WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 By 
 
 EDGAR JEPSON 
 
 Author of 
 
 POLLYOOLY, THE TERRIBLE TWINS 
 THE INTERVENING LADY, ETC. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 THZ BOBBS-MEKRILL COMPANY 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN. N. V.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 2136346
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE dust lay very thick on the glaring white 
 road; the hedges were gray with it; and the 
 trees of the wood were gray with it for fifteen feet 
 above the hedges. It had been thrown to that height 
 by the hasty motorist, for the road from Lanchester 
 to Bartle's End is a short cut much affected by him 
 on his way to the North or the South. Also, running 
 as it does through the Quentin Abbey estate of the 
 Duke of Lanchester, and affording many views of that 
 noble eighteenth-century building, the Abbey itself, 
 it is one of the most beautiful roads in the Midlands. 
 
 The motorist in his haste loses much of this beauty ; 
 but James Whitaker, though he was now walking 
 slowly enough, was losing it all. He trudged along 
 wearily, his eyes fixed for the most part on the dust a 
 few feet ahead of him, giving the least possible heed 
 to the beauties of the country through which he was 
 passing; his dusty ears deaf to the song of the birds 
 in the wood; his nostrils dulled by the dust which 
 clogged them to the fragrance of the flowers which 
 hung on the heavy air. 
 
 He had walked nearly thirty miles along dusty 
 roads since breakfast; and his feet were sore in his 
 
 I
 
 2 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 boots, of the shape and quality supplied by the stern 
 contractor to the British private soldier, and known 
 as army bluchers. James Whitaker had bought them 
 out of a job lot, at a boot shop in the Vauxhall Road, 
 for a dollar and a quarter. He had been pleased 
 with his purchase, for he was sure that they would last 
 him for years. But he had not expected them to be 
 comfortable ; and they had never belied his expectation. 
 He was not only weary but dejected; and much of 
 his weariness sprang from that dejection. The day 
 before he had come down by train into the country to 
 seek help. His small business of dealer in second-hand 
 furniture and curiosities, in Watergate Street, Ham- 
 mersmith, was starving for want of capital; and he 
 had come down to try to borrow five hundred dollars 
 from his uncle, Robert Unwin, a well-to-do farmer at 
 Bowdeswell. 
 
 He had failed in the attempt. His well-to-do un- 
 cle, a bachelor, could well have lent him the five hun- 
 dred dollars ; and since James Whitaker's father, in his 
 earlier, affluent days, had lent Robert Unwin the money 
 to stock the farm out of which he had so prospered, 
 James felt that he had a genuine claim on him. More- 
 over, he had been able to offer him security in the form 
 of a fifteen-hundred-dollar life insurance policy on 
 which two hundred and fifty dollars had been already 
 paid. But Robert Unwin had always been a close- 
 fisted man; and years had abated neither his avarice 
 nor his caution. There had been a stern contest of 
 wills, for James Whitaker was not the man to be 
 easily turned aside from his purpose; but in the end
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 3; 
 
 he had failed to bend his uncle's stubborn resolve not 
 to risk his money. 
 
 Not only was the failure to borrow the five hundred 
 dollars rankling in James Whitaker's heart, but also 
 the grudging and niggardly hospitality he had received 
 from his uncle. Robert Unwin had welcomed him 
 with a glum coldness and given him cold bacon and 
 bread and dripping and tea for supper, and cold bacon 
 and bread and dripping and tea for breakfast. It 
 made no difference to James that this was his thrifty 
 uncle's perpetual fare. There were many eatable 
 lambs in his uncle's fields, many eatable and certainly 
 egg-laying chickens in his farmyard, many pans of 
 cream in his dairy; and James Whitaker felt that this 
 was indeed shabby treatment to accord to one's only 
 kinsman, the son, too, of one's only benefactor. But he 
 had received the refusal to lend the five hundred dol- 
 lars and the niggardly hospitality with no display of the 
 anger he felt, for, after all, he was his uncle's natural 
 heir; and he did not wish to endanger his possible, 
 even probable, inheritance. 
 
 Now, late in the afternoon, that cold bacon and 
 that dripping rankled in his breast almost more bitterly; 
 than his failure to borrow the five hundred dollars. 
 He trudged along at loggerheads with fortune. 
 
 He looked, too, at loggerheads with fortune: his 
 cheap, ill-fitting frock coat of the small tradesman, 
 so incongruous with the wood through which he 
 trudged, sagged away from his well-built figure in a 
 distressing and dispirited fashion; and the soft felt 
 hat, which marked the artistic tradesman, looked shab-
 
 4 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 bier than ever under its layer of dust. His lips were 
 set grimly, and his square chin was thrust doggedly 
 forward as his shoulders drooped in his weariness. His 
 dark gray eyes, sunk under his jutting brows, were 
 sullen and gloomy, and when now and again he raised 
 them from the dust through which his feet were drag- 
 ging, he scowled at the livid thunder-cloud which was 
 moving slowly forward above the wood to meet him. 
 
 He was walking the thirty-seven miles from Bowdes- 
 well to Lanchester to save seventy-five cents of his 
 railway fare back to London. He would not wear 
 away above five cents' worth of the soles of his army 
 bluchers on that walk; but if he were to get a 
 drenching, he could not estimate the damage to his 
 clothes at much less than fifty cents; and it was a 
 bitter thought that he should be walking thirty-seven 
 miles to save twenty cents. 
 
 Then, as he raised his eyes to scowl once more at 
 the thunder-cloud, a heavy rain-drop, precursor of the 
 storm, splashed on his cheek. 
 
 "Damn!" he cried, and halted. 
 
 He stood for a moment considering what to do, 
 then ran for*a gate in the hedge twenty yards down 
 the road, scrambled heavily over it, and hurried up 
 the broad aisle of the wood in a vague hope of find- 
 ing shelter in some keeper's hut. Failing that, he 
 must find a tree with thick enough branches to save 
 him from the worst of the coming downpour. 
 
 He had gone some fifty yards up the aisle when a 
 shout behind him made him turn sharply ; and he saw 
 a man climbing over the gate into the wood. He stood
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 5 
 
 still, hesitating; and the man shouted again. It 
 sounded like "Come out of it!" Then a sudden, poor 
 man's panic seized James Whitaker. He had the 
 townsman's ignorance of the law of trespass; he saw 
 himself involved in trouble with the police, embar- 
 rassed by a fine and costs. He saw the man begin to 
 run; he turned and ran himself. As he ran, he was 
 vaguely conscious that the figure of his pursuer was 
 familiar to him. The man shouted again: "Come 
 back, you !" The voice sounded nearer ; and he looked 
 over his shoulder to see that the man was indeed 
 nearer. At the sight he lost his head utterly, and 
 rushed on as fast as he could pelt. He had gone some 
 two hundred yards when he found his weariness and 
 his army bluchers already telling on him; he was 
 flagging. Then he saw a narrow path on the left, lead- 
 ing into the heart of the wood. In the hope of finding 
 a hiding-place, he bolted down it, or rather up it, for 
 ten yards from the edge of the aisle it began to rise. 
 He had gone up it but a hundred and fifty yards when 
 he found himself nearly done, panting heavily, his feet 
 grown leaden. He was in no condition to race uphill, 
 in heavy boots, in that stifling heat. Behind him he 
 could hear the footfall of his gaining pursuer, growing 
 louder. It was quicker and lighter than his own : the 
 man was not wearing army bluchers ; and he had not 
 walked thirty miles. 
 
 James Whitaker ran stubbornly on for seventy more 
 yards; then, gasping heavily, he came stumbling out 
 of the end of the path on to a little plateau on the top 
 of the hill he had mounted. It was grass-grown and
 
 6 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 some fifty yards across; and in the middle of it, with 
 spreading boughs that stretched across it from side 
 to side, stood a great oak. He plunged on a few yards, 
 realized that he was nearly at the end of his breath, 
 turned and fell into the boxer's posture of defense, 
 resolved, like the cornered rat he was, to make a 
 fight for it. 
 
 His pursuer ran out from the trees, pulled up short 
 five yards away, and stood before him another 
 panting, glaring James Whitaker! 
 
 They stood facing each other, wide-eyed, open- 
 mouthed in glaring astonishment, their arms fallen 
 to their sides, their heads jutted forward, over- 
 whelmed in wonder at their amazing resemblance. 
 
 Then the pursuer gasped: "Doubles! Well! I'm 
 . . . What? . . . .Who? . . . What the 
 devil?" 
 
 Then there was nothing nothing for either of 
 them; no turf, no wood, no earth, no sky. They did 
 not hear the sharp rattling crash of thunder above 
 their heads; they did not see the flash which struck 
 them. 
 
 The next thing that James Whitaker knew was 
 that he had a splitting headache. Then he knew that 
 he was chilled and cold. It was painful to open his 
 eyes; and they blinked round at a world he did not 
 recognize. Then he looked up and saw the great 
 branches of the oak spreading above him; and at the 
 sight of them came back very clearly the sight of his 
 double standing facing him with glaring eyes. He 
 sat up and gazed round him. Yes, it was no dream;
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 7 
 
 his double lay on the spot where he had been standing, 
 stretched at full length on his face. 
 
 James Whitaker stared at him stupidly; then it 
 grew clear to him that they must have been lying there 
 some time, for he was drenched to the skin, and the 
 thunder-cloud had passed over the little hill, though 
 the rain from its backmost edge was still falling on 
 it. He puzzled dully over what could have happened 
 to them ; then of a sudden it flashed on him that they 
 had been struck by lightning. 
 
 The knowledge startled him and cleared his wits. 
 He scrambled quickly, but stiffly, to his feet, and stared 
 round him wildly. The light of the westerly sun was 
 throwing a bright rainbow on the black thunder-cloud 
 moving away over the woods. He rubbed his cold 
 wet hand over his cold wet forehead and eyes in a 
 somewhat dazed fashion. He shivered with the cold 
 of his drenching. 
 
 Then he went slowly to his double, bent down and 
 turned him over gently on to his back. He started up 
 in horror. The flash which had knocked him senseless 
 had burned and seared and twisted his double's face. 
 It was no longer the face of another James Whitaker ; 
 indeed, it was no longer a human face. It recalled to 
 him one of the hideous Japanese masks he had some- 
 times handled in his business. 
 
 He stepped back, shuddering. Then he realized 
 that the unfortunate man had felt no pain; that he had 
 no more known what had befallen him than he had 
 known himself; that, in this world, he never would 
 know.
 
 8 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 None the less, he could not bear the sight of that 
 (distorted face ; and he turned the dead man over again 
 so that it was hidden. Then he walked aimlessly to 
 the entrance of the path up which they had come 
 and stared aimlessly down it. He shivered again. 
 Stiffly he took off his coat and shook it ; then he put it 
 on again. He kept his back turned to his dead double. 
 He stood hesitating what to do. He thought that he 
 ought to go to find a keeper or some one, and tell him 
 what had happened. It would be tiresome: there 
 would be an inquest, and he would probably have to 
 give evidence. It would mean loss of time and ex- 
 pense. Still it had to be done. 
 
 He came back to fetch his hat, which lay under the 
 tree on the other side of the dead man. He made a 
 circuit which kept him three yards away from the 
 body. He picked up the sopping hat, and shook it, 
 and beat it against his thigh. He put it on and stood 
 still, gazing at the dead man. 
 
 A curiosity was invading him to know who his 
 double had been : from his clothes he was a gentleman. 
 Well, he would know soon enough. It was clear that 
 he belonged to the neighborhood, or he would not have 
 chased a trespasser. Perhaps he was the owner of the 
 wood. The keeper, if he found one, would be sure 
 to recognize him. 
 
 He took two or three steps, past the dead man, to- 
 ward the path ; then he paused and looked at the body 
 again. His curiosity had suddenly grown keen and 
 intense; he wanted to know now at once who was 
 this man who had been so like him.
 
 JWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 9 
 
 He cast a searching, suspicious glance round the 
 little plateau and over the wood, as if he felt it not 
 quite right that he should gratify his curiosity. Then 
 he came back gingerly to the body and bent down over 
 it. He did not turn it right over, for he could not en- 
 dure to see again the dreadful face. He raised it, 
 keeping its back toward him, on its left side a few 
 inches, and slipped his hand into the breast pocket of 
 the coat. He found in it a silver cigarette-case and 
 two letters in their envelopes. He gasped when he 
 saw that they were addressed to the Duke of Lan- 
 chester. Then he saw that a coronet was engraved 
 on the cigarette-case, a coronet decorated with straw- 
 berry-leaves. The dead man must be the Duke of 
 Lanchester himself. 
 
 James Whitaker took the letters out of their en- 
 velopes. One began "My dear Duke," and was signed 
 "Anne." The other began "My dear Lanchester," 
 and was signed "Herbert." The letter signed "Anne" 
 was certainly not the kind of a letter one would leave 
 in the hand of one's secretary : it was a love-letter. 
 The dead man must be the duke. 
 
 James Whitaker stood staring down at him. . . . 
 So his double had been a duke. . . . He frowned 
 at the dead man's back at the thought of the soft and 
 easy life the duke had led, while he himself had been 
 struggling all the years so hard and so painfully. Some 
 people were born lucky. . . . He stared at the 
 dead man's back enviously: that was his own ear, 
 though not so red . . . and that was the very way 
 his own hair grew in the back of his neck. . . .
 
 10 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 [Why, there was no difference at all between them. 
 . . . "Yes : some people did have all the luck. 
 
 . . They were born with it." 
 
 His face cleared a little as the thought came to 
 him that, after all, the duke was dead, and his luck 
 at an end. 
 
 "Better a living furniture dealer than a dead duke," 
 he muttered, with a touch of staginess quite foreign 
 to his simple nature, the result, perhaps, of shock 
 from the lightning-stroke. 
 
 Again he passed his hand over his aching forehead 
 and eyes. The ache prevented him from thinking 
 clearly. Then, mechanically, he opened the cigarette- 
 case, took out a gold-tipped cigarette, and after a little 
 difficulty with his damp matches, lighted it. It was 
 such a cigarette as he had never smoked; he had not 
 known that there was such tobacco. Without thinking, 
 he put the cigarette-case in his pocket. He grabbed 
 it out again : that would never do ! He must not rob 
 a dead man ! He stooped down and put the cigarette- 
 case and the letters back into the breast pocket of the 
 duke's coat. Then he reflected that, after all, it could 
 matter nothing to the dead duke; but he left the cig- 
 arette-case in his pocket. 
 
 The cigarette seemed to be soothing his aching head 
 a little. But a heavy lassitude was stealing over him. 
 He did not start off to find a keeper. He looked wear- 
 ily round the plateau ; then he looked again at the dead 
 man. The still inert body held his eye. He wondered 
 idly what it was like to be a duke : it must be a wonder- 
 ful feeling to be always easy in one's mind about
 
 II 
 
 money. . . . And then to be able to go where 
 you liked. . . . To the Continent. . . . And 
 do whatV u liked without ever thinking of the ex- 
 pense. . . . Yes, it must be wonderful. 
 
 Well, that was all over for the duke. 
 
 How unfair it all was; that one man should have 
 everything, and so many hundreds nothing. . . . 
 He would have made quite as good a duke as the 
 dead man; he was sure of it . . . and he would 
 never have thrown away that splendid luck by getting 
 struck by that lightning. . . . He would never 
 have gone out of his way to chase a trespasser through 
 the wood. . . . What harm could any one do in 
 a wood? . . . No, he was not the kind of man 
 to bother about such a thing. . . . He was not 
 the man to pay a keeper to do his work, and then do 
 it for him. . . . Evidently the duke had not been 
 like him in mind . . . but how astonishingly like 
 him he was, or had been, in body ! 
 
 He started back a pace; then he began to tremble. 
 A thought, a great thought had suddenly flashed into 
 his mind : why should he not turn this likeness to ac- 
 count? The thought set his mind whirling. 
 
 Presently it grew steady again. Yes, why shouldn't 
 he make use of the likeness ? . . . Just to see for 
 himself what it was like to be a duke. . . . Just 
 to see what it felt like. . . . Just for once to 
 have two or three splendid days free from all worry 
 about money. ... It wouldn't do anybody any 
 harm. . . . He would just have a splendid time 
 for two or three days and then disappear. . . .
 
 .12 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 The duke's body wouldn't -be found for two or three 
 days. . . . Besides, it wouldn't matter if it was, 
 since no one would ever recognize that dreadful face. 
 
 He certainly could do it. ... It was just a 
 matter of putting on the duke's clothes. . . . The 
 likeness would do the rest. 
 
 He hesitated, looking down on the dead man with 
 troubled eyes in a doubtful face, gnawing his thumb. 
 It would be horrible stripping him. ... It would 
 be bad enough to strip any dead man. . . . But 
 to strip a dead man with that face would be horribly 
 unpleasant. 
 
 He took a dozen jerky steps up and down the glade, 
 shaken by the conflict between desire and repulsion. 
 His head ached and throbbed worse than ever. The 
 thought, the driving thought, of being free from the 
 money worry for a time was beating repulsion down. 
 Besides, in the back of his mind (he would not allow 
 it to grow quite clear) was the thought that it might 
 mean freedom from the money worry for good. If 
 he were the duke for only three days, it might lead to 
 other things. ... It would lead to other things. 
 
 He made up his mind to do it. 
 
 If James Whi taker was slow in thought, he was 
 quick in action. The open turf under the great oak 
 was no place to make the change of clothes. There 
 were three paths leading from it into the wood; and 
 at any minute a keeper might come along any one of 
 them. He picked up the body of the duke and carried 
 it into the thick bushes on the left-hand side of the 
 hill. A dozen yards in he laid it gently down on its
 
 : WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 13 
 
 back; then he took out his handkerchief and covered 
 the dreadful face. 
 
 He got to work quickly. The death-stiffness had 
 not yet set in ; and the body and limbs were limp and 
 easy to handle. The coat came off easily. He hesi- 
 tated a moment, holding it; then he took off his own 
 coat, spread it flat between two bushes, and laid the 
 duke's garments on it as he took them off. Presently 
 he was breathing quickly, almost panting; and he kept 
 casting furtive glances into the thick bushes round him. 
 He was even sweating a little. The waistcoat and 
 trousers also came off easily ; he had more trouble with 
 the shirt and the underclothing. The handkerchief 
 kept slipping from the face, and presently he tied it 
 over it. The sun was now shining bright and warm, 
 and the birds were singing louder than ever. James 
 Whitaker did not hear them: he was too busy. The 
 duke was wearing low shoes, and they came off easily. 
 
 At last the body was stripped, its garments in a pile 
 on his coat. James Whitaker paused and gazed at it 
 curiously. It was so like his own. He could see no 
 marks on it by which it might be distinguished from 
 his own no moles or scars ; only the duke's feet were 
 very white, and there were no corns on them. His own 
 feet were much redder, from wearing army bluchers; 
 and there were corns on them. He must keep them 
 out of sight. It should not be difficult, though of 
 course, as a duke, he would have a valet. His hands 
 would pass muster ; he had always kept his hands and 
 nails well, thanks to Millicent, his wife. Well, she 
 was being justified of her insistence on it now.
 
 14 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He rose, emptied his pockets, stripped quickly and 
 began to put on his double's clothes. The shirt and 
 underclothing were dry, for the cloth of the suit was 
 rain-proof; plainly the duke had been expecting the 
 storm. The silk waistcoat and pants felt very soft and 
 luxurious to James Whitaker's skin. The shoes fitted 
 him admirably. He shivered as he put on the cold sod- 
 den collar. In putting on the coat he pulled the left 
 lapel, and a couple of inches of it crumpled in his 
 hand. The lightning had scorched it. Last of all he 
 drew the duke's ring, a signet-ring, off his finger and 
 put it on his own. As he did it, it seemed to him that 
 he assumed definitely the personality of the duke. 
 
 Then he fell to work to dress the duke in his own 
 clothes. It was more difficult than stripping him; 
 but there were not so many garments: James Whit- 
 aker did not wear underclothing in the summer. The 
 most difficult part of it was getting the army bluchers 
 on to the limp feet. But James Whitaker was work- 
 ing easily and coolly now; he no longer breathed 
 quickly and sweated. At last he tied the lace of the 
 second boot and rose with a deep sigh of relief. 
 
 He had no fear of the body being identified as that 
 of James Whitaker. He had bought a new shirt for 
 his visit to his uncle, and it had not yet been marked : 
 there were no under-garments ; and his collar, being 
 celluloid, was unmarked. He put back the Ingersoll 
 watch and cheap silver chain into the waistcoat, the 
 four dollars and seventy-five cents, in silver, and the 
 damp match-box into the trousers pockets, the cheap 
 pipe and tobacco-pouch and the handkerchief into the
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 15 
 
 pockets of the frock coat. His fountain pen, a gift 
 from his wife, he kept. He did not take the trouble 
 to cut the maker's name from the lining of the soft 
 hat Such hats must be sold in tens of thousands ; and 
 it seemed wiser to leave it. 
 
