you know Mr. Harcourt.^" 
 
 And then Ermyn L'Estrange did a thing which en- 
 nobled her in her owti eyes for many a day. "Yes," 
 she said. " He found out that I occupied your sister's 
 flat after her death; so he came to see me, and, if I 
 may venture to say so, he betrayed an interest in you. 
 Miss Mordaunt, which, had such a man sho^sTi it 
 towards me, would have been deemed a very pleasing 
 and charming testimony of his regard." 
 
 It was only a line out of an old play; but it served, 
 and they kissed each other when they said " Good-by." 
 
 Although Violet was startled at alighting on such 
 ready confirmation of Van Hupfeldt's duplicity, there 
 
 261 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 was a remarkable brightness in her eye, a spring-time 
 elasticity in her step, when she emerged into the High- 
 St. of Chelsea, which had not been visible a little while 
 earlier. In truth, she felt as a thrush may be sup- 
 posed to feel after having successfully dodged the 
 attack of a hawk. Were it not that she was treading 
 the crowded streets of London she would have sung 
 for sheer joy. 
 
 And now, feeling hungry after her long journey, she 
 entered a restaurant and ate a good meal, which was 
 a sensible thing to do in itself, but which, in its way, 
 was another tiny factor in the undoing of Van Hup- 
 feldt, as, thereby, she missed meeting David at Dib- 
 bin's oflBce. 
 
 When she did ultimately reach that unconscious 
 rendezvous, she found there the clerk who had given 
 David such interesting information. This man knew 
 Miss Mordaunt, and had some recollection of the dead 
 Gwendoline; so he was civil, and assured Violet that 
 his master would return from Scotland that evening. 
 
 "Mr. Dibbin has been at Dundee for some days?" 
 asked Violet. 
 
 "Let me see, miss; he went away on the fourth, 
 and this is the ninth; practically six days, counting the 
 journeys." 
 
 " Then he certainly could not have written to me on 
 the seventh from London ? " 
 
 The clerk was puzzled. " If you mean that he wasn't 
 in London, then — " he began. 
 
 262 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 Violet did not show the man the letter which she 
 had in her pocket. Perhaps it was best that Dibbin 
 himself should read it first. But she did say: "He 
 could not have had an interview with a Mr. Van Hup- 
 feldt, for instance.^" 
 
 "Now, that is very odd, miss," said the clerk. 
 "That is the very name of the gentleman who wired 
 instructions to-day for Mr. Dibbin to go at once to 
 Portsmouth. And, by Jove! begging your pardon, but 
 the telegram came from your place, Rigs worth, in 
 Warwickshire. I never thought of that before." 
 
 "It doesn't matter," said Violet, sweetly; "I shall 
 endeavor to meet Mr. Dibbin at King's Cross. And 
 will you please not mention to any one that I have 
 called here.^" 
 
 The knowledge that Van Hupfeldt was striving to 
 decoy Dibbin away from London revealed that the 
 pursuit had begun. For an instant she was tempted 
 to appeal to David for help. But she had given her 
 word not to see him, and that was sacred, even in 
 relation to one whom she considered to be the worst 
 man breathing. 
 
 The clerk promised readily enough to observe due 
 discretion anent her visit. He would have promised 
 nearly anything that such a nice-looking girl sought 
 of him. Suddenly Violet recollected that the house- 
 agent might know the whereabouts of the real Sarah 
 Gissing. She asked the question, and, Dibbin being 
 a man of dockets and pigeon holes, the clerk found the 
 
 263 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 address for her in half a minute, told her where Chal- 
 font was, looked up the next train from Baker-St, and 
 sent her on her way rejoicing. 
 
 Violet, like the majority of her charming sex, paid 
 small heed to time, and, indeed, time frequently re- 
 turns the compliment to pretty women. It was five 
 hours ere Dibbin was due at King's Cross, and five 
 hours were sufficient for almost any undertaking. So 
 she journeyed to Chalfont, found the genuine Sarah, 
 and was alarmed and reassured at the same time by 
 the girl nearly fainting away when she set eyes on her. 
 