 He picked up the duke's body, carried it out of the 
 bushes and laid it on its face on the spot where it 
 had fallen from the stroke. He picked up the duke's 
 Panama hat. The front of it was scorched, and in 
 the brim, where the lightning had pierced it, was a 
 neat round hole with blackened edges, about three- 
 quarters of an inch across. He put on the ha't, and 
 found that it fitted him. 
 
 He looked slowly round the glade, then went down 
 the path.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HE walked slowly, on unsteady feet, though the 
 duke's boots fitted them not merely as if they 
 had been made for them, but as if they had also been 
 worn to them. His head was still a little dazed from 
 the lightning-stroke; and the business of undressing 
 and dressing the duke had, in his shaken condition, 
 tried him severely. Moreover, it was a further strain 
 on him that he had done it quickly. A hundred yards 
 down the path he stopped and leaned against the dry 
 side of a tree-trunk. 
 
 The thought came to him to examine the duke's 
 pockets, and he set about it. The old-fashioned gold 
 watch had stopped, probably it had been stopped by 
 the lightning-stroke; its chain was of platinum and 
 gold. The signet-ring was also old, set with an am- 
 ethyst engraved with a coat of arms. He took it that 
 they were the Lanchester arms. In the right-hand 
 trousers pocket were twenty dollars and fifteen cents in 
 silver. In the left-hand breast pocket of the coat were 
 the two letters and the cigarette-case ; in its right-hand 
 breast pocket was a note-case containing three twenty- 
 five-dollar and two fifty-dollar notes. There was 
 something so comforting in the feel of them that he 
 gazed round him with a sudden air of guilt. In the 
 right-hand waistcoat pocket was a small mother-of- 
 
 16
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 17 
 
 pearl penknife; and in the pocket above it an amber 
 and gold cigarette-holder. 
 
 The sight of it suggested to him that another cig- 
 arette would be soothing; he took one from the case 
 and put it in his mouth. Then he felt in his pockets 
 for a match-box and found that the duke had come out 
 without any matches. He was thoroughly annoyed by 
 the oversight. As he put the cigarette back into the 
 case, he wished that he had not left his own matches 
 on the body of the duke. 
 
 He walked slowly on into the broad aisle of the 
 wood up which the duke had chased him, cast one look 
 down it toward the road, and then turned up it in 
 the opposite direction. As he had come along the road, 
 he had had glimpses of a great building behind the 
 wood : it must be the duke's castle. At the end of the 
 aisle a path ran, right and left, along the edge of the 
 wood, and along the top of a high bank, covered with 
 brushwood and trees, at the foot of which flowed the 
 sluggish stream of the River Wyper. Through the trees 
 he saw the great building on the right, half a mile 
 away. 
 
 He turned up the path to the right, toward it ; and 
 as he went he wished that he knew very much more 
 about himself than he did. All he knew was that he 
 was the Duke of Lanchester; he did not know his 
 Christian name, or his family name, or the name of 
 the duchess. He did not know, indeed, whether there 
 were a duchess, but he had a vague idea that the duke 
 was unmarried. He did not know the name of a 
 single relation or dependent. He did not even know
 
 i8 
 
 the name of the building to which he was going. How- 
 ever, the lightning-stroke would account for his not 
 knowing people and things; any one who had been 
 struck by lightning might lose their memory for a few 
 weeks; and in the course of a few weeks he would 
 pick up nearly everything needful for him to know. 
 
 He stopped stock-still for a moment : what was this 
 he was thinking about a few weeks? He was going 
 to be a duke only for a day or two just to see what 
 it was like. He went on again, frowning; the stroke 
 had certainly confused his mind. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of a mile the path ran down 
 the bank to a foot-bridge across the river. He crossed 
 it and came into the park, in which, a quarter of a mile 
 away, the great building stood. The park was dotted 
 with great trees, single or in clumps; and in sight, 
 browsing or lying down in the bracken, were nearly a 
 hundred deer. The sight pleased him; the thought 
 that he was the owner of a deer-park (for a day or 
 two) was indeed very pleasing. 
 
 He walked slowly across the park and came to the 
 tall hedge of the gardens of the Abbey. Passing 
 through a gate in it, twenty yards farther on, he came 
 to the high turfed bank of the outermost terrace and 
 slowly and shakily mounted its steps. On the terrace 
 two gardeners, cutting the grass of the lawn, touched 
 their hats to him ; and he saw that they looked at him 
 curiously. It did not surprise him : he thought it likely 
 that a man who had been struck, even gently, by light- 
 ning would present a strange appearance. Slowly 
 and shakily he mounted the broad flight of marble
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 19 
 
 steps to the great doors of the building, and was on the 
 very point of pulling the old-fashioned, wrought-iron 
 bell-handle which hung beside the door, when he be- 
 thought himself that he must not ring the bell of his 
 own castle. He opened the door and stepped into a 
 small modern vestibule which had been cut off from 
 the end of the great hall. 
 
 A footman, who was sitting on an old oak chair, 
 reading a newspaper, sprang up and stood stiffly at at- 
 tention. James Whitaker looked at him and was 
 pleased to perceive that he did not look intelligent. 
 At the moment he did not wish to have to do with 
 any one who looked intelligent. 
 
 He said in a voice purposely husky: "I've been 
 struck by lightning. Get me a brandy and soda." 
 
 "Struck by lightning? Yes, your Grace," said the 
 footman, springing briskly to the inner door of the 
 vestibule and holding it open. His face showed no 
 perturbation or surprise at his master's accident, only 
 interest in opening the door quickly. 
 
 James Whitaker passed unsteadily through it into 
 his great ducal hall. The footman hurried quickly 
 past him to bring the brandy and soda. 
 
 James Whitaker was but dimly aware of the great- 
 ness and beauty of the hall. The grateful object 
 which caught and chained his eye was a large and 
 comfortable easy chair. He went quickly to it, and 
 sank into it with a great sigh of pleasure, stretched out 
 his legs, and in a few seconds was nodding drowsily. 
 He was roused by the sound of hurried footsteps. The 
 footman had come back bearing brandy, soda-water
 
 20 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 and a large glass on a silver salver. A big man in 
 evening dress, wearing an air of the liveliest surprise 
 and anxiety, came behind the footman. James Whit- 
 aker perceived that it was his butler. 
 
 They came to him; and murmuring disjointed words 
 of sympathy, the butler mixed the brandy and soda 
 and handed it to him. 
 
 James Whitaker took the glass in a shaky hand and 
 drained it slowly. It was one of the most grateful 
 drinks he had ever drunk in his life. Forthwith it 
 began to strengthen him and clear his head. 
 
 He lay back for half a minute with closed eyes, en- 
 joying its grateful warmth; then he opened his eyes 
 and said in a much fainter, much huskier voice than 
 need be : "The lightning the lightning has muddled 
 my head. I don't seem to know where I am. Just 
 get me up to my bedroom, will you? I had better lie 
 down for an hour." 
 
 They helped him to his feet, and leaning on their 
 arms, he went feebly down the hall and up the broad 
 staircase at the end of it. In the corridor at the top 
 of the staircase they led him through the fourth door 
 on the left hand (he was careful to mark the way he 
 went and count the doors) into a big airy bedroom. 
 They were leading him to the bed, but he said that he 
 would rest on the broad couch under one of the win- 
 dows, and stretched himself at full length on it. 
 
 "Hadn't I better send Tomkins to get your Grace 
 to bed ?" said the butler anxiously. 
 
 James Whitaker took note of the fact that his valet's
 
 [WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 21 
 
 name was Tomkins. But he said: "No; I'll rest 
 here." 
 
 "But hadn't I better send for Doctor Arbuthnot to 
 see your Grace ?" said the butler. 
 
 "Yes, send for Doctor Arbuthnot," said James 
 Whitaker, pleased to have learned yet another useful 
 name so soon. "And find me some quinine to be 
 going on with. I was lying insensible in the rain for 
 I don't know how long." 
 
 He was careful to speak huskily: he did not wish 
 them to observe that the duke was speaking in a 
 changed voice. 
 
 "Yes, your Grace," said the butler; and he hurried 
 out of the room, followed by the footman. 
 
 The butler was back in less than three minutes with 
 a bottle of quinine tablets. James Whitaker took two 
 of them, bade the butler bring him a rug, and when he 
 had covered him with it, dismissed him. Then he 
 relaxed his limbs, and with a mind for the time being 
 at ease, fell asleep. 
 
 Twenty minutes later he was awakened by his butler 
 ushering in Doctor Arbuthnot. For some seconds he 
 did not know where he was, or how he had come into 
 this luxurious room. As soon as he remembered the 
 events of the afternoon, he looked anxiously at the 
 doctor, and perceived that he was such a one as he 
 would have him to be: a stout, red- faced cheerful- 
 looking soul, of the very grade of intelligence which 
 should make him really useful to him in the false 
 position in which he found himself.
 
 22 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 The doctor came briskly to the couch and greeted 
 James Whitaker in his cheeriest bedside manner. 
 James Whitaker's headache had not sweetened his 
 temper, and it seemed to him a singularly inappropri- 
 ate manner of addressing a man who had so lately 
 been struck by lightning. Therefore he returned the 
 doctor's greeting grumpily, and submitted to have his 
 pulse felt, his temperature taken and the stethoscope 
 applied to his chest, with a very ill grace indeed. 
 
 At the end of the examination Doctor Arbuthnot 
 said cheerily : "No harm done no organ injured. Just 
 a shock from a violent stimulation of the nerves by the 
 electricity. A sedative a sedative will soon put 
 all that right soothe the nerves and stop the head- 
 ache." 
 
 "A sedative! A sedative when I'm feeling so slack 
 that I can scarcely move a limb? Nonsense, Doctor! 
 What I want is a tonic a strong tonic." 
 
 Out of the simple warmth of his temper, without 
 knowing it, James Whitaker had spoken in the very 
 manner of the late duke. 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot hesitated a moment; then he 
 said: "But the electricity, your Grace " 
 
 "Bother the electricity!" cried James Whitaker, 
 with yet more heat. "What I want is a tonic!" 
 
 "Well, if your Grace really feels that a tonic is what 
 you want, I will prescribe a tonic. There is, of course, 
 no fixed treatment for lightning-strokes ; and probably 
 your instinct is the best guide," said Doctor Arbuthnot, 
 and he walked to the writing-table which stood before 
 the next window, and took up a pen.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 33 
 
 "But what P-want most is something to clear my 
 head. It's all muddled and confused. I know that 
 you're Doctor Arbuthnot all right, and I know that 
 Tomkins is Tomkins. But I'm hanged if I can re- 
 member the names of the butler or the footman, or 
 any of the names of the other servants," said James 
 iWhitaker. 
 
 "The butler's name is Jenkinson," said Doctor Ar- 
 buthnot ; and looking as profound and intelligent as he 
 could, he added: "This loss of memory is a passing 
 weakness, due to shock. Your Grace will probably 
 recover from it before to-morrow morning. But any- 
 how, I should think that in the course of the next few 
 days your memory will become as good as ever." 
 
 "Hadn't I better have a specialist down at once?" 
 said James Whitaker. "Who had I better have?" 
 
 The inhabitants of the village of Little Lanchester 
 were not wont to -be troubled with affections of the 
 brain; and at the moment Doctor Arbuthnot could not 
 think of the name of a brain specialist, therefore he 
 said : "You may safely wait two or three days, your 
 Grace." 
 
 James Whitaker frowned at him, and said in a tone 
 of the bitterest discontent: "That's all very well: 
 but it's beastly unpleasant not to be able to remember 
 who anybody is, or even to know the place you're in." 
 
 "You forgot that! Forgot that this is Lanchester 
 Abbey!" cried Doctor Arbuthnot in a tone of extreme 
 surprise. 
 
 "Well, what if it is? I can't remember my way 
 about it," growled James Whitaker.
 
 24 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Dear, dear! That's bad," said the doctor. "But 
 it's very unlikely indeed that it will last long very 
 unlikely indeed." 
 
 "But while it lasts it's going to be very unpleasant," 
 said James Whitaker. "And I don't want to be both- 
 ered about it. You'd better explain it thoroughly to 
 Jenkinson, and tell him to see that I'm not bothered 
 by it." 
 
 "Oh, yes, your Grace. Jenkinson will see to that 
 he'll see to that," said Doctor Arbuthnot cheerfully. 
 
 James Whitaker glowered at him. He felt that he 
 had assumed the ducal attitude in a very creditable 
 fashion. 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot bent down and began to write the 
 prescription. 
 
 As he finished it, James Whitaker said: "I tell 
 you what, Doctor: it wouldn't be a bad thing if a 
 short paragraph were sent to the papers, saying that 
 I've been struck by lightning, and have lost my mem- 
 ory. Then if I do make mistakes, people will under- 
 stand." 
 
 The doctor looked at him with an air of some sur- 
 prise, and said : "B-b-but I thought your Grace hated 
 the papers so." 
 
 James Whitaker frowned at him darkly for having 
 been with him all this time, and only at this last mo- 
 ment thrown some light on the character of the duke. 
 
 Then he said: "Of course I hate the papers. But 
 that's no reason why I shouldn't make use of them if 
 I want to if it will save me from being bothered. 
 Who should I get to write the paragraph?"
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 25 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot frowned, considering the matter ; 
 then he said : "Well, of course, your Grace hasn't had 
 a secretary since Mr. Fortescue left; and I don't think 
 Jenkinson could do it." 
 
 "I'm sure he couldn't," said James Whitaker in the 
 tone of a man well acquainted with the butler's lim- 
 itations. 
 
 The doctor's face brightened with a happy thought, 
 and he said : "How would it be if I went round to the 
 vicarage and saw the vicar, and asked him to write it ? 
 It's the kind of thing he likes doing." 
 
 "The very man, Doctor. Though I'll be hanged if 
 I haven't forgotten his name! What is his name?" 
 
 "Carton, your Grace George Carton," said the 
 (doctor. 
 
 "Of course!" cried James Whitaker. "Well, if you 
 would go round and ask him to send a paragraph to 
 two or three of the papers I should be very much 
 obliged to you and to him too." 
 
 "I will, your Grace. I will, with pleasure," said Doc- 
 tor Arbuthnot heartily. "And I shall give Jenkinson 
 this more elaborate prescription to send into Lan- 
 chester. But in the meantime I shall send up a simpler 
 tonic from my own surgery." 
 
 He went to the door and paused to say: "Good 
 afternoon, your Grace ; good afternoon." 
 
 "Wait a minute; when are you coming to see me 
 again?" said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think your Grace will need me again. 
 I think that, barring your memory, your Grace will 
 be as right as a trivet in the morning."
 
 26 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Oh, that won't do! That won't do! I would 
 rather you came again this evening. Lightning- 
 strokes are awkward things: there's no saying what 
 the after effects may be," said James Whitaker 
 quickly. 
 
 He thought that in the evening, when his head was 
 clearer, he might very easily set the doctor talking to 
 some purpose. 
 
 "By all means, your Grace by all means. I will 
 certainly come. I was only thinking that your Grace 
 had told me never to pay you an unnecessary visit," 
 said Doctor Arbuthnot. 
 
 "But this is a necessary visit," said James Whit- 
 aker with decision. 
 
 "If your Grace thinks so if your Grace thinks so. 
 Good-by, then, for the present, your Grace," said the 
 doctor ; and he went out beaming. 
 
 As the door closed behind him James Whitaker 
 heaved yet another sigh of relief; he felt that he had 
 passed his medical examination.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER was by no means ill 
 equipped to carry through the enterprise fortune 
 had thrust on him. Dealers in curiosities, like booksell- 
 ers, are on the whole better educated than the average 
 tradesman (possibly their trade educates them), and 
 he was better educated than the average dealer in curi- 
 osities. His father, a well-to-do house-agent of Ham- 
 mersmith, had sent him to St. Paul's School; and 
 though he had been far more proficient at both cricket 
 and football than at his books, he had always occupied 
 a respectable place rather less than half-way down his 
 forms, and had obtained at any rate the beginning of a 
 classical education. He had learned at school to use the 
 English language with some precision, and since his 
 father came from Warwick and his mother from Lin- 
 colnshire, he had acquired at home very little of the 
 London accent. Unfortunately for him, his mother 
 died when he was a boy of ten. 
 
 Unfortunately too, while he was still at school, his 
 father was afflicted by a belief, wide-spread at the end 
 of the nineteenth century, that it was possible to make 
 money by backing horses. Like so many other peo- 
 ple of his day, he demonstrated its falsity with such 
 thoroughness that, at the age of sixteen, James found 
 himself living with him in a dirty little room in a 
 
 27
 
 28 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Hammersmith slum, and in the employ of a local 
 chemist, for whom he carried around bottles of medi- 
 cine and packets of powders to the sick of the neigh- 
 borhood. This change in his fortunes chiefly afflicted 
 him by depriving him of the games he loved. 
 
 When he was seventeen his father died in the Ham- 
 mersmith hospital of pneumonia, and James found 
 himself adrift in the world, fending for himself. He 
 was very short of kin, both on his father's side and 
 his mother's. Indeed, he knew none of his father's 
 relations; and of his mother's he only knew her bro- 
 ther, Robert Unwin. Twice he had spent a week of 
 his summer holidays at his farm. During those two 
 weeks he had seen quite enough of his uncle to deter 
 him from proposing that he should go to him and be- 
 come a farmer's boy. 
 
 The death of his father left him in a better posi- 
 tion, for he was no longer called on to spend part of 
 his insufficient wages on satisfying the craving for 
 drink which his father had chiefly acquired on the 
 race-courses round London. But he found himself 
 very lonely, for he had been fond in his undemon- 
 strative, almost sullen way of his genial and cheery 
 father, who was so strong a contrast to himself. Two 
 months later he left the service of the chemist and 
 entered that of William Ward, the owner of a curi- 
 osity shop in Watergate Street. 
 
 Here he was in a much better position. The wages 
 were only two dollars a week, but he slept in an 
 attic at the top of the house, and took his meals with 
 the old servant, Amy. She was a cross-grained old
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 29 
 
 woman ; and it had for years been her chief pleasure in 
 life to nag her master's assistant for the time being. 
 She had, indeed, had the pleasure of driving three of 
 them, solely in her master's interests, of course, out of 
 his employ. On James Whitaker her nagging made no 
 impression; at the end of three months of it, it is 
 probable that he did not hear a word of it. Beyond 
 nagging she dare not go with him. She had once swept 
 a book he was reading off the kitchen table on to the 
 floor, and he had treated her to a display of black 
 fury which had made her afraid even to nag him for 
 a week. 
 
 William Ward himself was, as masters go, an easy 
 man to work for. He had an even temper; he was 
 reasonable and not exacting. He was fond of talk- 
 ing during the long intervals when there were no cus- 
 tomers in the shop ; and James Whitaker was the per- 
 fect listener. Much of William Ward's talk was of 
 his business : the battles at auctions or in the auction- 
 rooms, the acquisitions of bargains, the pastes of por- 
 celains, the forging of old furniture and so forth. 
 Since he was fond of illustrating his talk with exam- 
 ples to hand, he was teaching James Whitaker the 
 business in the way he could best learn it. He was 
 not, indeed, greatly interested in it at first; but he 
 chanced to have the genuine seeing eye of the con- 
 noisseur; and he was learning it in spite of that lack 
 of interest. He was far more pleased with this post 
 than with his post of chemist's boy, for he had his 
 evenings, his Sundays and his Saturday afternoons 
 free. He resumed his football on the turf, or rather
 
 30 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 the mud, of a kind of small recreation ground at the 
 bottom of the Stamford Brook Road. It was but poor 
 football after the football of St. Paul's School, but it 
 was better than none at all; and when he was nine- 
 teen and his wages had risen to three dollars a week, 
 he joined a club called the Hammersmith Tigers, 
 which played at Wormwood Scrubbs. 
 
 With the fourth member of the household, William 
 Ward's daughter Millicent, James Whitaker came very 
 little into contact. She was a sandy-haired, sharp- 
 featured, anemic, somewhat querulous girl, a year 
 younger than he ; and for the first two years he worked 
 for her father she was away, a boarder at Brixmouth 
 High School. He saw her during the holidays only, 
 and now and again he did odd jobs for her, put up a 
 shelf in her bedroom, strapped up her trunk and car- 
 ried it down-stairs, changed the novels, of which she 
 read a great number, at Boots' in King Street, fetched 
 her a rare cab. She awoke no interest in him ; and he 
 awoke none in her. 
 
 Always, however, in the background of his mind, for 
 the most part very far in the background, was the 
 memory of the better life he had enjoyed before his 
 father's downfall. He had lapsed a long way in Will- 
 iam Ward's kitchen from the standard of refinement 
 of St. Paul's, and even from that of his own home. 
 But memories of that refinement remained with him; 
 and now and again he would for a while speak with the 
 better pronunciation and intonation of his earlier boy- 
 hood. It was these outbursts, added to his greater 
 skill in the game, which gave him uncommon prom-
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 31 
 
 inence among the Hammersmith Tigers, and presently 
 invested him with the captaincy of the team. 
 
 But he had passed his twentieth birthday before it 
 was borne in upon him quite clearly that the wages he 
 was receiving and was likely to receive were not 
 nearly enough to satisfy his wants and desires; and 
 he began to cast about how to better his chances in 
 life. He came to the conclusion that he must be better 
 educated if he would increase his income. The Ham- 
 mersmith Polytechnic afforded opportunities of be- 
 coming educated ; and he began to attend night classes 
 there in French, German, bookkeeping and English. 
 He found that that part of his mind which acquired a 
 knowledge of languages had grown uncommonly 
 rusty. 
 
 Millicent Ward had at this time left school about 
 three months, but she had brought from it ideals of 
 culture, and she also attended the English classes at 
 the polytechnic. She had never taken any interest in 
 her father's robust, rugged- featured assistant : he was 
 so far removed from the refined and gentlemanly ideal 
 of her dreams. The sudden discovery that he also 
 was imbibing culture at an English class awoke her in- 
 terest in him. She did not feel at all shy with him, 
 for he was an inferior ; and the next day she questioned 
 him about his purpose in attending the polytechnic 
 classes, and learned his intention of educating himself. 
 
 With the young women who throng King Street of 
 an evening, James Whitaker had had nothing to do. 
 They did not attract him. Sometimes when he was 
 walking with one of the Hammersmith Tigers, they
 
 32 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 would meet a couple of female acquaintances of his 
 companion; an introduction would follow, and the 
 four of them would split up into pairs. James Whit- 
 aker, leader as he was in the football field, was un- 
 commonly shy and ill at ease on the primrose path of 
 dalliance ; and this shyness stayed with him. 
 
 He was less shy with Millicent Ward than he was 
 with the girls of his own station; for one thing, 
 she was his superior, for another, they had common 
 educational interests. For a while she contented 
 herself with inquiring now and again about his prog- 
 ress. Then she conceived the idea of helping him. 
 Since he did not feel shy with her, he accepted her 
 offer with the utmost readiness. There was leisure 
 and to spare in the curiosity shop, save when William 
 Ward had made purchases at a sale, and they were 
 busy mending and cleaning objects of art, or dirtying 
 others with a view to investing them with that air of 
 antiquity the connoisseur demands. There were, in- 
 deed, hours to spend on James Whitaker's education ; 
 and though Millicent was a poor teacher, his knowl- 
 edge of French and German and English increased 
 at a satisfactory speed. His knowledge of bookkeep- 
 ing increased as quickly; but that was not owing to 
 any effort of Millicent Ward. She was only interested 
 in culture. 
 
 After a while she began to take him to picture- 
 galleries, chiefly to South Kensington Museum. She 
 went to it by train, and he walked to it. She was 
 somewhat annoyed by the firmness with which he re- 
 fused to devote his Saturday afternoons to culture,
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 33 
 
 and reserved them for football in the winter and for 
 cricket or walks into the country in the summer. But 
 she made the best of Sundays. He had the docile and 
 impressionable mind of youth, and readily accepted 
 her view of the paramount importance of culture ; but 
 his spirit demanded the stirring rivalry of games, and 
 his intellectual desires had to yield to it. Besides 
 devoting Saturday afternoons to games, he wasted 
 many an evening he might have spent in improving 
 his mind, on boxing and gymnastics at the poly- 
 technic. 
 
 It is difficult for a boy of twenty-one and a girl of 
 twenty to be thrown into close companionship with- 
 out their emotions being stirred by it. Neither James 
 nor Millicent were free from human frailty ; and they 
 fell in love with each other. It was not by any 
 means a violent passion in either. Millicent was 
 the anemic, flat-chested, passionless girl of the worse 
 parts of the modern town. Her feeling toward James 
 Whitaker was little more than a sense of proprietor- 
 ship in him, arising from the pains she had spent on 
 his culture. It would probably have rested there but 
 for the discovery that his father had been a well- 
 to-do estate agent, and that James himself had been 
 at school at St. Paul's, a discovery which invested him 
 with a tinge of the romance of the disinherited. 
 
 James' feeling for her was hardly stronger ; though 
 her delicacy appealed to his protective instinct, she was 
 too thin-blooded to make the genuine strong appeal 
 to a man of his healthy robustness. But she was 
 cultured; and marriage with her would be a distinct
 
 34 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 social and economic advance. They drifted into a 
 secret engagement. Then, when a paralytic stroke 
 rendered William Ward helpless, and the whole con- 
 duct of the business fell into the hands of James Whit- 
 aker, they became openly engaged. A year and a half 
 later William Ward died, and two months after his 
 death and a month after his own twenty-third birth- 
 day, James Whitaker married her. 
 
 The five years of their married life had been neither 
 happy nor unhappy. They were ill-mated; but since 
 that was the rule in their class, and since both of them 
 realized clearly that they had not enough money to 
 secure the mate of their desire, they rebelled but sel- 
 dom and with little violence against their wedded lot. 
 On the whole they made the best of it. Millicent, as 
 far as her capacity and lack of real interest in domestic 
 matters allowed, saw to James' comfort. She even 
 acted as saleswoman with moderate success when he 
 was away at an auction. For his part, he humored 
 her efforts to maintain and increase her prenuptial 
 culture, and was indulgent with her not infrequent 
 failures as a housewife. But there was none of that 
 close intimacy between them which comes of genuine 
 sympathy. None the less, James Whitaker was better 
 content married than he had been as a bachelor; his 
 was a domesticated nature. 
 
 During those five years Millicent's health grew worse 
 and worse; and she grew more and more querulous. 
 Her bad health was to a great extent the result of a 
 poor physique and bad teeth; but she made it worse 
 by taking drugs without ceasing. For the most part
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 35 
 
 her day began with strychnine and ended with chloral ; 
 and at intervals during it she further injured her 
 stomach or her nerves. Her habit of taking chloral 
 to induce sleep had so grown on her that now she 
 hardly ever slept at night without it; and it had in- 
 deed played havoc with her nerves. 
 
 But all the while she was growing more and more 
 intellectual; and though James Whitaker sometimes 
 protested quite vainly against the chloral, he always 
 fostered patiently her intellectual growth. He took 
 her to the gallery of the opera-house to hear the 
 operas of Wagner, to the galleries of theaters to hear 
 the comedies of Shaw, to the Hammersmith Ethical 
 Society to hear the lectures of the Chestertons, and 
 he read the novels of Mrs. Humphrey Ward that she 
 might be able to discuss them with him. He listened 
 patiently to her unfolding of the mysteries of theoso- 
 phy which she had taken up for her final explanation 
 of the cosmic scheme; and he even employed the 
 arithmetical facility he had acquired at the bookkeep- 
 ing classes at the polytechnic to work out her astro- 
 logical calculations for her when she made that science 
 her hobby. With a praiseworthy perseverance he 
 concealed the fact that she bored him and in every 
 way failed to satisfy him. But she often complained 
 frankly that she found him too gross for her refined 
 nature and too slow of understanding for her brighter 
 wits. 
 
 The business of the shop, which had been poor for 
 years, grew steadily worse. The private customers of 
 William Ward had died off; and the people who now
 
 3 6 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 passed down Watergate Street collected but the cheap- 
 est objects of art. James Whitaker added to the busi- 
 ness the selling of second-hand furniture. At first 
 it prospered, but after a while it grew poor, for the 
 hire-purchase system was more and more spoiling the 
 second-hand trade. Consequently he suffered from 
 a sense that two things were lacking in his life love 
 and money. He was far more patient with his wife 
 than he was with his business. His failure in it en- 
 raged him ; and his effort to borrow five hundred dol- 
 lars from his uncle rose from his conviction that his 
 only chance was to make a fresh start in a more fre- 
 quented street. 
 
 But now that it came to the matter of playing the 
 duke for a day or two, both his wife and his business 
 were likely to prove of use to him. Association with 
 her had kept his speech from roughness and prevented 
 him from acquiring the careless table manners of less 
 fortunately married tradesmen; and the battles of the 
 auctions and sales rooms, with buyers and with sellers, 
 had gifted him with no little capacity for dealing with 
 men. 
 
 As Doctor Arbuthnot's steps died away down the 
 corridor, James Whitaker was thinking that he had 
 learned very little from him. It seemed to him that 
 he had better lose no time learning more. His head 
 was still aching, but the brandy and soda and the short 
 sleep had refreshed him. He slipped off the couch and 
 set out to seek knowledge. 
 
 There were two doors to his bedroom, the one
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 37 
 
 through which he had come, opening into the cor- 
 ridor, and the other in the left wall. He went to the 
 latter and opened it, and found himself in a large 
 dressing-room, the end of which had been partitioned 
 off to form a bathroom. He was impressed and de- 
 lighted by the four shelves on which stood more than 
 twenty pairs of the duke's boots, but he did not linger 
 to admire them. He opened the door that faced the 
 one by which he had entered, and found himself 
 where he wished to be, in the sitting-room, rather a 
 smoking-room than a study, of the duke. 
 
 He went quickly back and bolted the doors which 
 opened into the corridor from the bedroom, the dress- 
 ing-room and the study itself. Then he went briskly 
 to the fine Chippendale bureau which stood between 
 the two windows. It was open, and its inside was in 
 a state of untidiness which chafed James Whitaker's 
 strong sense of propriety. But lying prominent on the 
 blotting-pad was a sight which thrilled him with joy; 
 three stamped and addressed letters. 
 
 He sat down before the bureau and took up the top- 
 most. It was addressed to Lord Ashow, began "Dear 
 Herbert," and was signed "Lanchester." Plainly it 
 was an answer to the letter signed "Herbert," in his 
 pocket. The second was addressed to Lady Cubbing- 
 ton, began "My dear Anne," and was signed "John." 
 James Whitaker had learned his Christian name. He 
 was pleased to have learned it, and he was not at all 
 displeased by it : John seemed to him as good a name 
 as James. But apart from this, the letter was inter-
 
 38 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 esting. It was couched in as affectionate terms as 
 the letter in his pocket signed "Anne," and he won- 
 dered whether Lady Cubbington was a relation of the 
 duke. He hoped that she was, but something in the 
 tone of the letter awoke a misgiving in him, and he 
 feared that she was not. Yet she might be a widow. 
 He hoped sincerely that he would not find himself 
 involved in any matrimonial entanglements, for he 
 felt that he had had too little experience in these mat- 
 ters to have much chance of extricating himself from 
 them in a really creditable manner. 
 
 He turned from the consideration of this subject 
 to the third letter, and found it the most useful of the 
 three. It was addressed to Messrs. Moresby Brothers, 
 Tailors, Bruton Street, London, W., and contained a 
 check for two hundred sixty-seven dollars and fifty 
 cents in payment of their account. 
 
 Also it contained an order for three suits of clothes, 
 with careful directions about their color and material. 
 But the check was the important thing; and James 
 Whitaker examined it with joyful eyes. He noted 
 carefully the way in which it was made out; and after 
 a careful consideration of it, he set himself to practise 
 the reproduction of the signature. But soon he found 
 that his hand was still too shaky for accurate writing, 
 and perceived that he must postpone his practise till 
 the morrow. He put the check and the letters in his 
 pocket and began to look through the drawers of the 
 bureau. They were all very untidy, and contained 
 many papers dealing with matters of the estate and the 
 duke's private affairs. James Whitaker was not in a
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 39 
 
 condition to profit by them; he looked through them 
 cursorily, and put them back in the drawers. 
 
 The two bottom drawers of the right-hand side of 
 the bureau were locked ; but since the duke's keys were 
 lying in one of the pigeonholes, he had no difficulty 
 in opening them. In these drawers neatness reigned; 
 they were full of letters in packets, tied up with red 
 tape. He was distressed to find they were addressed 
 to the duke, that most of them began "Dearest John" 
 (some of them "Darling John,") that they were all 
 from women, each packet from a different woman, 
 and that all of them were couched in terms of the 
 warmest affection. 
 
 He closed the two drawers quickly and locked them. 
 Then he sat back, considering this unpleasant situa- 
 tion in something of a panic. At the moment he was 
 beyond words glad that he was only going to be a duke 
 for three days; and he was more than a little sorry 
 that he had arranged that the vicar should despatch a 
 paragraph to the newspapers informing the world that 
 he had been struck by lightning and had lost his mem- 
 ory. He feared lest some of the ladies who had ad- 
 dressed his predecessor as "Dearest John," or, worse 
 still, as "Darling John," should make haste to recall 
 themselves to his memory more than one at a time. 
 
 Saddened by this discovery, he returned with a fur- 
 tive step (as if the ladies were already on his track) 
 to his bedroom, unlocking the doors opening into the 
 corridor as he went. He composed himself to sleep 
 on the couch once more; but he did not fall asleep as 
 quickly as he wished. He was still harassed by the dis-
 
 '40 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 covery of his predecessor's catholicity (he felt in his 
 bones that the ladies were of many types) of taste; 
 but presently he did fall asleep. 
 
 He awoke in about an hour to find himself very 
 hungry, rose and rang the bell. 
 
 It was answered by a stout, genial-looking young 
 man whom he perceived must be his valet, Tomkins. 
 
 The young man at once became voluble, and in the 
 London speech which James Whitaker knew so well. 
 
 "I'm sorry your Grace has had this horful orful 
 accident," he said. "And I'm sorry I was out when 
 your Grace came home " 
 
 "Yes, but I'm hungry," said James Whitaker, cut- 
 ting him short in a very grumpy tone. 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. Jenkinson thought it better to 
 let your Grace have your sleep out since, he said, you 
 looked so shaky. But tea's all ready. He's bringing 
 it up as soon as it's made." 
 
 "And where's that tonic Doctor Arbuthnot was 
 going to send up to me?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Here, your Grace, here," said Tomkins, holding 
 out a bottle in one hand and a medicine glass in the 
 other. "I'd better give your Grace a dose of it at 
 once." 
 
 With that he poured out a dose of the tonic, added 
 the prescribed quantity of water and handed it to 
 him. 
 
 He had hardly drunk it when the door opened and 
 Jenkinson entered, bearing the tea, a very grateful 
 sight to the hungry James Whitaker. The butler set 
 the tray on the table beside the couch and lifted the lid
 
 t WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 41 
 
 from the dish of buttered toast. James Whitaker 
 seized a piece greedily and, in his hunger, was on the 
 very point of wolfing it down, when he remembered 
 that he was a duke. Thereupon he ate it in a delicate, 
 even finicking manner. Jenkinson and Tomkins 
 watched him with eyes full of interest: the fact that 
 he had so recently been struck by lightning was very 
 present in their minds. As he took a second piece of 
 toast Jenkinson poured cream into the cup and then 
 poured the tea into it. James Whitaker perceived 
 that he did not put any sugar into it ; then he perceived 
 that there was no sugar. Unsweetened tea was abhor- 
 rent to him. 
 
 "There's no sugar," he said in the grump husky 
 tones he was using. 
 
 "But your Grace never takes sugar!" said Jenkin- 
 son in lively surprise. 
 
 James Whitaker saw that he had made a slip; but 
 he said firmly : "I feel to want it. It must be the ef- 
 fect of the electricity. I expect I'm still charged 
 with it ; and my system requires sugar." 
 
 The explanation, fortified as it was by the scien- 
 tific and, as James Whitaker well knew, inaccurate 
 term "electricity," seemed quite satisfactory to both 
 of them. They looked at him with commiserating 
 eyes; Jenkinson said hastily: "Yes, your Grace," and 
 hurried out of the room to fetch the sugar. 
 
 For the benefit of his valet James Whitaker ate the 
 second piece of toast in the same delicate and finicking 
 manner as he had eaten the first. Jenkinson returned 
 soon bringing a sugar-basin, and stood over him while
 
 42 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 he ate the toast and drank the tea. James Whitaker 
 wondered whether it had been the custom of the duke 
 always to have some one standing over him while he 
 took his tea. It seemed to him a tiresome custom; 
 but he did not think it worth while to protest. 
 
 When he had finished, he said : "Did Doctor Arbuth- 
 not explain that I had lost my memory?" 
 
 "Yes, your Grace; but he said as how it would be 
 sure to come back in a day or two," said Tomkins 
 quickly. 
 
 "I hope it will," growled James Whitaker. "But 
 it's very unpleasant ; and I expect I shall want teaching 
 everything like a little child." 
 
 "Oh, your Grace will soon learn," said Jenkinson. 
 
 "I dare say," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 He felt much better for his tea, and dismissed Jen- 
 kinson. Tomkins stood awaiting his orders; and a 
 happy thought came to James Whitaker. 
 
 "I don't see why you shouldn't help me to get my 
 memory back, Tomkins," he said grumpily. "Now, 
 let's see what I can remember about yesterday. Tell 
 me exactly what I did yesterday. Begin at my getting 
 up what time did I get up? What did I do after 
 breakfast and in the afternoon?" said James Whit- 
 aker. 
 
 "Well, your Grace got up at half past eight; you 
 had breakfast at half past nine ; and a little while after 
 breakfast you saw Mr. Brinkman." 
 
 "Who's Mr. Brinkman ?" James Whitaker broke in. 
 
 "He's your steward, your Grace the steward as 
 manages the Lanchester Abbey estate. Then you went
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 43 
 
 for a ride and came back to lunch ; and in the afternoon 
 you motored over to Muttlebury Court, and played 
 bridge leastways I suppose your Grace played auc- 
 tion. And you came back to dinner. And after din- 
 ner Mr. Lowther motored over from the Grange, and 
 you played billiards with him till nearly twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 James Whitaker was annoyed by this versatility of 
 his predecessor. On the very first inquiry he had 
 learned of his having three accomplishments, riding, 
 bridge and billiards, none of which he possessed him- 
 self. It was plain, therefore, that he would have to 
 make some radical changes in his predecessor's habits ; 
 and that was the last thing in the world he wished to 
 do. But there was no help for it. He could not ride ; 
 indeed he had never been on a horse in his life. Also 
 he had never touched a billiard cue. He had little doubt 
 that his predecessor, devoting himself to these pursuits 
 from his earliest years, had been a skilful rider and a 
 skilful billiard player. It would take him years to ar- 
 rive at the same point of skill; and in the meantime 
 his inaptness would continuously excite remark. His 
 best course was to drop riding and billiards altogether, 
 for though he knew little of psychology, he thought it 
 probable that muscle memory was the last memory one 
 would lose ; and it would be dangerous indeed to show 
 himself to have lost his muscle memory in these mat- 
 ters altogether. 
 
 Bridge was another matter: he was no card-player, 
 "but he knew that a knowledge of card games could be 
 acquired from books; and it might be wise to learn
 
 44 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 bridge. Then he remembered that he was only going 
 to play the duke for two or three days. It was odd 
 how difficult he found it to keep this fact in his mind. 
 
 He pondered the information which Tomkins had 
 given him for four or five minutes. Then leaving him 
 setting out his clothes for dinner, he went down-stairs 
 to begin his exploration of the Abbey. His heart at 
 once began to swell proudly with the sense that he was 
 the possessor of these magnificent rooms, so full of 
 beautiful things costly beautiful things. He had a 
 real feeling for beauty; but he had been for so long 
 harried by money worries that even now, when he 
 found himself the unembarrassed, if temporary, pos- 
 sessor of these beautiful things, he could not help re- 
 garding them with the appraising eye of the dealer. 
 He could not help translating their value into dollars 
 and cents, or rather, to be exact, into hundreds of 
 dollars, or thousands of dollars; for the Lanchester 
 heirlooms, pictures, sculptures, tapestries, armor, 
 bronzes and ivories are as fine as any in England. 
 Once more forgetting that he was only playing the 
 duke for three days, he promised himself several weeks 
 of pleasure from their contemplation. 
 
 But at the moment it was chiefly the dealer's need 
 to put a price on beautiful things that kept him inside 
 the Abbey. Through the long open windows came 
 the fresh delightful smell of the earth, rejoicing after 
 the storm, the fragrance of the flowers, the song of the 
 birds; and now that his head was clear and most of 
 his weariness removed by sleep, they called him out 
 into the gardens with a stronger appeal of beauty;
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 45 
 
 and at last he went out through one of the windows of 
 the blue drawing-room on to the terrace. He walked: 
 across the lawn to the white marble balustrade, so care- 
 fully kept, and looked down on mile on mile of mea- 
 dow and woodland, brightened here and there by a 
 gleaming reach of the Wyper. He leaned upon the 
 balustrade, feasting his town-weary eyes on the glo- 
 rious scene; and once more his heart swelled at the 
 thought that he was the owner of it. He stood striv- 
 ing to grasp what these great possessions might mean 
 for him. 
 