 Here, then, at last, was real news of her Gwen. She 
 could have listened for hours. The landlady of the 
 little hotel charitably let the two talk their fill, and 
 sent tea to them in the small parlor where David had 
 met Sarah. Like David, too, whom Sarah did not 
 forget to describe as " that nice young gentleman, Mr. 
 Harcourt," Violet outstayed the train time, and, 
 when she did make an inquiry on this head, it was im- 
 possible to reach King's Cross at six-thirty p.m. 
 
 Amid all the tears and poignancy of grief aroused 
 by the recital of her sister's lonely life and tragic end, 
 there was one strange, unaccountable feature which 
 stood out boldly. Neither by direct word nor veiled 
 inference did Sarah Gissing attribute deliberate neglect 
 or unkindness to Strauss. If anything, her simple 
 story told of a great love between those two, and there 
 was the evidence of it in Gwendoline's latest distracted 
 words about him. Of course, had Violet read the 
 
 264 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 diary, this would have been clear enough; but, in view 
 of the man's present attitude, this testimony of the 
 servant's was hard to understand. 
 
 At any rate, Violet, sure now beyond the reach of 
 doubt that Van Hupfeldt was Strauss, and that he 
 was engaged in an incomprehensible conspiracy, never- 
 theless felt a sensible softening toward him. Perhaps 
 her escape from the threatened marriage had some- 
 thing to do with this; and then, the man seemed to 
 have almost worshiped Gwen. 
 
 Assuredly the gods, meaning to destroy Van Hup- 
 feldt, first decided to make him mad. When he 
 reached Dibbin's office, the clerk recognized him as 
 Strauss, and was rendered suspicious by his reappear- 
 ance, after this long time, within an hour of Violet's 
 call, seeing that the first person he inquired about was 
 Violet herself. Hence, being of the same mind as 
 Miss Ermyn L' Estrange as to the secret of success in 
 London life, he failed to recognize any young lady 
 named Mordaunt as among the list of Dibbin's visitors 
 that day. Further, when Van Hupfeldt, goaded to 
 extremities, was fain to confess that it was he who had 
 telegraphed from Rigsworth, the clerk became obtuse 
 on the matter of his employer's whereabouts. All he 
 could say definitely was that Dibbin would be in his 
 office next morning at ten o'clock. 
 
 The outcome of these cross purposes, seeing that 
 David was in no hurry to meet the agent, was that 
 Dibbin met only the clerk at King's Cross, and had a 
 
 ^^5 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 mysterious story poured into his ear, together with a 
 bag of gold placed in his hands, as he tackled a chop 
 prior to catching a train for the home of the Dibbins at 
 Surbiton. 
 
 Van Hupfeldt took Mrs. Mordaunt to her old resi- 
 dence at Porchester Gardens, enjoining her not to say 
 a word to Mrs. Harrod about Violet's escapade. 
 
 That was asking too much of a mother who had en- 
 dured such heart-searchings during a day of misery. 
 Not even the glamour of a wealthy marriage could 
 blind Mrs. Mordaunt to certain traits in his character 
 which the stress of fear had brought to the surface. 
 She began to ask herself if, after all, Violet were not 
 right in her dread of the man. She was afraid of she 
 knew not what; so kind-hearted Mrs. Harrod's first 
 natural question as to Violet's well-being drew a flood 
 of tears and a resultant outpouring of the whole tragedy. 
 But, lo and behold! Mrs. Harrod had dreamed of 
 clear water and a trotting horse the previous night, 
 and this combination was irresistible in its excellence 
 on behalf of her friends. Mrs. Harrod's prophetic 
 dreams were always vicarious; her own fortunes were 
 fixed — so much jper annum earned by keeping a first- 
 rate private hotel. 
 
 The manifold attractions of town life did not suffice 
 to while away the weary hours of that evening for at 
 least three people in London. Violet, returning from 
 Chalfont, took a room in the Great Western Hotel at 
 Paddington, and, when asked to sign the register, 
 
 266 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 obeyed some unaccountable impulse by writing " Miss 
 Barnes." It gave her a thrill to see poor Gwendo- 
 line's nom de theatre thus resurrected, and there was 
 something uncanny in the incident too; but she was 
 aroused by the hotel clerk's respectful inquiry if she 
 had any luggage. 
 
 "No," she said, somewhat embarrassed; "but I will 
 pay for my room in advance, if you wish." 
 
 "That is not necessary, madam, thank you," was 
 the answer; so Violet, unconscious of the trust reposed 
 in her appearance, took her key and went to rest a 
 little before undertaking the last task she had set her- 
 self. She carried in her hand some violets which she 
 had bought from a poor woman outside the hotel. 
 
 Van Hupfeldt, tortured by want of knowledge of the 
 actions of those in whom he was most interested, was 
 compelled to enlist Neil's services again after reviling 
 him. The valet went openly to Eddystone Mansions 
 and inquired for Harcourt. 
 
 " He's bin aht all d'y," said Jim the porter, speculat- 
 ing on Neil's fighting weight, if he was one of the 
 ghosts to be laid after midnight. 
 
 Neil brought back this welcome information, and 
 Van Hupfeldt hoped uneasily that his ruse had been 
 successful. If it had, David would be somewhere 
 near Birmingham, and would there await a message 
 from Violet, which Van Hupfeldt would take care he 
 received next day. 
 
 As for David, he smoked and mused in Hyde Park 
 
 267 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 until after night had fallen. Then he returned to his 
 abode by the way indicated by the porter, and smoked 
 again in the dark, and without a fire, until a few minutes 
 after midnight, when he heard the clank of the ascend- 
 ing lift, followed by a ring at the door. In case of 
 accident, he had his revolver in his pocket this time; 
 moreover, his right hand was ready when he opened 
 the door with his left. 
 
 But it was his ally; Jim pointed to the lift with a 
 grin. "Everybody else is in, sir," he said. *' Just 
 step in there an' I'll take you to the next floor. We'll 
 switch off the light inside, but leave it on here as usual. 
 Then we can see a mouse comin' up the stairs if need 
 be, an' there's no other way in, unless a real ghost turns 
 up." 
 
 They took up their position, leaving the door of the 
 lift open. Thus they could step out without noise if 
 necessary. They had not long to wait. Scarcely five 
 minutes had elapsed before the porter, with an ear 
 trained to the noises of the building, whispered eagerly : 
 
 *' Some one has just closed the front door, sir." 
 
 They heard ascending footsteps. It was Van Hup- 
 feldt, panting, darting quick glances at shadows, has- 
 tening up the stairs with a sort of felon fright. In 
 front of No. 7 he paused and Hstened. Apparently not 
 daring to risk everything, he rang the bell; he had not 
 forgotten that a bullet had seared his leg at one of his 
 unauthorized visits. Again he listened, being evi- 
 dently ready for flight if he heard any answering 
 
 268 
 
The Midnight Gathering 
 
 sound. Then, finding all safe, he produced a key, 
 entered, and closed the door behind him. 
 
 " Well, I'm — " began the porter, in a tense whisper, 
 this unlawful entry being a sacrilege to him. 
 
 But David said in his ear: "Let him alone; we have 
 him bottled." 
 
 Nevertheless, seeing that Violet had undoubtedly 
 stated her intent (or it seemed like that) to visit the 
 flat that night, he began to consider what he should do 
 if she put in an appearance. What would happen if 
 she unexpectedly encountered Van Hupfeldt within ? 
 That must be provided for. The unforeseen difficulty 
 was an instance of the poverty of man's judgment 
 where the future is concerned. In keeping his implied 
 promise to Violet, he would expose her to grave peril; 
 for, in David's view, Van Hupfeldt had done her sister 
 to death in that same place, and there was no knowing 
 what the crime a man in desperate straits would commit. 
 David was sure now that, actuated by widely different 
 motives, both Van Hupfeldt and Violet were bent on 
 searching for the photograph and letter reposing 
 securely in his own pocket. He smiled grimly as he 
 thought of that which Van Hupfeldt would find, but, 
 obviously, he ought to warn Violet beforehand. Or 
 would it suffice if he followed quickly after her, thus 
 giving her the opportunity of scaring Van Hupfeldt 
 into the right mood to confess everything.? 
 
 There was a slight risk in that; but it seemed to offer 
 the best solution of a difficulty, and it would avoid the 
 
 269 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 semblance of collusion between them, which Van Hup- 
 feldt was adroit enough to take advantage of. So, 
 when Violet did run lightly up the stairs, though his 
 heart beat with joy at the sight of her, he restrained 
 himself until she had opened the door. She applied 
 her key without hesitation. 
 
 " She trusts in me fully, then ! " thought David, with a 
 pang of regret that he should be compelled now to 
 disobey her. 
 