 He was interrupted by the sound of a gong, and took 
 it that it was the gong for dinner. He went back into 
 the Abbey, and in the great hall he learned from Jen- 
 kinson that it was the dressing-gong, that dinner 
 would be in half an hour. He went up to his bedroom 
 and found Tomkins awaiting him with his evening 
 clothes set out ready to put on. Tomkins told him that 
 his bath was ready, and he went to it eagerly, wishing 
 that he had thought of taking one sooner. He locked 
 the dressing-room door that Tomkins might have no 
 chance of perceiving how different his feet were from 
 those of his predecessor. 
 
 The bath cleared his head yet more, so that when 
 he came out of it, his headache had nearly gone. Tom- 
 kins hovered about him while he dressed ; but while he 
 was putting on his collar, he went to fetch him a rose 
 from the garden, and James Whitaker found himself 
 confronted with the difficulty of tying his white tie. 
 He perceived that this was a muscle memory; and 
 his having forgotten how to do it would look bad, for
 
 46 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 doubtless, after his long experience, his predecessor 
 had tied his white tie faultlessly. But he himself had 
 never been able to tie a bow with any neatness in his 
 life ; and he crumpled it badly. He was regarding the 
 result of his efforts ruefully, when Tomkins came 
 back, bringing a rosebud set in a spray of maidenhair 
 fern. He started in surprise at the sight of James 
 iWhitaker and said : 
 
 "Your Grace has forgotten that, too !" 
 
 "Forgotten what?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "That your Grace can't tie a white tie, and I al- 
 ways tie it for you," said Tomkins ; and he hurried to 
 a drawer, and took out another. 
 
 James Whitaker was indeed interested to hear that 
 the likeness between him and his predecessor was so 
 close as to extend even to this trivial incapacity. Their 
 resemblance in this trifle touched him ; and for the first 
 time he felt a sense of sympathy with the man who was 
 lying under the great oak on the hill in the wood. Also 
 he was relieved to learn that he was not called upon 
 to tie his own white ties. 
 
 Tomkins tied the tie; James Whitaker put on his 
 coat and waistcoat and went down-stairs. He found 
 that he was to dine in a charming room, called from its 
 paneling the cedar dining-room; and he sat down at 
 the table gleaming with silver and glass and bright 
 with flowers, with a fine sense of being luxurious. He 
 was hungry, but he did not allow his hunger to over- 
 come his discretion; and under the eyes of Jenkinson 
 he ate his food in a somewhat mincing fashion. It was 
 the meal of a dream, yet a simple enough meal : a clear
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 47 
 
 soup, boiled salmon, a young chicken, gooseberry tart 
 and cheese straws. But to James Whitaker it was 
 the last cry of luxury; never before in his life had he 
 eaten delicate food, properly cooked. 
 
 The hock and the champagne were excellent; but 
 he was careful to drink no more than a glass of hock 
 and two glasses of champagne, for he was resolved 
 to have his wits always about him. When dinner was 
 at an end, he sat drinking his coffee, sipping a glass of 
 '65 brandy, and smoking a large and admirable cigar, 
 in a glorious, beatific content. 
 
 He drank his coffee and brandy slowly, then he said 
 to Jenkinson: "I wonder if there's any chance of Mn 
 Lowther coming over to play billiards to-night." 
 
 "I can't say, your Grace. You don't remember 
 whether you asked him to come or not, your Grace ?" 
 said Jenkinson. 
 
 "I don't," said James Whitaker with decision. 
 "But if he does come, you can tell him that I have 
 been struck by lightning and don't want to see anybody 
 don't feel up to it anybody except the doctor, that 
 is. Oh, yes : and say I'm sorry to have brought him 
 over for nothing. Where's my cigar-case?" 
 
 Jenkinson brought him a cigar-case, and he put 
 three of the fine large cigars into it. Then he told 
 Jenkinson to take a large comfortable chair out on 
 the terrace for him, and another for Doctor Arbuthnot, 
 and bring whisky and brandy and soda when he came. 
 Jenkinson brought the chairs to the end of the terrace. 
 James Whitaker sat down and looked dreamily out 
 over the moonlit landscape. For a while he pondered
 
 48 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 the admirable dinner he had eaten. Then he resolved 
 that, unless anything untoward which he could not at 
 the moment foresee, happened, he would play the de- 
 lightful part of the Duke of Lanchester for four or five 
 days, instead of for two or three. After all, he was 
 in an extraordinarily advantageous position: he could 
 disappear so easily and utterly into a natural hiding- 
 place there was no finding. 
 
 Presently the excellent dinner he had enjoyed set 
 his mind working; and a very happy thought came to 
 him. He would rid himself of the possibility of riding 
 or playing billiards by asking Doctor Arbuthnot to 
 treat him for a numb, partly paralyzed right arm. Then 
 he need never mount a horse, or touch a cue. Then 
 came another happy thought : he would also have Doc- 
 tor Arbuthnot treat him for a stiffness of the muscles 
 of his throat : that would account for any difference in 
 his voice from that of the late duke. 
 
 Presently Doctor Arbuthnot came, felt his pulse, 
 took his temperature, and expressed his approval of 
 both. Then James Whitaker told him of the stiffness 
 of his arm and the muscles of his throat. 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot listened to him with a grave face, 
 and said: "I was expecting something of the kind. 
 In fact, I noticed a change in your Grace's voice 
 not merely that it was husky, but that it was deeper 
 in tone. But I expect that we shall be able to deal 
 with it. The stiffness will probably yield to salicylate. 
 Of course it is too early for your Grace to have re- 
 covered your memory at all?"
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 49 
 
 "I remember some things and forget others," said 
 James Whitaker quickly. "I suppose I had better rest 
 my arm till the stiffness goes if it does go. How 
 would it be if I were to wear it in a sling?" 
 
 He thought it would be a good thing if he were thus 
 to advertise the fact that it was impossible for him 
 to ride or play billiards. 
 
 "By all means. Your Grace couldn't do better than 
 carry it in a sling till we see how the salicylate works," 
 said Doctor Arbuthnot cheerily. 
 
 "Then I will," said James Whitaker. 
 
 Jenkinson came, bringing the whisky and soda. 
 James Whitaker invited the doctor to help himself to 
 a drink and gave him a cigar. Doctor Arbuthnot was 
 deeply impressed and flattered by the attention; the 
 late duke had never so unbent ; and his heart warmed 
 toward his illustrious patient. 
 
 When the doctor had taken his first drink of the 
 whisky and soda, James Whitaker said glumly: "It's 
 odd that you should know more about me than I know 
 about myself." 
 
 "It is indeed, your Grace," said the doctor. "Is 
 there anything your Grace wants particularly to 
 know?" 
 
 "There are many things I want particularly to 
 know," said James Whitaker, even more glumly. 
 
 "Well er as a matter of fact living so near all 
 these years and attending the family when they were 
 at the Abbey and yourself when you had the mea- 
 sles I have taken a natural interest in your career.
 
 50 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Besides, I have always been hearing about your Grace. 
 Naturally everybody around the Abbey takes a great 
 interest in you." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you what : I wish you'd tell me all 
 about myself, beginning at the beginning from the 
 time I was born," said James Whitaker firmly. 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot needed no pressing; he was be- 
 yond words delighted to be of other than professional 
 service to his illustrious patient. Even by the light of 
 the moon James Whitaker could see his ruddy face 
 darken with the flush of pleasure, and the pleased 
 sparkle of his eyes. 
 
 He did begin at the beginning; indeed he began by 
 saying : "Your Grace was born on the fifteenth of June, 
 1882"; and as he unfolded the history of the late duke 
 it grew clear that he had indeed given it his best at- 
 tention. It presently struck James Whitaker that it 
 bore a curious resemblance to his own history. There 
 was not only the coincidence of date in their births, 
 but also of place: the duke's mother had been taken 
 by surprise ; and he had been born at a hotel in Ken- 
 sington, within a hundred yards of the house in 
 which he had himself been born. The duke had 
 gone to Eton the same term as he himself had 
 gone to St. Paul's School, and he had become duke 
 at about the same time as he himself had been set 
 adrift on the world to earn his own living. He 
 had married in the June (the doctor could not re- 
 member the day) of the same year in which he him- 
 self had married in June; and though the doctor grew 
 very discreet arid diplomatic in talking of his married
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 51 
 
 life, it was clear that he had married the wrong 
 woman. The duchess, however, had died within two 
 years of their marriage. Also it was clear that the 
 duke had been as unsuccessful in politics as James 
 Whitaker had been in business. The coincidences were 
 curious; and then there was the most striking coinci- 
 dence of all: they had both been struck by the same 
 flash of lightning. 
 
 For all his wife's astrology, James Whitaker was 
 no believer in the influence of the stars on human 
 destinies; but he could not help thinking of the iron- 
 monger who had been born within three minutes of 
 George III, had, in his sphere, enjoyed the same for- 
 tunes and suffered the same vicissitudes as that mon- 
 arch, and had expired about the same moment. He 
 was no believer in the influence of the stars 
 yet that ironmonger had been the very image of George 
 III. It was odd that rather more than a hundred 
 years later he should find like coincidences in his own 
 life and that of the late Duke of Lanchester. 
 
 He kept the doctor's story plain and clear by an oc- 
 casional question. James Whitaker enjoyed an excel- 
 lent memory; but if he had not enjoyed that excellent 
 memory, he would have had no need of a note-book, 
 since the story so interested him that every important 
 fact in it at once impressed itself clearly and deeply 
 on his mind. 
 
 When it came to an end he said : "I wonder if that 
 lightning-stroke has changed my character and dis- 
 position at all. What kind of a disposition have I?" 
 The doctor hesitated and with an air of some dis-
 
 52 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 comfort fidgeted in his chair ; then he said : "Well 
 I er I should say that your Grace had an er er 
 an eminently ducal disposition." 
 
 "A bit nasty? Eh?" said James Whitaker. 
 
 "No no not nasty oh, no," said the doctor. 
 
 "A bit short in the temper, then ?" 
 
 "Well a little impatient, perhaps," said the doctor, 
 in the tone of one making a generous admission. 
 
 "Well, I don't seem to have changed in that respect, 
 anyhow," said James Whitaker. "I'm still quite short 
 in the temper." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said the doctor quickly. 
 "I fancied that your Grace had become more genial. 
 But that mightn't be the result of the stroke. I haven't 
 seen your Grace not to talk to, at least for nearly 
 a year." 
 
 James Whitaker pondered this matter for nearly 
 a minute. Plainly the husky growling he had adopted 
 had been well in accord with his predecessor's char- 
 acter. Then he said: "And what about women?" 
 
 Doctor Arbuthnot rose hastily and snatched his 
 watch out of his pocket : "Oh, there have been stories, 
 your Grace there have been stories. But I never paid 
 any attention to them never," he said quickly, and 
 in a very uneasy voice. "But I beg your Grace's par- 
 don but I was quite forgetting a patient a very 
 difficult case my visit is already overdue. I must 
 rush away I must really." 
 
 "Of course of course. Good night, Doctor 
 good night," said James Whitaker, holding out his 
 hand.
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 53 
 
 The doctor shook it warmly and bade him good; 
 night warmly. Then he hurried along the terrace, 
 down the steps and across the garden to the gate 
 opening into the park. Once in it and buried, as he 
 believed, in shades of night James Whitaker perceived 
 that the glowing end of his cigar moved more slowly. 
 He suspected that the doctor breathed the deep sigh 
 of a man who has escaped from a very awkward situ- 
 ation. He frowned deeply: plainly women were the 
 fly, or rather the flies, in the ointment.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER sat for a while longer, gaz- 
 ing out over the moonlit landscape with much 
 less pleasure. Then he rose and went gloomily into 
 the Abbey. He went gloomily to bed; and his last 
 thought was that, in view of these women, it was 
 probably a very good thing indeed that he was only 
 to play the duke for four or five days. 
 
 He awoke next morning in a far more cheerful 
 spirit. His weariness had gone; his headache had 
 gone; and he was filled with the liveliest expectation 
 of pleasant things. He found that it was only half past 
 seven, rose and drew up the blinds. The sunlight 
 came streaming into the room; and in the morning 
 haze the scene beneath his eyes was of another beauty. 
 The air was ringing with the songs of skylarks soar- 
 ing above the park, and the thrushes and blackbirds 
 and finches in the trees in the gardens. He piled his 
 pillows on the top of the cushions from the easy 
 chairs, so that he could lie and look out of the win- 
 dow, and again stretched himself out luxuriously in 
 bed. By turns he dozed and enjoyed the beauty of 
 the morning with a growing sense of luxury, till Tom- 
 kins came, bringing tea. 
 
 For the moment James Whitaker became the dealer 
 again, and appraised the old silver teapot and cream- 
 
 54
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 55 
 
 jug at at least eight dollars and seventy-five cents the 
 ounce, the old Worcester teacup and saucer at ten 
 dollars and twenty-five cents. Then only did his eye 
 begin to take its pleasure in them. But it hurt him 
 to see them in actual use, exposed to the careless 
 treatment of servants. That feeling soon passed in 
 the enjoyment of the delicate China tea, the cream, 
 and the thin, thickly-buttered slices of brown bread. 
 
 When he had finished, Tomkins brought him ciga- 
 rettes, and he smoked one with the most luxurious 
 pleasure while the valet busied himself in the dress- 
 ing-room, setting out his clothes for the morning. 
 James Whitaker accepted his suggestions about the 
 suit he should wear. Then the happy thought came 
 to him to bid Tomkins have at hand the coat which 
 had been burned by the lightning, to show to any re- 
 porters who might come down from the London papers. 
 This gave him a good pretext for explaining that the 
 lightning, striking him about the right shoulder, had 
 numbed and stiffened his arm, and had also deepened 
 his voice by stiffening the muscles of his throat. He 
 felt it to be most important that the servants should 
 have the right story. Then he bade him find a scarf 
 of some kind to make a sling for his arm. 
 
 Tomkins went to the bathroom and presently came 
 back to say that the bath was ready. James Whitaker 
 was careful to slip his feet into slippers without letting 
 Tomkins see them. He lingered in his bath, enjoying it 
 exceedingly. He had never before been in a big proce- 
 lain bath fitted with a spray and a spinal douche, and 
 he played with them. Never before had he dried
 
 56 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 himself on such a large and satisfactory bath towel. 
 He was surprised to find not only a clean shirt, but 
 also clean underlinen, or, to be exact, undersilk, set 
 out for him to wear: since the day was Thursday, it 
 looked as if the duke had had fresh underlinen every 
 day. He put on the pants and waistcoat and socks 
 with a full pleasure in their softness. 
 
 Then he put on his dressing-gown again, went to the 
 dressing-room door and said to Tomkins: "What 
 about shaving? Where are my razors?" 
 
 "I'm waiting to shave your Grace," said Tomkins. 
 
 When he had been shaved, he was careful to ask 
 Tomkins whether the lightning had made any differ- 
 ence to his skin or the growth of his beard. Tom- 
 kins assured him that it had not. In a tone of relief, 
 James Whitaker asked at what time he breakfasted. 
 He learned that there was no fixed hour, that he could 
 breakfast whenever he liked; and he bade Tomkins 
 tell Jenkinson that he would breakfast in half an hour. 
 Then he went out into the gardens and strolled about 
 them, exploring and enjoying them. The breakfast- 
 gong called him from his exploration, and he enjoyed 
 the excellent breakfast thoroughly. 
 
 He felt that Jenkinson was the proper imposing 
 person to deal with any reporters who might come; 
 and at breakfast he instructed him to see to the matter, 
 and further to see that he himself was not troubled 
 by them. After breakfast, as he smoked one of the 
 fine Coronas, he examined with loving appreciation 
 the oriental treasures in lacquer and metal and ivory 
 in the yellow drawing-room.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 57 
 
 The Abbey was indeed a glorious place, and the life 
 of a duke a glorious life. He saw that if use should 
 blunt his pleasure in the material luxuries, the count- 
 less beautiful things it held would be a joy to him for 
 years. He was of a sudden grieved by the thought 
 that in four or five days he would be leaving them 
 to another possessor, who would assuredly not ap- 
 preciate them as fully as he. 
 
 Then he betook himself to the duke's sitting-room, 
 thinking that he had better set about acquiring some 
 more knowledge to strengthen his position. He ex- 
 amined the papers in the bureau. He did not obtain 
 from them much information about his predecessor's 
 *life, but every piece of knowledge of it, however 
 trifling, he could acquire might prove useful to him. 
 Indeed, a display of knowledge of some intimate trifle 
 might easily stand him in better stead than a display 
 of knowledge of some more important matter. It was 
 hardly likely that in the four or five days he proposed 
 to remain at the Abbey he would be called upon to dis- 
 play such knowledge; yet it was always possible that 
 he might; and he went through the papers the more 
 carefully because at the back of his mind was the 
 feeling that he might change his mind and stay a week. 
 The longer he stayed the more people he would meet. 
 
 He was surprised not to find much more money in 
 the bureau. Then he bethought himself that these old 
 bureaus were nearly always fitted with secret drawers ; 
 and with his knowledge of old furniture he was not 
 long finding two of them. In the larger were one 
 hundred and sixty-five dollars in gold; in the smaller
 
 58 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 four hundred dollars in bank-notes. He left the money 
 where it was. He did not know what he would do 
 about it. With regard to the money in his pocket 
 he did not hesitate : Millicent must have some money 
 to go on with. He found a sheet of paper without an 
 address stamped on it and wrote to her that he would 
 not be home for some days, and that it was no use 
 giving her an address to write to, for he would be 
 moving about. He enclosed fifty dollars. She would 
 naturally come to the conclusion that Robert Unwin 
 had lent him the five hundred dollars. He had finished 
 the letter and addressed it when Jenkinson came to 
 him and said that Mr. Brinkman had come and was 
 in the office. 
 
 "In the office? I've forgotten where the office is, 
 iWhat a beastly nuisance this loss of memory is!" 
 growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. But Doctor Arbuthnot says that 
 you will have it back in a few days," said Jenkinson 
 in a soothing tone. "Shall I tell Mr. Brinkman to 
 come to your Grace?" 
 
 "No. I'll come along to the office. I may as well 
 know where it is," growled James Whitaker, rising. 
 
 Jenkinson led the way down-stairs, across the big 
 liall and through a door at the back of it, into a long 
 corridor, which, from the smell of cooking which 
 Came down it, plainly led to the kitchens. He opened 
 the first door on the left, and ushered James Whitaker 
 into a small room furnished as an office. A safe stood 
 in the corner, and on the shelves of a bookcase, against 
 the left-hand wall, were the ledgers in which the ac-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 59 
 
 counts of the estate were kept. At a desk on the right- 
 hand side of the room sat the steward. 
 
 ''Good morning, Brinkman," said James Whitaker, 
 in the deep husky tones he was using, and he consid- 
 ered Mr. Brinkman's face attentively, for here, prob- 
 ably, was a man of keener intelligence than the serv- 
 ants with whom he had come into contact. 
 
 "Good morning, your Grace," said the steward, 
 rising quickly, and rubbing his hands together. "I 
 hope your Grace is getting over your unfortunate ac- 
 cident. A providential escape truly providential." 
 
 James Whitaker saw that he would do well to be 
 careful of Mr. Brinkman. A lean keen-faced man 
 with shifty ferrety eyes, high cheek-bones, and thin 
 lips which closed tightly at the end of each sentence, 
 he looked acute indeed. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I was lucky," growled James Whit- 
 aker. "But it's quite bad enough as it is, with a stiff 
 arm and a stiff throat ; to say nothing of the fact that 
 it's muddled my head so abominably that I never know 
 what I am going to remember and what I am going 
 to forget." 
 
 "Dear, dear! That must be annoying, your Grace 
 very annoying indeed," said the steward sympa- 
 thetically; and James Whitaker saw a swiftly passing 
 gleam of satisfaction in his eye, as if his employer's 
 infirmity was not wholly unpleasant to him. Then he 
 went on : "But Doctor Arbuthnot says that your Grace 
 will soon recover." 
 
 "I hope so," growled James Whitaker, walking to 
 the window, thrusting his hands into his trousers
 
 60 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 pockets, and staring out of it. "Is there anything you 
 want to see me about?" 
 
 "There's only that matter of Longmeadow Farm. 
 Wyse writes that he can not possibly find the money 
 this month to pay the two quarters' rent he owes, so 
 that there is really no reason why your Grace should 
 not turn him out and let Greaves have his farm as well 
 as the River Farm. He will turn the bulk of it into 
 arable land, and increase its value." 
 