 He gripped the porter's arm as he stepped noise- 
 lessly out on to the landing above, and thus lost sight 
 of Violet. The man followed, and David, leaning over 
 the stair-rail, saw the door of his flat close. He had 
 never before realized how quietly that door might be 
 closed if due care was taken. Even his keen ears 
 heard no sound whatever. 
 
 And then he heard that which sent the blood in a 
 furious race from his brain to his heart and back to his 
 brain again. For there came from within a cry as from 
 some beast in pain, and, quickly following, the shriek 
 of a woman in mortal fear. 
 
 David waited for no key-turning. He dashed in the 
 lock with his foot and entered. The first thing that 
 greeted his disordered senses was the odor of violets 
 which came to him, fresh and pungent, with an eery 
 reminiscence of the night he thought he saw the spec- 
 tral embodiment of dead Gwendoline. 
 
 270 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 VAN HUPFELDT MAKES AMENDS 
 
 Violet's first act, on entering the hall, had been to 
 turn on the light. She did this without giving a thought 
 to the possibility of disturbing some prior occupant. 
 The day's events demonstrated how completely David 
 was worthy of faith; she was assured that he would 
 obey the behest in her letter. How much better would 
 it have been had she trusted intuition in the first in- 
 stance ! 
 
 But it chanced that David had written a little note 
 to her, on an open sheet of paper, which he pinned to 
 the table-cloth in the dining-room in such a position 
 that she could not fail to see it when there was a light. 
 And this note, headed "To Violet," contained the 
 fateful message: 
 
 I have found the photograph of Strauss, or Van Hupfeldt, and 
 
 with it the letter in which he announced to your sister that he was 
 
 already married to another woman. ,-. 
 
 David. 
 
 Van Hupfeldt, of course, had seen this thrice-con- 
 vincing and accusing document, which proved not 
 only that he and his secret were in David's power, 
 but that David had expected Violet to visit his dwell- 
 
 271 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 ing. He was sitting at the table in a stupor of rage 
 and terror, when he fancied he heard a rustUng in the 
 outer passage. Beside himself with anger at the 
 threatened downfall of his cardboard castle, strung to 
 a state of high nervous tension by the horror he had of 
 that abode of dreadful memories, he half turned toward 
 the door, which had swung back almost into its place. 
 
 Through the chink he noticed an exterior radiance; 
 nevertheless, he paid no heed to it, although his wearied 
 brain seemed to remind him that he had not left a light 
 in the corridor. Yet again he heard another rustle, 
 as of a woman's garments. This time he sprang up, 
 with the madness of hysteria in his eyes; he tore open 
 the door, and saw Violet near to him. She, noting the 
 movement of the door, stood stock-still with surprise 
 and some fear, ungovernable emotions which un- 
 doubtedly gave a touch of wan tragedy to her expres- 
 sion. Moreover, the glow of the hall lamp was now 
 behind her, and her features were somewhat in gloom; 
 so it was not to be wondered at that Van Hupfeldt, 
 with his conscience on the rack, thought he was actually 
 looking at the embodied spirit of Gwendoline. He 
 expected to see the dead woman, and he was far too 
 unhinged to perceive that he was face to face with a 
 living one. 
 
 He threw up his arms, uttered that horrible screech 
 which had reached the ears of David and the porter, 
 and collapsed limply to the floor, whence, from his 
 knees, while he sank slowly, he gazed at the frightened 
 
 272 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 girl with such an awful look of a doomed man that she, 
 in turn, screamed aloud. Then she saw a thin stream 
 of blood issuing from between his pallid lips, and, the 
 strain being too great, she fainted; so that David, 
 after bursting in the door and finding the two bodies 
 prostrate, one on each side of the entrance to the 
 dining-room, imagined for one agonizing second that 
 another and more ghastly crime had been enacted in 
 those haunted chambers. 
 
 He lifted Violet tenderly in his arms, and guessed 
 at once that she had been overcome by the sight of 
 Van Hupfeldt, who, at the first glance, seemed to have 
 inflicted some mortal injury on himself. 
 
 The hall-porter, aghast at the discovery of two 
 people apparently dead whom he had seen alive a few 
 minutes earlier, kept his wits sufficiently together to 
 stoop over Van Hupfeldt; then he, too, noticed the 
 blood welling forth. " It's all right, sir," cried he, in 
 a queer, cracked voice to David; "this here gent has 
 on'y broke a blood-vessel!" 
 
 David said something which had better be forgotten ; 
 just then Violet, who was not at all of the lymphatic 
 order, opened her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 *' Thank God ! " he whispered, close to her Hps, and 
 she, scarce comprehending her whereabouts yet, made 
 a brave effort to smile at him. 
 
 He had carried her into the little drawing-room, 
 and he now placed her in a chair. "Have no fear," 
 he said. " I am here. I shall not leave you." 
 
 273 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 He ran to the door. "If that man's condition is 
 serious, you had better summon a doctor," he cried 
 to the porter, whom he saw engaged in the effort to 
 prop Van Hupfeldt's body against a chair. David 
 was pitiless, perhaps; he had not recovered from the 
 shock of finding Violet lying prostrate. 
 
 " He mustn't be allowed to fall down, sir," said Jim, 
 anxiously, "or he will choke. I've seen a kise like 
 this before." 
 
 David, though quickly subsiding from his ferment, 
 was divided between the claims of Violet and the 
 demands of humanity. Personally, he thought that 
 the Dutchman would be no loss to the world; but 
 the man was helpless. And now Violet, recovering 
 strength and recollection with each more regular 
 breath, knew what had happened. She stood up 
 tremblingly. 
 
 " Let us go to him," she said, with the fine chivalry 
 of woman, and soon, kneeling on each side of Van 
 Hupfeldt, they supported him, and endeavored to 
 stanch the outpouring from his lips. 
 
 The porter hurried away. David, wondering what 
 to do for the best, held his enemy's powerless body a 
 little inclined forward, and asked Violet if she would 
 bring a wet towel from the bath-room. She did this at 
 once, and wrapped it round Van Hupfeldt's forehead. 
 The relief thus afforded was effective, and the flow of 
 blood had ceased when the porter returned with a 
 doctor who lived in the next block of dwellings. 
 
 274 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 The doctor made light of the hemorrhage; but he 
 detected a pulse which made him look up at the others 
 gravely. 
 
 " This is a bad case of heart failure," he said. *' The 
 rupture of a blood-vessel is a mere symptom. Has he 
 had a sudden shock ? " 
 
 "I fear so," said David. "What can we do for 
 him ? " 
 
 "Nothing, at present," was the ominous answer. 
 "I dread even the necessity of moving him to a bed- 
 room. Certainly he cannot be taken elsewhere. Is 
 he a friend of yours.? I understand he does not live 
 here." 
 
 David was saved from the difficulty of answering 
 by a feeble indication of Van Hupfeldt's wish to speak. 
 The doctor gave him some water, then a little weak 
 brandy and water. Violet again helped David to 
 hold him, and the unfortunate man, seemingly recog- 
 nizing her, now turned his head toward her. 
 
 "Forgive me!" he whispered, with the labored dis- 
 tinctness of one who speaks with the utmost effort. 
 " I have deceived you vilely. I wished to make repara- 
 tion." 
 
 " I think I know all you wish to tell me," said Violet, 
 bravely, " and, even so, I am sorry for you." 
 
 " You heard what the doctor said ? " he muttered. 
 
 " Yes, but you will recover. Don't try to talk. You 
 must calm yourself. Then the doctor will help." 
 
 " I know more than he knows of my own condition. 
 
 275 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 I am dying. I shall be dead in a few minutes. It is 
 only just. I shall die here, where Gwen died — my 
 Gwen, whom I loved more than my own soul. May 
 God forgive — " 
 
 "Oh, don't!" cried Violet, brokenly; the presence 
 of gray death, that last and greatest adjuster of wrong, 
 obliterated many a bitter vow and stifled the cry for 
 vengeance in her. 
 
 *'It is just,'* he whispered again. "I killed her by 
 that letter. And now she has summoned me to the 
 grave, she who gave her life to shield me. Ah! what 
 a punishment was mine! when I flew here from Paris 
 to tell her that all was well, and arrived only in time to 
 see her die! She died in my arms, just as I am dying 
 in yours, Vi! But she suffered, and I, who deserve 
 all the suffering, am falling away without pain." 
 
 Truly, he seemed to gain strength as he spoke; he 
 still fancied he had seen Gwendoline; the gathering 
 mists clouded his brain to that extent. 
 