 James Whitaker felt an instant sympathy with the 
 man who could not pay his rent, and said : "Yes, but I 
 don't remember exactly. Why is it Wyse can't pay ?" 
 
 "Ah, I suppose your Grace has forgotten that he 
 runs a big milk business. He supplies half Lanchester 
 with milk; and the dry summer of last year hit him 
 very hard. In fact, he declares that it practically 
 meant three winters' running; for he has had to feed 
 his cows on hay and cake, not only for the last two 
 winters, but most of last summer as well, since there 
 was no grass. Of course, if your Grace liked to wait 
 for the rent, he is nearly sure to recover and pay off 
 the arrears, though he really did over-extend his busi- 
 ness without enough capital." 
 
 "Then why turn him out?" growled James Whit- 
 aker. 
 
 "Because Greaves is willing to pay your Grace fif- 
 teen per cent, more rent for Longmeadow Farm. In- 
 deed, it seems almost providential that Wyse should 
 have come to grief in this way." 
 
 "Fifteen per cent.? What does that come to in 
 money?" growled James Whitaker.
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 61 
 
 "Twelve hundred dollars, your Grace." 
 
 James Whitaker thought a while. He must move 
 carefully ; then he said : "Well, why haven't we turned 
 Wyse out before this?" 
 
 "Because the Wyses have lived at Longmeadow 
 Farm for over two hundred years; and your Grace 
 was hesitating because there would be a good deal of 
 unpleasant talk, and a certain amount of unpopularity 
 if he was turned out." 
 
 "Ah, yes : I remember now. I must think it over," 
 said James Whitaker, and he walked up and down the 
 room, frowning. 
 
 Then he stopped in front of the safe and looked 
 into it. On the topmost shelf were three bank-books. 
 He then took them out, and said casually: "I have 
 quite forgotten what my balance is." 
 
 He looked through the three bank-books. One of 
 them was a current account at the Lanchester bank, 
 which was evidently the estate account. There was 
 a balance in his favor of thirty-seven hundred and fif- 
 teen dollars. The second bank-book contained his 
 current account at Coutts' bank; there was a balance 
 of seventeen hundred dollars in his favor, and he 
 perceived that five thousand dollars had been paid into 
 it every month. The third bank-book contained his 
 deposit account at Coutts' bank ; and he found that he 
 had thirty-five thousand dollars on deposit there. 
 
 He put them back into the safe and said : "Twelve 
 hundred dollars are twelve hundred dollars." 
 
 "That was what your Grace said on Saturday," said 
 Mr. Brinkman quickly; and James Whitaker was
 
 62 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 thankful to him for throwing some more light on his 
 predecessor's character. 
 
 "And you advise me to clear Wyse out and let 
 Greaves have Longmeadow Farm ?" 
 
 "Certainly, your Grace certainly," said Mr. Brink- 
 man eagerly. 
 
 James Whitaker wondered how much Greaves was 
 going to pay in the way of a reward to his steward 
 if he procured Longmeadow Farm for him. He said: 
 "Well, I must think about it I must think about it. 
 Don't take any further steps in the matter till I've con- 
 sidered it." 
 
 "Certainly not, your Grace certainly not," said 
 Mr. Brinkman quickly, but he looked pleased, as if he 
 thought the matter settled as he wished it. 
 
 James Whitaker left him and walked down the cor- 
 ridor into the great kitchen at the end of it. His sud- 
 den appearance produced something of a flurry. The 
 chef, who was sitting in an easy chair, apparently giv- 
 ing instructions to his staff, sprang to his feet and 
 bowed gracefully, and said : "Bon jour, Monsieur le 
 Due" His assistants, a younger Frenchman and three 
 buxom young women, gathered behind him, bowing 
 or courtesying. 
 
 James Whitaker waved his hand graciously and 
 said: "It's all right it's all right. Don't disturb 
 yourselves." 
 
 He looked slowly round the great, airy, clean 
 kitchen, so spick and span, and bright with burnished 
 copper .vessels, turned and came out of it. 
 
 He walked back to his study and sat down to con-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 63 
 
 sider this matter of business which needed dealing 
 with. He felt that during the four or five days he pro- 
 posed to stay at the Abbey he must by no means neg- 
 lect the estate. Twelve hundred dollars a year 
 was a considerable sum of money, a comfortable in- 
 come, indeed. But his sympathy was with Wyse, the 
 man who could not pay his rent by no fault of his own. 
 The question whether it was worth a duke's while to 
 incur odium for a matter of twelve hundred dol- 
 lars a year suddenly presented itself as of the 
 greatest importance. He could not think that it was 
 worth a duke's while. Perhaps before deciding the 
 matter, it would be well to see what kind of a man 
 Wyse was. If he seemed the right kind of man he 
 could signalize his stay at Lanchester Abbey by secur- 
 ing him in the possession of his farm. 
 
 He pressed the bell; and when Jenkinson came, he 
 said : "I've got a motor-car, haven't I ? I'm hanged 
 if I can remember for certain!" 
 
 "Two, your Grace two," said Jenkinson quickly. 
 
 "Well, I want one of them." 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. Will you have the touring car 
 or the racing car, and shall Salmon or Hibbert drive 
 you?" 
 
 "The touring car and Hibbert," said James Whit- 
 aker, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 In about ten minutes a footman came to say that the 
 car was at the door. 
 
 James Whitaker went down-stairs and found Jen- 
 kinson awaiting him with a motor-cap and a light 
 motor-coat. He was careful to keep his arm stiff as;
 
 64 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Jenkinson helped him into it, and put on the sling 
 again. Then he went down the steps to the car and 
 said : "Drive me to Longmeadow Farm," and stepped 
 into the tonneau. 
 
 He had never been in a motor-car before; and he 
 found it delightful. But before it reached the park 
 gates it was rushing along at a speed which he found 
 excessive and unpleasant. 
 
 When it came out of the park he shouted to Hib- 
 bert: "Go slower a great deal slower!" 
 
 Hibbert turned his head and looked at him with an 
 expression of such lively surprise as made it plain to 
 James Whitaker that the late duke had been fond of 
 scorching. Also he observed, as they ran through the 
 village of Little Lanchester, that two or three women 
 stood in the gardens or the doorways of their cot- 
 tages, holding small children, hastily rescued from the 
 roadway, with anxious troubled faces. He gathered 
 from their looks that the late duke had been disliked 
 by them. For the moment he thought that he might 
 well set about changing that feeling ; then he perceived 
 that it could not be changed in the time he would be at 
 the Abbey. The car was now going at a slower, en- 
 tirely enjoyable pace, and presently it turned into the 
 garden of an old, red-brick, gabled farmhouse, and 
 stopped before the door. 
 
 He stepped out of the car, and said with some sever- 
 ity to Hibbert : "Don't scorch like that again." 
 
 Hibbert looked at him with an air of the liveliest 
 surprise, flushed and stammered : "B-b-but your 
 G-G-Grace always likes me to g-g-go fast."
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 65 
 
 James Whitaker saw that he had made a slip, and 
 hesitated; then he growled: "Not just after I've been 
 struck by lightning, and have my arm in a sling." 
 
 As he turned to the front door it opened; and a 
 pretty girl (he saw at the first glance that she was a 
 very pretty girl, with uncommonly fine dark eyes and 
 an admirable complexion) made to come out, and 
 then at the sight of him, started back, with a very odd 
 expression. As he raised his cap, ungracefully enough, 
 he looked into her eyes and filled with the amazing 
 feeling that she knew his secret. He almost laughed 
 out at the absurdity of the fancy. 
 
 She -bowed slightly, seemed to recover herself, said 
 over her shoulder: "Good-by, Cissie," came out of 
 the house, passed him and walked down the drive. 
 
 He turned and looked after her : her slim graceful 
 figure and light easy walk pleased his eye. At the 
 gate she half turned and looked back at him, then went 
 on quickly. He turned to find another girl standing 
 in the doorway, looking at him with an air of surprise. 
 She, too, was pretty; but her prettiness did not make 
 the impression on him that that of the other girl had 
 done. 
 
 "Miss Wyse, isn't it?" he said, making a shot at it. 
 "May I see your father?" 
 
 "He's he's somewhere in the d-d-dairies. If your 
 G-Grace will come in, I'll send for him at once," she 
 said, stammering a little and flushing faintly in her 
 nervousness. 
 
 He came into a cool hall, fragrant with two bowls 
 full of roses set on a high old oak chest; and she led
 
 66 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 him to a prettily, simply furnished drawing-room, as 
 fragrant with flowers as the hall, and left him. On 
 the instant his dealer's eye began to appraise the fur- 
 niture and ornaments in it. 
 
 He shook himself and went to the window. Before 
 his eyes stretched the valley of the Wyper from an- 
 other point of view, affording nearly as beautiful a 
 prospect, though not so wide, as that from the terrace 
 of the Abbey itself. Below him lay the village nestling 
 among its trees. 
 
 He stood gazing at the prospect, admiring it with 
 a grateful sense of possession till the door opened and 
 Mr. Wyse came in. James Whitaker turned, looked 
 at him keenly and liked his looks. He had a shrewd 
 intelligent face, deeply tanned ; and he looked to possess 
 the energy and acumen to make a business pay. But 
 also he looked worried, harassed, under the weather. 
 That air of being under the weather, so like the air he 
 had himself been wearing, won James Whitaker's 
 heart; and he held out his hand. Wyse took it with 
 an air of surprise, respectfully, but without warmth. 
 
 James Whitaker perceived that he had made a mis- 
 take in offering it: the late duke had not been used 
 to shake hands with his tenants; but he said with an 
 unruffled air: "Good morning, Mr. Wyse. I thought 
 I should like to see you myself about this matter of 
 your rent, and hear what you have to say about it." 
 
 Mr. Wyse's face brightened a little as he said: "I 
 never expected to get the chance of talking it over with 
 your Grace." 
 
 But he did not look very hopeful.
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 67 
 
 "Well, of course I don't know much about busi- 
 ness," said James Whitaker. "What I want to know 
 is, when do you think you would be able to pay it?" 
 
 "Well, it's like this, your Grace," said Wyse; and 
 his face brightened yet more as a dim prospect of pos- 
 sible relief opened before him. "I could raise the 
 money now, on my stock and the business, but at such 
 a ruinous rate of interest that I should be crippled foil 
 years. What I was thinking was that if Mr. Brink > 
 I mean your Grace wouldn't give me time to pay 
 these arrears, it would be better to cut my losses, sell 
 the business and enough of my stock to pay my debts 
 and make a fresh start. I should have enough stock 
 left for a smaller farm on the other side of Lanchester ; 
 and I could build up another business in time." 
 
 "I see," said James Whitaker. "But if you didn't 
 sell your business, how long would it take you to re- 
 cover enough to pay off these arrears of rent?" 
 
 The farmer frowned thoughtfully, and said : "Well, 
 if the business goes on as it's doing at present, your 
 Grace, I could clear them off easily in a year. But 
 supposing it went off a bit, I couldn't safely undertake 
 to have them paid off in less than eighteen months." 
 
 "But suppose there's another dry summer?" 
 
 "There isn't, your Grace. We have had enough rain 
 already to insure plenty of keep for the rest of the 
 summer, and we're going to have more. Besides, 
 I've made over a hundred tons of hay." 
 
 "I see I see," said James Whitaker thoughtfully. 
 "And of course, the Wyses have held the farm for the 
 last two hundred years."
 
 68 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Two hundred and thirty-three years, your Grace 
 two hundred and thirty-three," said the farmer with 
 an air of pride. 
 
 "Ah, yes, I was forgetting that extra thirty-three 
 years. Getting struck -by that confounded stroke of 
 lightning has muddled my head so. Well, Mr. Wyse, 
 you needn't worry any more about these arrears ; you 
 can have the eighteen months to clear them off in. 
 I'll send you a letter to that effect." 
 
 The farmer's face brightened till it fairly shone; 
 and he cried: "I always said that your Grace wasn't 
 as bad " He pulled himself up, flushing and in a 
 confusion. Then he added, stammering: "I I mean 
 that I'm very much obliged to your Grace very much 
 obliged indeed. I don't quite know how to tell your 
 Grace how obliged I am." 
 
 "Not at all not at all," said James Whitaker pleas- 
 antly ; then, looking squarely and keenly into the farm- 
 er's eyes, he added: "By the way, do you happen 
 to know how much Greaves was going to give Brink- 
 man if he got your farm ?" 
 
 Mr. Wyse looked at him in an astonishment indeed 
 blank, and said rather faintly: "Well, your Grace, I 
 did happen to hear that it was to be twelve hundred 
 and fifty dollars." 
 
 "I thought you were the kind of man who would 
 happen to hear," said James Whitaker ; and he chuck- 
 led. Then he added: "Well, I'm very glad to have 
 settled the matter in a satisfactory way. Good morn- 
 ing, Mr. Wyse." 
 
 The farmer shook hands with him, this time warmly
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 69 
 
 enough, and walked with him to the front door with 
 a beaming face. James Whitaker bade Hibbert drive 
 him home, and on reaching the Abbey betook himself 
 straight to the office. 
 
 As he entered it Mr. Brinkman once more started 
 up, rubbing his hands. 
 
 "I've just been to Longmeadow Farm and seen 
 Wyse, and I've decided to give him eighteen months 
 to clear off his arrears of rent. Just write a letter 
 to say so, will you, and send it up for me to sign. 
 Wyse seemed to think that a letter was the proper way 
 to do it," said James Whitaker. 
 
 He did not know how much about business methods 
 his predecessor had known, and he thought it well that 
 Wyse should be responsible for this letter. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's face fell in the most ludicrous 
 fashion, and he glared at his employer in angry as- 
 tonishment. His eyes flashed, and his thin lips bared 
 his teeth in an angry snarl. Then he cried : "But, 
 your Grace! It's it's losing an opportunity you may 
 not get again for years ! A truly providential chance ! 
 A clear twelve hundred a year and an improving 
 property !" 
 
 James Whitaker drew himself up, scowling at him 
 darkly, a very formidable figure, and growled: "Do 
 as I tell you will you ?" 
 
 He turned on his heel, went out of the room and 
 banged the door behind him. Mr. Brinkman dropped 
 heavily on to his chair. 
 
 James Whitaker went back to the car and bade Hib- 
 bert drive him to Lanchester ; and since Hibbert knew
 
 70 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 now the pace at which he liked to be driven, he en- 
 joyed the drive exceedingly. He was full of satisfac- 
 tion with himself for having secured Wyse in the pos- 
 session of Longmeadow Farm; he had a feeling, for 
 which he could have found no reasonable grounds, 
 that the action in some degree justified his assump- 
 tion of the title ; and it was a comforting feeling. 
 
 When he came into Lanchester he kept his eyes 
 about him for people who greeted him, and gave them 
 back the greeting they gave him: a man in a motor- 
 car waved his hand, he waved his ; several men touched 
 their hats to him, he touched his. Only once did he 
 have to raise his hat to a lady, who bowed to him from 
 a pony-cart. He went into the post-office and bought 
 a dollar and a half's worth of postage-stamps, changing 
 one of his fifty-dollar notes. As he posted the letter to 
 Millicent with the fifty dollars in notes in it, he was 
 inclined to feel that he had earned them by his service 
 to the reputation of the next Duke of Lanchester in 
 the matter of Wyse. 
 
 Then, as he stepped back into the car, he said to 
 Hibbert: "Don't go straight home, take as long a 
 round as you can, so as to get me home in time for 
 lunch." 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. Which way would your Grace 
 like to go?" 
 
 "How do I know? Don't you know I've lost my 
 memory?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 Hibbert made a circuit of about twenty-five miles, 
 driving him back to the Abbey, and James Whitaker 
 lay back in a very pleasant laziness. He felt that he
 
 LWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 71 
 
 had already done his day's work, and might now take 
 his pleasure with an easy mind. But when he entered 
 the great hall he received a shock, for Jenkinson said 
 to him : 
 
 "If you please, your Grace, Lady Cubbington and 
 Sir Richard Starton and Mr. and Mrs. Lowther have 
 motored over to lunch." 
 
 James Whitaker hesitated for a moment, then he 
 growled: "Oh, have they? Where are they?" 
 
 "Well, as your Grace hadn't come in, they thought 
 they'd like to play a rubber before lunch, and they're 
 playing in the blue drawing-room, because Sir Rich- 
 ard said it was the prettiest room in the house." 
 
 "Oh, are they?" growled James Whitaker.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AS Jenkinson slipped off James Whitaker's coat he 
 ,/Y.told him that Doctor Arbuthnot had also called 
 and that three newspaper reporters had come from 
 London. Doctor Arbuthnot had seemed very pleased 
 that he had not thought it worth while to stay at home 
 to see him. The reporters had been told the story, 
 shown the scorched coat, and gone away content. 
 
 James Whitaker went up-stairs with his heart beat- 
 ing quickly at the thought of the ordeal before him: 
 so much would depend on how he came through it. 
 These visitors had indeed taken him by surprise; it 
 had been his firm intention to see none of the friends 
 of the late duke during the four or five days of his stay 
 at the Abbey; he had never foreseen an invasion of 
 this kind. He washed away the dust of his drive 
 slowly, letting his pulse resume its normal beat, re- 
 gaining complete control of his nerves. When he found 
 that he was quite master of himself, he came slowly 
 down-stairs and went to the blue drawing-room. 
 
 His guests were playing at a table set in the big win- 
 dow at the end of the room. Absorbed in their game, 
 they did not see him enter, and when he came up to 
 the table only one of them, a slim man with indolent, 
 
 72
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 73 
 
 half -closed dark-brown eyes, dark-haired and rather 
 pale, greeted him. 
 
 He drawled: "How are you, Lanchester?" 
 
 James Whitaker perceived that his fear of them had 
 been excessive. 
 
 Their absorption gave him time to study them. One 
 of the women was fair, golden-haired, blue-eyed, with 
 a very clear pink-and-white skin and delicate features ; 
 the other was dark, coarse-skinned, thick-lipped and 
 blunt-nosed. He made up his mind that she was Mrs. 
 Lowther. It was the fair woman who attracted him, 
 even doubtless as she had attracted his dead double: 
 she must be Lady Cubbington. The other man was 
 fair, ruddy and snub-nosed, a very common English 
 type. 
 
 Then the hand came to an end, and they all greeted 
 him together, noisily. 
 
 Then the dark slim man said : "What's this we hear 
 about your having been struck by lightning and lost 
 your memory, Lanchester?" 
 
 "It's true enough," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "You've lost your memory?" cried the fair woman. 
 
 "And I've got a stiff arm and my throat muscles 
 are so stiff it's a nuisance to speak," growled James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 "Yes, Jenkinson told us you got struck about the 
 chest. He was showing one of those newspaper fel- 
 lows your burned coat when we came in," said the 
 snub-nosed man. 
 
 "Surely you haven't forgotten Anne?" cried the 
 dark woman, laughing.
 
 74 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 James Whitaker saw the fair woman flush faintly, 
 and he said quickly : "Of course I haven't. That isn't 
 the kind of thing one forgets." 
 
 "Some people have more of that kind of thing to 
 remember than others," said the dark man, and he 
 laughed gently. 
 
 "Don't try to score off an invalid, Sir Richard. It 
 isn't fair," said the dark woman. 
 
 "I wouldn't score off any invalid but Lanchester, 
 Mrs. Lowther. Well or ill, there's no getting at him." 
 
 James Whitaker could now place every one: the 
 snub-nosed man must be Mr. Lowther. 
 
 They rose, clamoring for lunch, and Lady Cubbing- 
 ton walked -beside James Whitaker down the room and 
 across the hall, plying him with questions: How did 
 it feel to be struck by lightning? How did it feel to 
 lose your memory? Was his arm very stiff? Was it 
 very painful to speak? She hardly waited for an an- 
 swer to a question ; and he was obliged to her. Lunch 
 was less of an ordeal than he had expected. Lady Cub- 
 bington and Mrs. Lowther talked all the time. Sir 
 Richard Starton now and again threw in a few words 
 which spurred them to fresh efforts ; Mr. Lowther at- 
 tended strictly to his lunch. James Whitaker was not 
 once troubled by an awkward question; it was plain 
 that, like himself, his double had not been garrulous; 
 and all his share in the talk was now and again a 
 growl or a vague murmur. His stiff arm excused 
 any awkwardness in his table manners. But all the 
 while he listened with all his ears, sifting the talk, 
 storing up in his excellent memory every piece of in-
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 75 
 
 formation which might prove useful. The only thing 
 that vexed him was that the effort prevented him from 
 enjoying his lunch to the full. 
 
 After lunch, as soon as they had drunk their coffee, 
 they went back to the drawing-room and again began 
 their auction bridge. They invited him to play, offer- 
 ing to spare his arm by dealing for him; but he re- 
 fused on the ground that his head seemed quite hazy 
 about the game. However, he sat down beside the 
 table and watched them play. But he kept his chief 
 attention for Lady Cubbington; she attracted him. 
 The game seemed to him obscure and difficult ; and he 
 resolved to read carefully a book on it before he at- 
 tempted to play it. 
 