 Violet's eyes were dim with tears; her lips trembled 
 so that she scarce could utter a word. The doctor, 
 who was watching Van Hupfeldt narrowly, said to her 
 in a low tone: *'Take my advice, and leave us now." 
 
 But Van Hupfeldt heard him, and roused himself 
 determinedly for a final effort. Yet he spoke with 
 difficulty and brokenly. " I escaped down the service- 
 lift that night — once again when Harcourt shot at me. 
 I only wished to atone, Vi ! I made my will — you 
 know — the lawyers will explain. The boy — Mrs. 
 
 276 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 Carter — New Street, Birmingham. See to the boy, 
 Vi, for Gwen's sake. Ah, God! for her sake!" 
 
 And that was all. 
 
 Violet, weeping bitterly, was led away. From over 
 the mantelpiece the wild eyes of a portrait in chalk 
 of a beautiful woman looked down in pity, it may be, 
 on the dead face of the man lying on the floor. And 
 so ended the sad love story of Henry Van Hupfeldt 
 and Gwendoline Mordaunt. In the street beneath, 
 hansoms were jingling along, bringing people home 
 from the restaurants. London recked little of the last 
 scene of one of its many dramas. 
 
 Yet it had its sequel in life and love, for Violet and 
 her mother, as the result of a telegram to Birmingham, 
 took into their arms a happy and crowing infant, a 
 fine baby boy who won his way to their hearts by his 
 instant readiness to be fondled by them, and who re- 
 tained his place in their affections by the likeness he 
 bore to his dead mother; though his hair was dark, 
 and he promised to have the Spanish profile of his 
 father, his eyes were Gwen's blue ones, and his lips 
 parted in the merry smile they knew so well. 
 
 But that was next day, when the fount of tears was 
 nearly dry, and the shudderings of the night had 
 passed. Lucky it was for Violet that David was near. 
 What would have become of her had she regained her 
 senses and found herself alone in the flat, alone with a 
 dead man ? 
 
 David, somewhat hardened by his career in the 
 
 277 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 turbulent West, quickly hit upon a line of action. 
 The doctor, a good soul, volunteered to drive to Van 
 Hupfeldt's residence and summon Neil, who would 
 probably bear the porter company during a night 
 vigil in the flat. David, therefore, made Violet drink 
 a little brandy, and, talking steadily the while, com- 
 pelling occasional answers to his questions, he led her 
 to a cab, which he directed to Porchester Gardens. 
 He knew that in Mrs. Harrod she would find a friend, 
 and it was an added relief to him to discover, after 
 repeated ringing had brought a servant to the door, 
 that Mrs. Mordaunt was there, too. 
 
 To save Violet the undue strain of an explanation, 
 he asked that her mother might be aroused. There 
 was no need for that. She was down-stairs promptly, 
 having heard the imperative bell, certain that news 
 of Violet was to hand. 
 
 So he told of the night's doings to a tearful and per- 
 plexed woman who had never previously set eyes on 
 him, and it was three o'clock ere he turned his face 
 toward Eddystone Mansions again. Arrived there, 
 he found that the porter and Neil had carried the 
 unfortunate Van Hupfeldt to the room in which Gwen- 
 doline died. That was chance; it must have been 
 something more than chance which caused David to 
 pick up the bunch of violets, torn from the breast of 
 their wearer when she fell in a faint, and place them 
 on the pillow near the pallid head. David was sorry 
 for the man, after all. 
 
 278 
 
Van Hupfcldt Makes Amends 
 
 In one matter, the sorely tried mother and daughter 
 were fortunate; there was no inquest. The doctor 
 who was present at Van Hupfeldt's death, after con- 
 sulting the coroner and a West End specialist who had 
 warned the sufferer of his dangerous state, was able to 
 give a burial certificate in due form. Thus all scandal 
 and sensation-mongering were avoided. The inter- 
 ment took place in Kensal Green cemetery. Van 
 Hupfeldt's mortal remains were laid to rest near to 
 those of the woman he loved. 
 
 Violet was his sole heiress under the will he had 
 executed. A sealed letter, attached by him to that 
 document, explained his motive. In case of accident 
 prior to the contemplated marriage, he thereby sur- 
 mounted the legal difficulty and inevitable exposure 
 of pro\^ding for the child. He asked Violet to take 
 the requisite steps to administer the estate, bidding 
 her reserve a capital sum sufficient to provide the ten 
 thousand pounds per annum given her by the marriage 
 settlement, and set apart the residue, under trustees, 
 for the benefit of the boy. 
 
 At first she refused to touch a penny of the money; 
 but wiser counsels prevailed. There would not only 
 be a serious tangle in the business if she declined the 
 bequest, but Van Hupfeldt was so rich that nearly five 
 times the amount was left for the child, the value of 
 the estate being considerably over a million sterling. 
 
 The requisite investigation of the sources of his 
 wealth cleared up a good deal that was previously 
 
 279 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 obscure. Undoubtedly he had been helped in his 
 early career, that of a musician, by a Mrs. Strauss, 
 widow of a California merchant. She educated him, 
 and, yielding to a foolish passion, offered to make him 
 her heir if he married her and assumed the name of 
 Strauss, she having already attained some notoriety in 
 Continental circles under that designation. She was 
 a malade imaginaire, in the sense that she would seldom 
 reside more than a few weeks in any one place, while 
 she positively detested both England and America. 
 
 He was kind to her, and she was devoted to him; 
 but unUmited wealth cloyed when it involved constant 
 obedience to her whims. Yet, rather than lose him 
 altogether, she agreed to his occasional visits to Eng- 
 land during the season, and when hunting was toward. 
 Eager to shake off the thraldom of the Strauss regime, 
 he then invariably passed under his real name of Van 
 Hupfeldt. 
 
 Hence, when he fell in love with Gwendoline, and 
 resolved to make her his in defiance of all social law, 
 he was obliged to tell her that he was also Johann 
 Strauss, and under an obligation to the Mrs. Strauss 
 who had adopted him. Gwendoline's diary, which, 
 with the certificates, was found in a bureau, became 
 clear enough when annotated with these facts. Van 
 Hupfeldt himself left the fewest possible papers, the 
 letter accompanying the will merely setting forth his 
 wishes, and announcing that he desired to marry 
 Violet as an act of reparation to the memory of her 
 
 280 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 sister. This had become a mania with him. The 
 unhappy man thought that, this way, he could win 
 forgiveness. 
 
 And then the bright world became a Valley of De- 
 spair for David Harcourt. During many a bitter hour 
 he lamented Van Hupfeldt's death. Alive, he was a 
 rival to be fought and conquered; dead, he had inter- 
 posed that insurmountable barrier of great wealth 
 between Violet and one who was sick for love of her. 
 Poor David! He sought refuge in work, and found his 
 way up some rungs of the literary ladder; but he could 
 neither forget his Violet nor follow her to Dale Manor, 
 the inaccessible, fenced in now by a wall of gold. 
 
 Once, he was in a hansom on the way to Euston, 
 telling himself he was going to Rigsworth to give the 
 gamekeeper that promised licking; but he stopped the 
 cab and returned, saying bitterly: *'Why am I trying 
 to fool myself ? That is not the David of my acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 So he went back, calling in at a florist's and buying 
 a huge bowlful of violets, thinking to reach Nirvana 
 by their scent, and thereby humbugging himself so 
 egregiously that he was in despondent mood when he 
 sat down to a lonely tea in his flat. He had not seen 
 or heard of Violet in three long months, not since he 
 took Mrs. Mordaunt and her to the train for War- 
 wickshire, and, walking afterward with Dibbin from 
 the station, learned the fateful news of her intolerable 
 inheritance. 
 
 281 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 He had promised to write, but he had not written. 
 What was he to say ? That he still loved her, although 
 she was rich? Perhaps he dreamed that she would 
 write to him. But no; silence was the steady scheme 
 of things — and work, fourteen hours a day work as 
 the solatium, until his bronzed face began to take on 
 the student's cast, and he wondered, at times, if he had 
 ever caught and saddled a bronco, or slept under the 
 stars. Or was it all a dream? 
 
 Wanting some bread, and being alone, the char- 
 woman having believed his statement that he would 
 be away until next midday, he went into the kitchen. 
 It was now high summer; hot, with the stable-like heat 
 of London, and the kitchen window was wide open. 
 Some impulse prompted him to look out and examine 
 the service-lift by way of which Van Hupfeldt had 
 twice quitted the flat, once when driven by mad fear 
 of being held guilty of Gwendoline's death, and again 
 to save his life from David's revolver. 
 