 When the rubber came to an end he growled in a 
 cheerful tone: "I've forgotten every blessed thing 
 about the game !" 
 
 The statement produced an outburst of exclama- 
 tions of surprise and regret. Sir Richard Starton and 
 Mrs. Lowther declared that such a fine player as he 
 had been would soon pick it up again. This compliment 
 to his skill at bridge was the first good he had heard 
 about his predecessor. 
 
 Then they decided that they must begin at once to 
 teach it to him, and as they played, they did so. Their 
 explanations penetrated his mind none the more easily 
 in that they all gave them at the same time. Still, the 
 theory of the game did penetrate it. 
 
 He watched them for rather more than half an 
 hour, then he arose, sauntered about the gardens, 
 brilliant in the blazing sunshine, for a while, and then
 
 76 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 went up to his study. On the bureau he found the let- 
 ter he had ordered Mr. Brinkman to write to Wyse. 
 He sat down, took the late duke's check out of his 
 pocket, and practised writing the signature, "John 
 Lanchester." At the end of ten minutes' work, he 
 had covered two sheets of note-paper ; then he signed 
 the letter in a fashion which quite satisfied him. He 
 struck a match and carefully burned in the empty 
 grate the two sheets of note-paper he had covered with 
 signatures. Then he rang for Jenkinson, and gave in- 
 structions that the letter was to be taken to Long- 
 meadow Farm at once. It pleased him greatly to 
 have settled the destiny of the Wyses ; it was gratify- 
 ing to his sense of power. 
 
 He was in no hurry to return to his busy guests ; as- 
 suredly they were in no need of him. He unlocked 
 the bottom drawer of the bureau, and took out the let- 
 ters which Lady Cubbington had written to the dead 
 duke. After her conversation at lunch he had no 
 qualms about exploring the secrets of her heart: he 
 felt that it was not the kind of heart to hold sacred 
 secrets. Besides, had he had any qualms, the neces- 
 sity of securing his safety would have made him dis- 
 regard them. There were, as he had expected, no 
 very intimate outpourings of the heart in the letters. 
 The lady never grew fonder in her address to his 
 predecessor than "Dear John." Indeed, it seemed to 
 him that they had been engaged in no more than a 
 warm flirtation. None the less, he was Shocked to 
 discover from the letters that Lord Cubbington was 
 alive. He seemed, however, from what his wife said
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 77 
 
 about him, to be about seventy years of age and in a 
 state of doddering idiocy. In the strict eyes of James 
 Whitaker that did not palliate the painful fact of his 
 existence. He was somewhat comforted, however, to 
 find certain useful scraps of information which he 
 stored carefully in his excellent memory. 
 
 He put away the letters and returned gloomily to 
 his guests. Their interest in their game had not 
 waned at all; and they took very little notice of him. 
 Now and again the player who was dummy for the 
 time being would talk to him, with half of his, or her, 
 mind on the hand being played. James Whitaker was 
 annoyed; he felt he was wasting one of his splendid 
 afternoons (there would only be four or five of them) 
 watching a tedious game, when he. should have been 
 enjoying his art treasures or his beautiful estate. It 
 was of little comfort to him that, in the intervals of 
 her strenuous play, Lady Cubbington looked at him 
 with very kind eyes. 
 
 After a while he rose, sauntered across the terrace, 
 down the steps and out of the gardens into the park. 
 Here he had the English country in all its perfection; 
 and it charmed him. Also, as he walked, his sense of 
 proprietorship grew; and he admired his fine oaks, 
 his graceful deer and the charming scenes presented 
 by his winding, rippling trout-stream in a whole- 
 hearted fashion. It was nearly five o'clock when he 
 dragged himself away from this pleasure and returned 
 to his guests. He found them finishing a rubber and 
 Jenkinson and a footman setting out tea on a table 
 near them. At the end of the rubber, they rose and
 
 78 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 came to the table, relieved apparently to be able to 
 stretch themselves after their hard work. As they 
 drank their tea they discussed, with every show of 
 interest, hands, calls, leaves and doubles. 
 
 Presently, however, Lady Cubbington began to talk 
 to James Whitaker, telling him what she had been 
 doing, saying and wearing during the last three days. 
 After tea, still talking, she drew him insensibly to one 
 of the long windows, through it and out into the gar- 
 den. When they passed behind the screen of a shrub- 
 bery she drew nearer to him, almost nestling against 
 him. He knew that he ought to fall into the part his 
 predecessor had played ; but the thought that she was 
 a married woman hampered him. He knew that it was 
 unwise, but he edged away from her unhappily. 
 
 She had almost edged him off the path when she 
 stopped, frowning, and cried half angrily, half plain- 
 tively : "You have forgotten me !" 
 
 James Whitaker pulled himself together and 
 growled : 
 
 "No, I haven't." 
 
 "Then why do you keep edging away from me? 
 Why don't you kiss me ?" cried Lady Cubbington, and 
 her blue eyes flashed at him. 
 
 "I was just going to," growled James Whitaker 
 firmly but quite untruthfully. 
 
 With that he put his left arm around her clumsily 
 and administered a peck at her left cheek. 
 
 She gasped, shook herself free of his arm and cried : 
 "What a kiss! I believe that beastly lightning has 
 made you forget me !"
 
 DUKEDOM 79 
 
 James Whitaker could see nothing wrong with the 
 kiss; it was exactly the kind of kiss he was wont to 
 administer to Millicent But he said hastily : 
 
 "No, no : it isn't you I've forgotten ; it's kissing. I 
 I seem to have lost the knack of it." 
 
 A sudden expression of suspicion filled Lady Cub- 
 bington's face, and she cried : "I know what it is ! 
 You've been seeing Emily again!" 
 
 "I haven't!" cried James Whitaker, with a warm 
 convincing indignation, which came the easier to him 
 since he was speaking the truth. He did not indeed 
 know who Emily was. 
 
 "You'd better not!" she said with a slightly molli- 
 fied air. 
 
 From the other side of the screen of shrubs came 
 the voice of Sir Richard Starton calling her back to 
 bridge. 
 
 "Kiss me properly be quick !" she cried, and turned 
 her charming face up to him. 
 
 It went sorely against the grain, but James Whit- 
 aker set his teeth, stooped and kissed her full on the 
 lips. He felt that his safety demanded it. Also, ex- 
 cept from the strictly moral point of view, he did not 
 find it at all unpleasant. 
 
 She turned to go back to the house, saying: "If 
 I find you don't really care for me, you needn't think 
 I'll marry you when when I'm a widow." 
 
 So that was the arrangement which had subsisted 
 between her and his predecessor. James Whitaker 
 followed her into the drawing-room with an easier 
 heart : it would be easy to see less and less of her and
 
 8o WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 to let the arrangement lapse. Yet he could not help 
 feeling annoyed by this necessity: he felt that he 
 would have liked to grow more intimate with her. 
 She had attracted his dead double ; it was only natural 
 that she should attract him. For the moment he had 
 forgotten that the four or five days he proposed to 
 remain at the Abbey were not long enough for him to 
 grow intimate with any one. His guests returned to 
 their game with unabated earnestness ; and he left them 
 to it. It was now cooler out-of-doors and even more 
 enjoyable. He strolled up and down the terrace, smok- 
 ing peacefully, enjoying the fresh air, the sunlight, 
 the cigar, the singing of the birds and the beautiful 
 scene which stretched before his eyes. Now and 
 again he paused at the window of the blue drawing- 
 room and feasted his eyes on Lady Cubbington's face. 
 As he walked he considered his short interview with 
 her. Undoubtedly it was a pity that he must not grow 
 more intimate with her. Then suddenly he began to 
 think of the pretty girl who had come out of Long- 
 meadow Farm that morning, and of her strange glance 
 which had given him the curious feeling that she knew 
 his secret. She was undoubtedly far prettier, or 
 rather far more beautiful, than Lady Cubbington. It 
 was strange that though he had seen Lady Cubbing- 
 ton so lately, and for so much longer a time than he 
 had seen the girl, the girl's face was far clearer to 
 his mind than that of Lady Cubbington. He went 
 back to the window and again examined it carefully. 
 At about half past six Sir Richard Starton called
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 81 
 
 to him that they were going home; and he went to 
 them. He accompanied them to the front of the 
 Abbey, and down the steps to the large motor-car 
 which awaited them. 
 
 As she was stepping into the car Lady Cubbington 
 said, over her shoulder: "Then we'll see you to-mor- 
 row night, Duke?" 
 
 "Where ?" said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Why, at the Grange, of course !" she cried. "You're 
 dining with us; and the Levingtons and Crawleighs 
 are coming; and we're going to play baccarat after 
 dinner." 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course. That beastly lightning had 
 driven it clean out of my mind," said James Whitaker 
 quickly. 
 
 He walked up the steps feeling content with him- 
 self. It was true that his guests had not given them- 
 selves many opportunities of discovering that he was 
 not the duke; but they had not discovered it. That 
 was the main thing. They were much less likely to 
 discover it at a later meeting than at the first. 
 
 He went back to the blue drawing-room to examine 
 a cabinet full of Chelsea figures. He had not dared 
 to examine them while his guests were in the room; 
 it might have been the very last thing in the world 
 his predecessor would have done. He could now take 
 his time over it and enjoy them at his ease. He had 
 taken half a dozen of the figures out of the cabinet, 
 and set them on the card-table in the full light of the 
 window, and was admiring the beauty of the paste
 
 82 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 and coloring, when Jenkinson entered, bearing a letter 
 on a silver salver. James Whitaker took it, opened 
 it and read: 
 
 "Miss Carton presents her compliments to the Duke 
 of Lanchester, and begs to say that she wishes to see 
 him on a private matter of the most urgent importance. 
 She will be on the park bridge at nine o'clock." 
 
 The letter surprised him; it was even something 
 of a shock. His first natural thought was that here 
 was another lady with whom his apparently indefat- 
 igable predecessor had been on intimate terms. Of 
 course it must be the daughter of the vicar; he re- 
 membered that his name was Carton. 
 
 Then of a sudden it flashed on him that Miss Carton 
 was the girl who had come out of Longmeadow Farm 
 that morning, and given him that curious glance. She 
 did know his secret. He was sure of it. He swore 
 softly under his breath. 
 
 Then he said to Jenkinson : "Who brought this 
 note?" 
 
 "It was sent up from the vicarage, your Grace. And 
 the vicar's gardener is waiting for an answer," said 
 Jenkinson. 
 
 James Whitaker hesitated. Politeness demanded 
 that he should write an answer to the note. Prudence 
 forbade his doing anything of the kind. Doubtless 
 the girl would be delighted to have a specimen of his 
 handwriting. 
 
 Then he said to Jenkinson: "Say that I shall be 
 charmed."
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 83 
 
 "Yes, your Grace," said Jenkinson; and he departed 
 to take the message. 
 
 James Whitaker thrust his hands into his trousers 
 pockets, and stared out of the window, frowning, for 
 a couple of minutes. Then he returned to his con- 
 sideration of the Chelsea figures. They occupied him 
 till it was time to go to dress for dinner. 
 
 He did not hurry over his dinner and he drank 
 nearly a bottle of champagne with it. He was careful 
 to draw the greatest possible pleasure from them : they 
 might so easily, if his suspicion were correct, be the 
 last he would enjoy at the Abbey. He was resolved, 
 however, to do his best to out- face the young lady: 
 he was not going to lose the four or five days' pleasure 
 he had promised himself without a fight. Then he 
 thought that possibly he was quite wrong in his be- 
 lief; for if the girl had really discovered his secret, 
 why had she kept it to herself? He did not hurry 
 over his coffee; and since it might easily be the last 
 he would drink at the Abbey, he had another cup of it 
 and two glasses of the '65 brandy. He did not think, 
 however, that he would have to fly on the instant, 
 whatever she might know, and therefore he did not 
 change into a tweed suit. He would have time to do 
 that later, if he must fly. 
 
 He walked down to the bridge in an expectancy al- 
 most pleasant. He was eager to meet the pretty crea- 
 ture. Yet, deep as was the impression her charming 
 face had made on him, he could scarcely expect his 
 interview with her to be pleasant, if his suspicions 
 were correct. None the less, he crossed the park in
 
 84 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 an increasing exaltation of spirit. He turned sharply 
 to the left to the bridge; and as he stepped on to it, 
 he saw indeed the pretty girl who had come out of 
 Longmeadow Farm that morning, leaning upon the 
 parapet. 
 
 At the sound of his footsteps she turned sharply 
 toward him. He walked up to her briskly, and held 
 out his left hand (his right hand was still in the sling) 
 and said : "How do you do, Miss Carton ?" 
 
 The girl started back with an air of surprise at his 
 easy unembarrassed greeting. 
 
 "Ripping night: isn't it?" said James Whitaker in 
 happy imitation of the manner and talk of his guests 
 of the afternoon. "What was the urgent matter you 
 wanted to see me about?" 
 
 The girl looked even more taken aback ; but she 
 said with some firmness : "You know quite well." 
 
 "Do I?" said James Whitaker, with a puzzled air. 
 "I'm sorry; but getting struck by that lightning yes- 
 terday has muddled my head so that I've quite forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 "That's just it that being struck by lightning! I 
 was on the top of Oak Tree Knoll during the thun- 
 der-storm yesterday," she cried, with a touch of tri- 
 umph in her tone. 
 
 "Yes?" said James Whitaker, with a good air of 
 bewilderment. 
 
 "Oh, it's no good your pretending you don't under- 
 stand !" she cried scornfully. "I tell you I was under 
 the oak . . . sheltering in the hollow part of 
 it ... on the opposite side to you . . ,.,
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 85 
 
 I must have been there when you were struck. . . ., 
 Only I thought that the lightning had struck the 
 tree. . . :. Then when the storm was clearing 
 away, I came out of it ; and as I came round the trunk, 
 I saw two men, one of them lying on the ground, and 
 the other sitting up and rubbing his head. 
 It never occurred to me that you'd been struck by 
 lightning ... I thought you'd been fighting. 
 
 You looked as if you'd been fighting; 
 and I was rather frightened. . . . You might 
 have killed the other man; he was lying on his face. 
 
 So I kept behind the trunk, just peeping 
 with one eye ; and I watched to see what would hap- 
 pen. ... I saw you lift up the other man ; and 
 his face was more dreadful than yours; and I was 
 more frightened than ever. . . . And then I 
 saw you look at the letters in his pocket, and take his 
 cigarette-case out, and light a cigarette. 
 And then you walked about a bit . . and you 
 
 were frowning and scowling, and looking horrible. 
 
 I didn't dare to come out. And then you 
 picked him up, and started to carry him into the 
 bushes. . . . And when you picked him up I 
 recognized the duke. . . . Not by his face, but 
 by his clothes. ... I had seen him wearing them 
 when he passed the vicarage after lunch. 
 And you carried him into the bushes, and I didn't 
 know what to do. . . .1 thought you might 
 come back at any moment; and if you saw me and 
 knew that I had seen you kill the duke, you would 
 probably kill me as well or try to. ... Even
 
 86 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 then it didn't occur to me that you'd been struck 
 by lightning. ,., ... : ., And I waited and waited. 
 .. . . There's only that one path down from the 
 
 knoll to the village. . . . And then you did 
 
 come back, carrying the duke again. . ... . And 
 
 I saw you'd changed clothes with him; and it flashed 
 
 on me that you were going to pretend to be the duke. 
 
 Then you went away; and this time I 
 
 knew you'd gone for good. ... . . Then I came 
 
 out from behind the oak; and when I saw the duke's 
 face close to, so scorched and twisted, I saw that he'd 
 been struck by lightning." She stopped, shuddering, 
 and added: "Oh, it was dreadful." 
 
 At first James Whitaker was exceedingly annoyed 
 to find that his fancy about the girl had not been 
 absurd. But presently his annoyance was lost in the 
 pleasure of watching the quick-changing expressions 
 come and go in her animated face, so clear in the 
 moonlight, and of hearing her delightful voice. Then 
 his chief feeling became a strong curiosity to know 
 why she had not gone straight to the police. 
 
 "Why didn't you go and tell people this extraor- 
 dinary story at once?" he said quickly, and in a tone 
 of genuine curiosity, when she came to the end of 
 her tale. 
 
 She knitted her brow, and said more slowly : "Well, 
 I did start off intending to tell Murgatroyd he's our 
 policeman here, you know. But then it occurred to 
 me that it would be so interesting to see what you'd 
 do. And it was so exciting to be the only person to 
 know about it all. There didn't seem any hurry to
 
 kWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 87 
 
 tell people. I could always tell when I wanted to. 
 You don't know how dull it is in Little Lanchester. 
 And it was so amusing and exciting." 
 
 "That wasn't any excuse for not going straight to 
 the police," said James Whitaker in a tone of cold 
 disapproval. 
 
 "I like you saying that!" cried Miss Carton, with 
 some heat. "Besides, I tell you I didn't want to go 
 to them. I wanted to see what you'd do. I could 
 always go to the police when I wanted to. I can now." 
 
 James Whitaker laughed gently and said: "And 
 do you think they'd believe your extraordinary story? 
 You knew the duke. You can see for yourself that I 
 am the duke." 
 
 "Oh, the likeness is wonderful," she said frankly. 
 "When you came out of those bushes carrying him, 
 I thought you were the duke, that for some reason or 
 other you'd changed clothes with the man and just 
 changed back again." 
 
 "Well, why not?" he said quickly. 
 
 She shook her head: "Oh, no," she said with con- 
 viction. "When Doctor Arbuthnot told us that you'd 
 lost your memory, it settled it. I was quite sure before 
 that you weren't the duke; but that settled it. And 
 of course when you agreed to let Mr. Wyse stop on 
 at Longmeadow Farm, that settled it absolutely: the 
 duke would never have done anything half so decent." 
 
 "You don't know how being struck by lightning 
 changes one's character," said James Whitaker quickly. 
 
 "It's no good your talking like that ; what the light- 
 ning changed was the duke's face," she said firmly.
 
 88 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "But it hasn't changed my face. You can see for 
 yourself," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "It's no good your talking like that ! I know you're 
 not the duke!" she cried. 
 
 James Whitaker gazed at her face thoughtfully, 
 with a great deal of pleasure. 
 
 "Well, when are you going to tell your extraor- 
 dinary story to the police ?" he said. 
 
 She knitted her brow again, gazing at him earnestly, 
 then she said : "I've changed my mind about that." 
 
 "You have?" he said quickly. 
 
 "Yes, your letting Mr. Wyse stop on at Long- 
 meadow (the Wyses are our oldest friends) made a 
 lot of difference. If you are going to do things like 
 that, you'll be a much better duke than the duke's 
 brother, who is the heir. He is a perfectly hateful 
 person worse than his brother." Even in the paling 
 moonlight he saw that her face darkened in an angry 
 flush ; and she frowned darkly. "So I've made up my 
 mind not to tell the police about it." 
 
 "You have?" he said quickly. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate ; and then she said in a small 
 uncomfortable voice : "But there's a condition." 
 
 "A condition? What condition?" 
 
 "On the c-c-condition t-t-that I'm I'm a d-d-duch- 
 ess! You must marry me!" she stammered quickly. 
 
 "Marry you !" cried James Whitaker, in a tone of 
 the blankest astonishment. 
 
 "Yes," she said in a more assured voice. "I know 
 it sounds odd, but you don't know what a hateful 
 place Little Lanchester is. I'm not going to be tied
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 89 
 
 to it all my life. I won't be. I want to go about the 
 world, to travel and see things to meet nice people. 
 But how am I to do it? I'm not clever enough to go 
 on the stage, which is one way. And I can't write, 
 because I've tried. Of course, I could be a companion 
 to a lady, but what's the good of that? I shouldn't 
 enjoy things that way. But your coming like this, 
 taking the duke's place why, it seems almost provi- 
 dential!" 
 
 It seemed to James Whitaker that people at Little 
 Lanchester had strange ideas about what was provi- 
 dential. But he saw that it was still possible to get 
 his four or five days' uninterrupted pleasure at the 
 Abbey : he had only to temporize. 
 
 "Well, you can't expect me to accept such a strange 
 proposal at a moment's notice," he said. 
 
 "I'm not proposing!" she cried with some heat. 
 "I'm telling you what you've got to do." 
 
 "Of course of course," said James Whitaker in 
 a soothing tone. "But the matter requires careful 
 consideration all the same. Suppose after we were mar- 
 ried we found we didn't suit each other? We should 
 only be unhappy." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean being married seriously. What 
 I meant was just being married in name, so to speak 
 like they do in novels. I could be the duchess that 
 way." 
 
 It may have been the second glass of the '65 brandy 
 on the top of the bottle of champagne, or it may have 
 been her enchanting face in the moonlight, but for 
 the moment James Whitaker quite forgot that he was
 
 90 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 already provided with a wife, and his soul rose in 
 fierce revolt against the proposal. 
 
 "I would never agree to a loveless marriage! 
 Never!" he cried sternly. 
 
 "But love has nothing to do with it! There's no 
 need of anything of the kind. It's just an arrange- 
 ment," she protested. 
 
 "I would never agree to it never," said James 
 Whitaker with unabated firmness. "You can go to 
 the police now this very night, and tell them your 
 story for what it is worth!" 
 
 "But it's absurd!" she cried. "How am I to fall 
 in love with you? Why, I don't even know who you 
 are." 
 
 "Well, for the purpose of being fallen in love with, 
 I'm the Duke of Lanchester," said James Whitaker 
 firmly. 
 
 "But you don't know how horrid the duke was," 
 she said. 
 
 "And you don't know how different he is," said 
 James Whitaker. "But it's merely waste of time talk- 
 ing about it. I will not consent to a loveless mar- 
 riage." 
 
 He was pleased with his firmness in the matter; he 
 felt that he was defending a great principle; and a 
 warm glow of virtue suffused him very pleasantly. 
 
 She looked at him with an air of the most acute 
 perplexity and annoyance, and cried : "What's the 
 use of talking like that ? People can't fall in love just 
 because it's necessary!"
 
 iWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 91 
 
 A happy thought flashed into the mind of James 
 Whitaker : it was plain that he must temporize to keep 
 the girl silent during the four or five days he was 
 staying at the Abbey, but why should he not, by that 
 very process of temporizing, render those four or five 
 days more pleasant? Of course he was a married 
 man, but the situation was forced on him. He said 
 gravely : 
 
 "My dear Elizabeth, a great deal can be done by 
 trying." 
 
 "How dare you call me Elizabeth !" she cried angrily. 
 
 "People people who are engaged to be married 
 call each other by their Christian names," said James 
 Whitaker with cold firmness. 
 
 "I believe you are the duke, after all: you're so 
 horrid!" 
 
 "I told you I was the duke," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "You know you're not the duke," she said indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 James Whitaker looked at her sternly and said again 
 gravely : "We're getting away from the point. We're 
 discussing our being married, and we've reached the 
 conclusion that a loveless marriage is out of the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "I haven't !" she cried. 
 
 "But / have," said James Whitaker, with a gentle 
 wave of his hand. "And the question now is, how 
 are we going to make marriage possible. You're 
 really keen on being a duchess?" 
 
 She hesitated, staring at him with the most keenly
 
 92' WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 perplexed eyes; then she cried: "I don't know 
 you're you're so different. But but I do. I do 
 want to be a duchess !" 
 
 "Well, then we have to devote our time to acquir- 
 ing sufficient affection for each other to render the 
 marriage possible," he said earnestly, almost solemnly. 
 "We ought at any rate to give ourselves the chance. 
 It's all a matter of seeing each other, and giving our- 
 selves a chance to like each other, you know." 
 
 She gazed at him, frowning thoughtfully; then she 
 said : "It's all very well, but I don't know who you 
 are. I haven't the slightest idea. You might be 
 anybody." 
 
 "Well, if you mean to be the Duchess of Lanchester 
 the sooner you make up your mind that I'm the Duke 
 of Lanchester the better. And if you notice anything 
 in me that doesn't fit in with that position, you can 
 point it out to me, and I'll try to mend it. Come, 
 that's a fair offer." 
 
 "It wasn't what I meant at all," she said in a very 
 doubtful voice. "I didn't mean to have anything of 
 this kind in it. But perhaps there wouldn't be any 
 harm in trying though I don't think there's the 
 slightest chance of my ever coming to care for you." 
 
 "You can't tell till you've tried. At any rate, it's 
 the sensible thing to do. But if you don't care to try 
 it, you can go straight to the police and tell them that 
 I'm not the Duke of Lanchester." 
 
 "No; I don't want to do that not now, anyway," 
 she said slowly. "And after all, though it's quite im- 
 possible for me to come to like you really (you have
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 93 
 
 such a hard and savage face), there's no harm in 
 trying it." 
 
 "That's all right," said James Whitaker cheerfully. 
 "Let's go for a stroll down the river bank." 
 
 She hesitated ; then she fell into step with him, and 
 they started. He was pleased with the result of the 
 negotiations : he felt that, as far as she was concerned, 
 he was safe for the next four or five days. 
 
 She was much less pleased with the result. She had 
 expected him to accept her condition; but she was 
 accepting his.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was one thing to be walking with a charming and 
 attractive girl, and another to talk to her. James 
 Whitaker would have liked to point out to her that 
 she had been, and was, trying to blackmail him, but 
 it seemed unlikely to make for pleasantness. He 
 knew but little about women, but he had learned from 
 his association with Millicent that a woman must al- 
 ways be in the right. He cudgeled his brains for a 
 better opening, but could find none. His failure an- 
 noyed him, for he felt that his predecessor, judging 
 from the drawerful of letters in his study, could 
 never have been at a loss for a subject of conver- 
 sation with a woman. Miss Carton was looking 
 straight before her, her brow knitted in a thoughtful 
 frown. She seemed to have no desire at the moment 
 to talk, and looked quite unlikely to help him. 
 
 At last he said : "Do you mind my smoking ?'' 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 He lighted a cigar, and no longer felt any imperative 
 need to talk to her. It was enough to look at her 
 face in the moonlight and enjoy the cigar. He was 
 quite sure that he had never seen such a beautiful face; 
 her clearly, delicately cut profile with the straight 
 nose, not too long, and the rather full lips, was as 
 charming as her full face. 
 
 94
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 95 
 
 Her face, or the cigar, stimulated him, for presently 
 he said : "This is a glorious night, and a glorious 
 place to be in." 
 
 "It is a pretty place," she said somewhat grudg- 
 ingly. 
 
 "You speak as if you thought it wasn't," said James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 "I've grown tired of it. You see I've lived here all 
 my life. It's beautiful enough in summer, but in 
 winter it's dreadful. There's no one to talk to, and 
 no books to read, or anything." 
 
 "But I thought you were a friend of Miss Wyse?" 
 
 "Yes ; there are just two of us ; there's not another 
 soul." 
 
 James Whitaker pondered the statement, then he 
 said: 
 
 "Hasn't she got any brothers?" 
 
 "No, she hasn't. And if she had, they wouldn't be 
 any use. They'd always be hard at work on the farm. 
 It would be all right if there were any tennis or hockey, 
 like there are in other places ; but there isn't, and the 
 consequence is I'm a perfect duffer at both." 
 
 Her impatient eyes flashed and sparkled on him 
 as she uttered her complaint. 
 
 "It is very hard lines being shut into a narrow 
 groove," said James Whitaker with real fellow feel- 
 ing. 
 
 "Oh, it is !" she cried. 
 
 He looked at her earnestly and said : "But I should 
 have thought it impossible for it to happen to you." 
 
 "Why not?"
 
 96 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "You're so extraordinarily good-looking." 
 
 She stopped short and faced him, frowning. "You've 
 no business to talk to me like that !" she said sharply. 
 
 "Well, I think if you want to get to know a worn 
 any one, it's best to speak out exactly what you think. 
 But of course I don't know much about that kind of 
 thing." 
 
 "There! Now you have admitted that you're not 
 the duke! He had lots of experience. Everybody 
 said so," she cried in a tone of triumph. 
 
 James Whitaker saw that he had made a slip; but 
 in his pleasant condition of stimulated well-being, 
 though his invention was dull, his reason was working 
 with uncommon smoothness. 
 
 "Ah, of course people say that," he said carelessly. 
 "But they don't know the facts of the case. As a 
 matter of fact, I'm not any good at love-making as 
 you'll find out." 
 
 She considered his face curiously for a few sec- 
 onds, then she said: "I suppose you mean they run 
 after you because you're duke." 
 
 "I never said they did run after me! I shouldn't 
 think of saying such a thing!" cried James Whitaker 
 indignantly. 
 
 "You implied it. And anyway, that must be it," 
 she said in a tone of conviction. 
 
 "Why must it be it?" said James Whitaker, even 
 more indignantly, for it was a somewhat ruffling state- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well you're you're not good-looking, are you?" 
 she said in a somewhat apologetic tone.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 97 
 
 "Good-looking! What should I be good-looking 
 for?" cried James Whitaker in a tone of deep dis- 
 gust. 
 
 "Oh, well, everybody likes to be good-looking," she 
 said mildly. 
 
 "Men don't bother about that kind of thing," he 
 said firmly. "Why should they? It's so unnecessary 
 to be an Apollo Belvedere." 
 
 "There! That's the kind of thing that annoys me 
 so," she said, once more complaining. "You know 
 what you mean when you talk of the Apollo Belvedere. 
 But I've never seen it, and I never shall." 
 
 "No more " said James Whitaker ; and he stopped 
 short. 
 
 He had been on the point of saying "No more have 
 I" ; but the thought that the duke might very well have 
 seen it checked him. 
 
 He changed the subject abruptly, saying : "My looks 
 can't matter at all. Let's talk about something more 
 interesting. Look at the moonlight on the stream 
 there. I can't understand your getting tired of a 
 beautiful place like this." 
 
 "I'm not tired of it not exactly in the summer, 
 that is," she said slowly. "But I want to see the other 
 places too London I want to stay there a long- 
 time with lots of money to go everywhere and see 
 everything. The only place I ever go to is to Shap, 
 in Westmoreland where my aunts live and it's 
 worse than this." 
 
 "Oh, if you want to live in town !" he said contemp- 
 tuously, thinking of Hammersmith.
 
 98 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "But I don't ! I like the country ! But I don't want 
 to be buried in it all my life!" she cried with some 
 heat. 
 
 She went on to enlarge upon the emptiness of her 
 life (at the assembly rooms at Lanchester) ; how she 
 had never been to a dance; how she had never met 
 a single interesting person, not an actor, or a writer, 
 or an explorer, or a great soldier, or a leading poli- 
 tician. 
 
 James Whitaker was very sympathetic with her. 
 Indeed, he felt very sympathetic with her; as she 
 talked he realized more clearly than ever how his 
 own life had been cramped. 
 
 He was indeed enjoying himself greatly. The 
 charm of the beautiful moonlit night in the soothing 
 and fragrant air, so refreshing to his urban spirit, was 
 trebled for him by her charming face, her delightful, 
 liquid voice, and her beautiful, appealing eyes. He 
 was indeed so sympathetic to her appeal that she felt 
 that she was really growing acquainted with him ; and 
 she found the process unexpectedly pleasant. She 
 had never before enjoyed the sympathy of an intelli- 
 gent man, and she found it indeed comforting and 
 stimulating. Indeed, the time passed so quickly that 
 she was amazed to hear the clock strike eleven. 
 
 "Good gracious!" she cried. "My father will be 
 thinking that something dreadful has happened to 
 me ! I shall have to run home." 
 
 "What could happen to you here?" said James 
 , Whitaker.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 99 
 
 "Nothing. That's why I'm so sick of the place," 
 she said quickly. 
 
 Fortunately they had been wandering in a circle, 
 and were very near the bridge from which they had 
 started, the nearest point of the park to the village. 
 He went over it with her and along the bank of the 
 stream to the end of the home wood. 
 
 It seemed to him not only needful to secure her 
 silence, but also entirely desirable that he should enjoy 
 more of her society; and he proposed that she should 
 meet him at the bridge at eleven the next morning. 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't !" she said in a hesitating tone. "It 
 wouldn't do at all. Think how people would talk if 
 they knew!" 
 
 "That's all very well, but we've got to talk. There 
 are ever so many things we've got to discuss. We 
 can't be married without doing it. Besides, how are 
 we to give ourselves any chance of being married at 
 all unless we see plenty of each other?" 
 
 "There wouldn't be any need for that it wouldn't 
 matter at all if you'd only be married the way I 
 want," she said in a somewhat aggrieved tone. 
 
 "But I won't I shouldn't dream of it ! No loveless 
 marriages for me, thank you," he said firmly. "And 
 if we're really going to try to work it, what does it 
 matter what people say? You'll really have to come." 
 
 They had come to the gate opening from the home 
 wood into the lane to the village, and she stood still, 
 hesitating. She wanted to come; their talk had been 
 pleasant; she had never before met any one to whom
 
 IOO 
 
 she could unburden herself so freely. At last she 
 said : 
 
 "Very well, I'll come just for once." 
 
 "Good," he said, and made to follow her through 
 the gate. 
 
 "No, you mustn't come any farther. It wouldn't 
 be safe," she said. 
 
 They shook hands with considerable warmth, seeing 
 that they were but two hours acquainted; and he 
 watched her until she disappeared round a corner 
 of the lane. 
 
 She reached home not ill satisfied by the meeting. 
 She was not getting her way wholly, but it was not 
 improbable that she would get what she chiefly wanted. 
 But James Whitaker had proved far more satisfactory 
 than she had expected. She had been disposed, whether 
 he were the duke or merely an impersonator of the 
 duke, to regard him as a villain, but she had found 
 him a quiet sympathetic person, even high principled 
 in the matter of loveless marriages. She had even 
 modified her belief in his ugliness. She had always 
 regarded the Duke of Lanchester as a very ugly man ; 
 the rugged face of his double had lost for her much 
 of its ugliness. Certainly, when you saw them close, 
 he had beautiful eyes. 
 
 She wished she were quite sure whether he were 
 the duke or some one impersonating the duke. Of 
 course, if he were the duke, he must just be playing 
 with her. . . . But no: he certainly was not 
 
 playing with her. . . ... Her instinct told her 
 
 that.
 
 tWHITAKER'S DUKEDOML 101 
 
 James Whitaker walked back to the Abbey in fine 
 elation. He had not spent so pleasant an evening in 
 years. It was, of course, awkward that his secret was 
 known to an inexperienced girl; she might carelessly 
 let it slip out. But he had only to keep her silent for 
 a fortnight or three weeks, and she would be unable 
 to persuade any one of the truth of her story. The 
 truth, that she had kept silent with the intention of 
 marrying him, would be quite incredible to the inhab- 
 itants of Little Lanchester. 
 
 He lay awake for a while thinking of her. He had 
 a rare power of visualization, and he called up her 
 charming image and kept it before his mind with the 
 greatest pleasure. Once or twice a doubt assailed him 
 whether a man of his domesticated nature ought to 
 find such a pleasure in doing this. 
 
 He awoke pleasantly next morning to the prospect 
 of a pleasant idle day. There would be nothing to 
 do but enjoy himself till the evening, when he was 
 to dine and play baccarat at the Grange. He might, 
 or might not play it. He might find it advisable to 
 join in it in order to play his part of duke properly. 
 It was a rather tiresome affair; it would be far more 
 pleasant to stroll by the stream in the park with Eliza- 
 beth. But he was curious to see more of these great 
 folk. 
 
 He enjoyed his breakfast thoroughly, and the fact 
 that he was going to spend the morning with Eliza- 
 beth Carton increased his enjoyment of it. It is 
 true that his conscience reminded him twice that a 
 married man had no right to spend a pleasant morning
 
 102 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 with a pretty girl in a park; but he was very short 
 with it, assuring himself that necessity knows no law, 
 and that, above all things, she must be kept silent. 
 With equal firmness he repressed his tendency to con- 
 gratulate himself on his compulsion. 
 
 He read in two newspapers, with very little interest, 
 the accounts of his being struck by lightning. 
 
 He walked down to the bridge in some doubt, pain- 
 ful doubt, whether after all Miss Carton would come 
 to meet him; and in some doubt herself, she kept him 
 waiting ten minutes. But at ten minutes past eleven 
 she came, looking very fresh and delightful and charm- 
 ing in a light gray summer frock, which gave her 
 beautiful color its full value. 
 
 They did not walk very far, for she had no desire 
 whatever to be seen in the compromising company of 
 the duke. About fifty yards down the stream she 
 turned aside into a little nook, embowered in hazel- 
 bushes, in its bank, and sat down. James Whitaker 
 found it very pleasant to lie back against the bank, 
 smoking an excellent cigar, and watch her changing 
 face and listen to her delightful voice. He had little 
 desire to talk, and there was little need for him to do 
 so, since the happy subject on which she was enlarging 
 was what she would do when she was duchess. It 
 seemed as if, in the course of the night, the difficulty 
 created by his objection to a loveless marriage had 
 been removed, for she talked of the things she pro- 
 posed to do almost as if it were already settled that 
 she would be in the position to do them. 
 
 He helped her now and again with a suggestion.
 
 AVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 103 
 
 Only once during the morning did he strike a jar- 
 ring note ; and she was really to blame for it, since she 
 suggested once more that he was not the duke. 
 
 "Well," he said thoughtfully, "if I were the im- 
 personator you say I am, we should certainly be well- 
 matched, shouldn't we ? An impersonator and a black- 
 mailer." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she cried; and her eyes? 
 flashed. "How dare you say such a thing?" 
 
 He looked at her in genuine astonishment, and said : 
 "But of course you're a blackmailer. You're black- 
 mailing me into marrying you." 
 
 "It isn't true!" she cried with the liveliest indig- 
 nation. "Nothing would induce me to marry you, if 
 I didn't want to be duchess!" 
 
 "Yes, but that's just it!" he cried. "You tried to 
 obtain the position and the income of a duchess by; 
 threatening me; and that is blackmailing." 
 
 "I think it's perfectly detestable of you to say such 
 a thing!" she cried, yet more indignantly. "You 
 know I can't go on being buried alive in this horrid 
 little village. Besides, you wouldn't agree to a love- 
 less marriage you said you wouldn't and if we did 
 I mean, if it isn't a loveless marriage I'm not 
 forcing you to marry me." 
 
 She stopped short with a fine flush on her face. 
 
 "No," he said, smiling at her amiably. "But I tell 
 you what you are doing; you're forcing me to fall in 
 love with you." 
 
 "I'm not!" she cried. "You insisted on doing it 
 yourself at least, you insisted on trying."
 
 104 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "And I'm inclined to think that I shall succeed," he 
 said cheerfully. 
 
 "Well, you needn't think that I shall fall I mean 
 I mean it will be quite a one-sided affair if you go 
 on saying detestable things like that!" 
 
 "Like what?" 
 
 "About blackmailing." 
 
 "Oh, it only just occurred to me. It isn't worth 
 bothering about," he said in a tone of indifference. 
 
 "But you've no business to say such things," she 
 said in a less violent tone. 
 
 "Perhaps I oughtn't," he said carelessly. "Well, 
 we won't discuss it any more." 
 
 They resumed the more peaceful discussion of what 
 she would do when she was duchess. Either it was 
 the stimulation of the country air, or it was the stimu- 
 lation of her beauty, but suddenly he found himself 
 assuring her with the most impressive emphasis that 
 she would be the most charming duchess in England. 
 He felt at once that it was no business of a married 
 man to be offering these tributes to a girl's beauty, 
 but it seemed very natural. He excused himself on 
 the ground that it was necessary to keep her in good 
 temper, and that after all it did not really matter, 
 since he would only be seeing her for another three or 
 four days. 
 
 When she had come to the end of the pleasant things 
 she was going to do when she was a duchess, she 
 turned her talk to the improvements she was going 
 to make on the estate, and presently she was reproach- 
 ing him severely for the cramped and unsanitary cot-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 105 
 
 tages in which the laborers who worked on the home 
 farm lived. As the parson's daughter she had had 
 full opportunity of learning their condition. 
 
 Her revelations surprised James Whitaker, but he 
 was careful to conceal that surprise. He rather tried 
 to win more favor by professing his readiness to ac- 
 cept her suggestions of reform, and had presently 
 pledged himself to an exhaustive scheme of housing 
 and sanitation. She was very pleased with his readi- 
 ness, and with his assurance that he would set Mr. 
 Brinkman to work on the scheme that very afternoon. 
 She wrote down for him the names of the three 
 hamlets, besides Little Lanchester itself, which needed 
 rebuilding Wodden, Chigleigh and Gant. 
 
 He thanked her and put the piece of paper with their 
 names on it into his pocket. 
 
 Then she said : "I wonder when they're going to 
 find the duke's body." 
 
 "Whose body?" said James Whitaker with well- 
 feigned surprise. 
 
 "It's dreadful to think of its lying there," she 
 said, taking no notice of his question. "But I don't 
 know what to do about it." 
 
 "It's a little late for you to do anything. They'll 
 find it sooner or later," he said somewhat callously. 
 "Oh, you are unfeeling," she said reproachfully. 
 "No, I'm not really," he said. "But it can't make 
 any real difference to a dead man whether he's in a 
 wood or in his grave." 
 