 Given a steady brain and some little athletic skill, 
 the feat was easy enough. All that was needed was 
 to cling to two greasy iron uprights and slide from one 
 floor to the next, where cross-bars marked the different 
 stories and provided halting-places for the lift. It was 
 typical of Van Hupfeldt that he had the nerve to essay 
 this means of escape and the cunning to think of it. 
 
 David was looking into the well of the building a 
 hundred feet below, when an electric bell jarred over his 
 head. Some one was at the front door. It was a porter. 
 
 282 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 "You are wanted down-stairs, sir,'* said he, his 
 honest face all of a grin. 
 
 "Down-stairs?" repeated David, puzzled. 
 
 "Yes, sir. There's a hansom waitin,' sir." 
 
 "Oh," said David, wondering what he had left in 
 his cab. 
 
 He went down, hatless, and not a word said Jim, 
 though he watched David out of the comer of his eye, 
 and smiled broadly when he saw David's sudden recog- 
 nition of Violet through the side-window of the han- 
 som. 
 
 She, too, smiled delightedly when David appeared. 
 "I want you to come with me for a little drive," she 
 said; "but not without a hat. That would be odd." 
 
 David, casting off three months' cobwebs in a second, 
 was equal to the emergency. Somehow, the damask 
 of Violet's flushed cheeks banished the dull tints in his. 
 
 " Jim," he said, " Here's my key. Bring me a hat 
 — any old hat — first you can grab." 
 
 Then he climbed into the vacant seat by her side. 
 " Do you know," he said, " I was nearly going to Rigs- 
 worth to-day ? " 
 
 " I only know," she replied, " that you were to write 
 to me, and I have had no letter." 
 
 "Don't put me on my self-defense, or I shan't care 
 tuppence if you are worth ten thousand or ten millions 
 a year," he said. 
 
 Violet leaned over the door. "That man is a long 
 time going for your hat," she said. " By the way, can 
 
 283 
 
The Late Tenant 
 
 you spare the time to drive with me to Kensal Green ? 
 And then I am to take you to Porchester Gardens, 
 where mother expects you to dine with us, en Jamille, 
 so you need not return here.'' She was a Httle breath- 
 less, and spoke in a fluster. 
 
 Jim arrived, with the missing head-gear. The 
 driver whipped up his horse, and David's left arm 
 went round Violet's waist. She bent forward, aston- 
 ished, with a sidelong glance of questioning. 
 
 *'It is a reasonable precaution," said David. "If 
 the horse goes down, you don't fall out." 
 
 Violet laughed and blushed prettily. 
 
 A bus-driver, eying them, jerked his head at the cab- 
 man. *'A11 right, the lydy," he said, and the cabman 
 winked. But the two inside knew nothing of this 
 ribaldry. 
 
 So, you see, David simply couldn't help himself, or 
 rather, from another point of view, he did help him- 
 self to a remarkably charming wife and a considerable 
 fortune. 
 
 Miss Ermyn L'Estrange insisted on an invitation 
 to the wedding, which took place at Rigsworth as 
 quietly as the inhabitants of the village would allow. 
 The volatile actress won such favor from a local land 
 agent in a fair way of business that he goes to town 
 far too frequently, people say, and it is highly probable 
 that her name will be changed soon to a less euphoni- 
 ous one, which will be good for her and excellent for 
 the land agent's business. 
 
 284 
 
Van Hupfeldt Makes Amends 
 
 Sarah Gissing found a new post as Master Henry's 
 nurse, and Mrs. Carter was well rewarded for the care 
 she had taken of the boy. The postmistress's sister 
 received a fine diamond ring when David, by dint of 
 judicious questioning, found out the identity of the 
 "friend" who sent that most timely telegram, and, 
 strangely enough, the surly gamekeeper never received 
 either the fifty pounds, or the thrashing, or the sack; 
 but was minus the silver paid to his poacher assistants 
 for their night watch. 
 
 So, even this little side issue, out of the many grave 
 ones raised by David's tenancy of an ordinary flat 
 in an ordinary London mansion, shows how often the 
 unexpected happens, even in ordinary life. 
 
 THE END 
 
 285 
 
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