 "But why don't you tell them about it ?" she said. 
 "You forget that my head's all muddled about the
 
 io6 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 matter. I can't take them to this dead man you tell 
 me about. I don't know the way," he said, with a 
 good show if impatience. 
 
 "I don't quite know what's to be done," she said, 
 knitting her brow. 
 
 "It's best to leave it alone, I should think. They're 
 bound to find him in a day or two," he said quite 
 carelessly. 
 
 She was silent for a minute, pondering; then she 
 said : "Well, it's just as well I saw the duke's walking- 
 stick and brought it away. It was lying a few yards 
 from his body." 
 
 James Whitaker looked at her somewhat blankly 
 and thought it was indeed just as well, but he did not 
 say so. He said : "My walking-stick, you mean." 
 
 "No; I don't," she said firmly. "You can't even 
 tell me what it's like." 
 
 It was a shrewd thrust, but he was not unready ; he 
 said: "I could if I could remember what stick I was 
 carrying. But I can only remember those I saw in the 
 stand this morning." 
 
 She looked at hirn with a very doubtful, wondering 
 air. 
 
 Then she rose and said that she must be going. He 
 rose with considerable reluctance, and they took their 
 way back to the bridge. When they came to it they 
 stopped, and he said: 
 
 "About this afternoon : how would it be if you were 
 to come and spend it with me at the Abbey? There 
 are lots of beautiful things at the Abbey for you to 
 see. Besides, there's the place itself."
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 107 
 
 "Think how people would talk," she said; but her 
 face had brightened at the suggestion. 
 
 "I don't see how that's to be helped," he said eagerly. 
 "We certainly can't grow better acquainted without 
 people seeing us together; and we've evidently got to 
 get better acquainted." 
 
 "Oh, well ; if you look at it like that, I suppose we 
 must chance their talking," she said gravely. 
 
 "All the same there's no need for any one to know 
 how long you're at the Abbey," he said quickly. "We'll 
 meet here and go through the shrubberies and into the 
 blue drawing-room. None of the servants ever seem 
 to be in the most interesting part of the house. You 
 might come and spend a couple of hours and go away 
 without being seen by one of them, with a little luck. 
 But, of course, you will have tea with me, and stay for 
 a while after it." 
 
 "Oh, I should like to !" she said, and her eyes shone. 
 Then she added doubtfully : "But I'm not at all sure 
 that I ought to." 
 
 "Well, we'll try it and see what happens," he said 
 cheerfully. "I'll meet you here at three."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ATER lunch James Whitaker betook himself at 
 once to the steward's office, and as he entered it 
 Mr. Brinkman rose, smiling a broad welcome, rubbing 
 his hands together, and greeted him in an unpleasant, 
 obsequious tone. 
 
 James Whitaker greeted him in the husky growl 
 he was affecting, and said : "I've decided to rebuild 
 Little Lanchester, Wodden, Chigleigh and Gant, and 
 fit them out with the latest things in the way of drains. 
 I'm going to house all the laborers on the estate prop- 
 erly." 
 
 "What?" cried Mr. Brinkman. The smile died on 
 his face, and it filled with amazement and horror. 
 "Your Grace is going to pamper the laborers?" 
 
 "No, I'm only going to house them like human 
 beings," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "But the county, your Grace the county won't 
 stand it. You couldn't do anything more certain to 
 destroy your influence and make you thoroughly un- 
 popular. It will offend all your friends and your ten- 
 ants and your friends' tenants. It will offend every- 
 body." 
 
 "They can go to the devil," said James Whitaker 
 carelessly. 
 
 1 08
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 109 
 
 "Yes, of course your Grace says that. Your Grace 
 always says that. But this is such a very different 
 thing from anything else you've ever done ; and people 
 won't stand it. I assure your Grace they won't," 
 pleaded Mr. Brinkman in harrowed tones. 
 
 "If they don't like it, they can lump it," growled 
 James Whitaker. 
 
 It was something of a satisfaction to him to know 
 that his benefactions would be a source of annoyance 
 to his successor. He envied and disliked his successor, 
 even without knowing who he might be. It was a 
 pleasure to make his path rough for him. 
 
 "B-b-but where's the money to come from?" said 
 Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 "Out of the rents of course," said James Whitaker 
 readily. 
 
 "But your Grace is spending every penny of your 
 income from this estate as it is," cried Mr. Brinkman. 
 "Has your Grace any idea how much it will cost to 
 rebuild all these villages ?" 
 
 "Not the slightest," said James Whitaker in a tone 
 that conveyed exactly the indifference he felt. 
 
 The expression of horror deepened on Mr. Brink- 
 man's face. It shone with the sweat of anguish. His 
 lips moved as if he were calculating. 
 
 "Not a penny less than a million one hundred thou- 
 sand dollars, more than two years' income from the 
 Abbey estate," he moaned. 
 
 "I've got other estates," said James Whitaker at a 
 venture. "I can live on the income from them." 
 
 "But you encumber this estate for years, your Grace.
 
 no .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 The Abbey //or to be kept up out of the rents from it," 
 wailed Mr. Brinkman. "It will take five years to pay 
 for these improvements if your Grace doesn't touch a 
 penny of the rents for your personal expenses." 
 
 "That's all right. Get the best architect from Lan- 
 chester here at ten o'clock to-morrow to go round the 
 villages with me," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Very well, your Grace very well. But you can't 
 improve the condition of these people. It's been tried ; 
 and it can't be done. It's been proved again and again. 
 It's a waste of money such a dreadful waste of 
 money!" moaned Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 "And write at once to a good firm of builders so 
 that they can let me have their estimates as soon as the 
 architect's plans are ready. I want the thing properly 
 under way in three days from now." 
 
 "In three days ! A scheme like this ! But it's impos- 
 sible, your Grace! Impossible!" Mr. Brinkman al- 
 most howled. 
 
 James Whitaker scowled blackly at him, and growled 
 savagely : "You're here to see that it's done. Do it !" 
 
 Mr. Brinkman gasped : "I don't know what's come 
 to your Grace," he wailed. "You used to agree that it 
 was nonsense to try to do anything for the agricul- 
 tural laborer just silly Radical talk." 
 
 "I've changed my mind," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "It's a change indeed. Your Grace is a changed 
 man another person altogether since that lightning- 
 stroke," wailed Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 "You get that architect and builders," growled James
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM in 
 
 Whitaker, turning on his heel ; and he went out of the 
 room and shut the door firmly behind him. 
 
 The thought that he was pledging his detested suc- 
 cessor to improvements that would probably be ex- 
 ceedingly distasteful to him made him smile most un- 
 amiably. He would have the contracts signed before 
 he retired from the Abbey. Then the thought of his 
 successor's annoyance inspired into him a desire to 
 know who that successor might be ; and he went into 
 the library. On the desk at which the late duke's sec- 
 retaries had been wont to work stood a Debrett's 
 Peerage; its red and gold had caught his eye during 
 his earlier visit of exploration. He sat down at the 
 desk, opened the book and learned in half a minute 
 that the only near kin the duke had had was one 
 brother, Lord Edward Beddard. The next nearest 
 was a female second cousin. James Whitaker per- 
 ceived that the Lanchester family must be worn out 
 and coming to its end. It seemed to him a pity ; some 
 effort should be made to save it. What was plainly 
 needed was fresh blood quite fresh blood, red and 
 not blue. 
 
 He wondered what Lord Edward Beddard was like : 
 whether he would be a good duke. On the shelves 
 beside him were a dozen letter-files ; and he took it that 
 they contained letters less private than those in the 
 bureau in his smoking-room. He took from the shelf 
 the letter-file for the current year, and sure enough 
 in the B compartment he found two letters from Lord 
 Edward Beddard. One of them was a pressing re-
 
 112 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 quest to the duke for a loan, the other a grudging 
 letter of thanks for a smaller loan than that requested. 
 James Whitaker took out the file for the previous year, 
 and found in it two letters of the same tenor ; the spell- 
 ing of all four of them showed the same weaknesses, 
 Lord Edward Beddard did not seem at all a promising 
 successor. 
 
 In the same compartment he found a letter relating 
 to the purchase of a race-horse named Bustard, and to 
 his surprise learned from it that he was the owner of 
 a racing-stable at Newmarket. This was the most an- 
 noying discovery he had yet made at the Abbey. He 
 hated the turf; his loathing of it was one of the strong- 
 est of his feelings. He considered that he owed to it 
 his crippled dismal life. Then and there he made up 
 his mind to remain Duke of Lanchester till that racing- 
 stable was broken up and scattered to the four quar- 
 ters of the heavens. 
 
 Then a happy thought came to him ; and he hurried 
 back to Mr. Brinkman's office in a pleasant glow. 
 
 He found his steward writing to the Lanchester ar- 
 chitect with an air of funereal gloom. The slight 
 distortion of feature with which he greeted the re- 
 entry of his employer was hardly as much as a wan 
 smile. 
 
 "I've got it, Brinkman," growled James Whitaker. 
 "I'm going to sell my racing-stable and pay for the 
 improvements with that." 
 
 Mr. Brinkman sank back in his chair; and his face 
 filled with a deeper amazement than before; then 
 ,s1owlv he began to smile. He had no interest in the
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 113 
 
 racing-stable. This way of paying for the improve- 
 ments in the villages would not affect him at all; the 
 income from the estate would pass through his hands 
 into the usual channels. 
 
 "This is a change," he said solemnly. "The Dukes 
 of Lanchester have kept race-horses since the reign of 
 George II. They must have spent well over a mil- 
 lion a million of money to say nothing of their 
 losses betting on racing." 
 
 "Thrown away," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Yes well, your Grace, I'm afraid we must admit 
 they haven't received much benefit from it very lit- 
 tle in fact," said Mr. Brinkman unctuously. 
 
 "Anyhow, it's going to stop," growled James Whit- 
 aker. "Get on to selling it at once." 
 
 "But this will be a longer business than starting the 
 improvements in the villages; and it's no good your 
 Grace's being impatient. It isn't really," protested, 
 Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 James Whitaker scowled at him darkly: "If you 
 don't put your back into it and hustle people along, 
 I'll get some one who will," he said in a very ugly 
 tone. 
 
 He flung out of the office and left Mr. Brinkman 
 shivering. He had always been in considerable dread 
 of the duke, even when he had been making the fullest 
 use of his ignorance of business and carelessness about 
 the estate to manage it in his own fashion. But it 
 seemed to him that to-day the duke had begun to dis- 
 play a more savage ferocity than ever. It must of 
 course be the effect of the lightning-stroke; and he
 
 H4 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 wondered whether it had affected his employer's mind. 
 It seemed exceedingly probable: this strange sudden 
 whim to sell his racing-stable and this stranger and no 
 less sudden whim to improve the condition of the la- 
 borers on the estate indeed savored of insanity. He 
 shivered again: the duke sane had been formidable 
 enough ; the duke mad would hardly bear thinking of. 
 
 It was certainly best to humor him : he would hustle 
 the architect and builders. After all, the duke's 
 madness, if it were madness, might not prove an un- 
 mixed evil : it might afford openings. 
 
 James Whitaker lost his formidable air almost as 
 he left the office; and he took his way to the bridge 
 to meet Miss Elizabeth Carton, in a warm glow of 
 self-approbation. He had not only set about two good 
 works in rebuilding the villages and selling the racing- 
 stable, but he had selected two good works which he 
 felt would be obnoxious indeed to Lord Edward Bed- 
 dard. Already he had come to loathe Lord Edward 
 Beddard ; words could not express his contempt for his 
 spelling. 
 
 Miss Carton kept him waiting ten minutes; but he 
 did not chafe at her tardiness. He was enjoying his 
 expectation of seeing her and the exquisite flavor of 
 his cigar. He had a strong enjoyable feeling that he 
 had earned that cigar and all the good things he was 
 enjoying at Lanchester Abbey; he had done a good 
 day's work for future Dukes of Lanchester. 
 
 Then Miss Carton came. Plainly she had not hur- 
 ried; she looked quite cool. There was no need for 
 him to take her up the steps of the terrace and across
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 115 
 
 it in full view of the windows. They walked along 
 the wooded bank of the stream to a side gate in the 
 garden, and along a little path which wound upward 
 through the shrubberies, along the ends of the ter- 
 races, and so on to the little lawn before the blue 
 drawing-room. They entered it unseen. 
 
 He set about showing her the Abbey in the same cau- 
 tious fashion ; once they played veritable hide-and-seek 
 with Jenkinson and a footman, and escaped unseen. 
 The partnership in this small concealment increased 
 their intimacy out of all proportion to its importance. 
 James Whitaker was somewhat disappointed by her 
 manifest lack of capacity to appreciate the beauty of 
 the treasures he showed her; and it grieved him that 
 he could not possibly develop and train her taste in the 
 few days he had at his disposal. Indeed, she an- 
 noyed him more than once by calling a beautiful thing 
 "pretty" or, worse still, "sweet." 
 
 His expert knowledge of the Abbey treasures, of 
 the china and the pictures, surprised her: it indeed 
 shook her belief that he was not the duke; and she 
 kept looking at him with puzzled wondering eyes. The 
 fact that now and again he told her the cash value of 
 this or that treasure threw no light on him for her. 
 
 In the library she was more at home, since her fa- 
 ther had a very fair library, and she had, out of 
 mere boredom, read some serious books which do not 
 come the way of the bulk of girls. Indeed, he found 
 her far better read in history than himself. None the 
 less, the books she borrowed were two novels fresh 
 from Mudie's.
 
 n6 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 When it was time for tea, they stole back to the blue 
 drawing-room, out- of it into the shrubberies, round 
 to the central steps of the terrace, up them, and along 
 the terrace to the front of the Abbey. They sat down 
 in two garden-chairs outside the yellow drawing-room ; 
 and he sent a gardener for Jenkinson. Well-trained 
 as he was, Jenkinson could not quite hide his surprise 
 at rinding Miss Carton the guest of the duke. 
 
 James Whitaker bade him bring tea to them; and 
 it was not long coming. Elizabeth enjoyed the deli- 
 cate cakes and the fruit exceedingly. She did not 
 affect any lack of a healthy appetite. They sat talk- 
 ing for a long while after tea; then they strolled 
 through the gardens for a while. They did not go 
 again into the Abbey, for he was sure that at least a 
 committee of the servants was watching them; and it 
 was better that the gossips should not be able to say 
 that she had been, unchaperoned, inside the Abbey 
 with him. At a quarter to seven she said that she 
 must be going home ; and he walked with her down to 
 the bridge. 
 
 Before they parted he asked her to meet him next 
 morning at eleven; and she said readily enough that 
 she would. But he thought that he perceived a faint 
 shade of disappointment in her manner, and he took 
 it that she had been expecting that they would meet 
 again that evening. 
 
 "It's an awful nuisance," he said quickly. "But 
 I've got to dine at Cubbington Grange to-night." 
 
 She frowned, and then said gravely: "Be careful 
 that no one finds you out."
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 117 
 
 "Finds me out? There's no chance whatever of 
 any one's finding me out. Why, even you haven't 
 found me out." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said quickly. 
 
 "Why, you don't know whether I'm the duke or 
 not." 
 
 "I know perfectly well that you're not the duke!" 
 she cried. 
 
 "Oh, no : you don't. You wish you did," he said 
 in a taunting tone. 
 
 "I know quite well," she said firmly ; and she walked 
 across the bridge, carrying her head high and con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 He watched her out of sight and then walked slowly 
 back to the Abbey, thinking of her very pleasantly. 
 
 He thought that he had better find out at what time 
 he must be ready to start for the Grange, and went up 
 to his suite of rooms. He found Tomkins in his bed- 
 room setting out his clothes for the evening. 
 
 "Is it time for me to start dressing already?" he 
 said grumpily. 
 
 "Well, your Grace, it being the country, they dine 
 at eight as your Grace has perhaps forgotten. And 
 you'll want a good half-hour to do the twelve miles in. 
 Leastways, Hibbert says as your Grace doesn't like 
 to go fast, with your nerves like as they are after that 
 lightning." 
 
 "Oh, very well!" growled James Whitaker; and he 
 set about dressing. 
 
 When he had finished it occurred to him that bac- 
 carat was a very simple game and that it would be in-
 
 n8 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 deed hard to find an excuse for not playing it. Ac- 
 cordingly he took from the secret drawers of the bu- 
 reau in his smoking-room five hundred dollars in notes 
 and gold. He did not know how much a duke was ex- 
 pected to win or lose in an evening; but he made up 
 his mind to limit his losses (since he knew nothing of 
 the game, he was sure he must lose) to five hundred 
 dollars. That should be sufficient to maintain his po- 
 sition. 
 
 He started for the Grange in a grumpy frame of 
 mind, for he was thinking that it would have been so 
 much more pleasant to spend the evening with Eliza- 
 beth in the park. But it was important, very important, 
 that he should display himself firmly among his neigh- 
 bors. 
 
 He was indeed somewhat nervous about his man- 
 ners, especially his table manners, for though his wife 
 had maintained fretfully in her home the standard she 
 had brought back from her boarding-school, he was 
 not sure that they would pass muster in one of the 
 stately homes of England. Moreover, he was apt, in 
 absent-minded moments, to revert to the manners he 
 had used in William Ward's kitchen before marriage 
 had promoted him to the parlor. But he was not very 
 nervous ; his two days' success and the good living had 
 stimulated him so that he was almost ready to take 
 pleasure in the struggle. It was a heartening thought 
 that Elizabeth Carton, the actual witness of his trans- 
 formation, was not sure whether he was, or was not, 
 the Duke of Lanchester. 
 
 He found Cubbington Grange very unlike Lan-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 119 
 
 Chester Abbey. It was a large, modern, red-brick, 
 imitation Tudor house; and its inferiority to the Ab- 
 bey pleased him : dukes ought to have finer houses than 
 barons. In the drawing-room he found his four 
 guests of the day before and fifteen strangers. All the 
 strangers seemed to have known the duke, for they 
 greeted him warmly and heaped on him condolences 
 on his accident. He thought it well not to change his 
 attitude to the world, and was short and grumpy with 
 them in a husky growl. They appeared to find his 
 bearing everything they had expected. 
 
 He gathered that Lord Cubbington was a septuag- 
 enarian who dined in his own rooms. He took Lady 
 Cubbington in to dinner ; and since in the circumstances 
 she could not be confidential, her nearness did not les- 
 sen his enjoyment of the meal. Indeed, he found the 
 warm tenderness in her beautiful blue eyes very pleas- 
 ant ; and as soon as he learned that he was expected to 
 press her foot, he pressed it with genuine conviction. 
 The fact that she was a married woman had somehow 
 grown less obtrusive. 
 
 The attention seemed to please her; and the tender- 
 ness in her eyes grew warmer. Once, when their" 
 neighbors were talking with animation about Mr. 
 Lloyd George to people farther down the table, she 
 said quickly in a low voice : 
 
 "Well, are you beginning to remember me better?" 
 
 "I never forgot you," he said readily. 
 
 She looked pleased, but she said: "Of course you 
 say that. But all the same you had forgotten me yes- 
 terday afternoon."
 
 120 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Never for a moment!" said James Whitaker 
 stoutly. 
 
 The cooking was excellent, and the champagne ad- 
 mirable. James Whitaker felt that the only thing 
 lacking to his complete well-being was to have Eliza- 
 beth Carton on the other side of him. Then he re- 
 flected that after all that might not add to his well- 
 being: the two women might not prove sympathetic 
 to each other. After all, the blue eyes of Lady Cub- 
 bington were of a wonderful and delightful blue. 
 
 Baccarat was the business of the evening; the din- 
 ner consisted of only five courses, and they did not 
 linger over their coffee and cigarettes, but betoolc 
 themselves briskly to the large drawing-room, in 
 which a long table covered with green cloth had been 
 set. 
 
 Lady Cubbington asked James Whitaker if he would 
 like to take the bank; and he refused gloomily, de- 
 claring that the lightning-stroke had made his mind 
 hazy about the game, and that therefore he had better 
 watch it till he had learned it again. Sir Richard 
 Starton then took the bank, a five-hundred-dollar 
 bank ; and they began to play. 
 
 James Whitaker soon learned the simple game ; and 
 he began to play. At first he played cautiously, feel- 
 ing his way, staking only ten dollars at a time. He 
 won steadily, and increased his stake to twenty-five 
 dollars. He won steadily and increased it to fifty dol- 
 lars. He still won steadily. He was not greatly elated, 
 he only felt that it was as it should be : it was in the
 
 ;VVHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 121 
 
 very nature of things that dukes should win at bac- 
 carat. 
 
 Sir Richard Starton gave up the bank and Lord 
 Dymchurch took it. He gave place to the Earl of 
 Ashow. James Whitaker still won. Lady Cubbing- 
 ton was very pleased by his success, and sitting beside 
 him, she faithfully followed his betting. It was pleas- 
 ant to win, but after all he was winning for another 
 man, his detested successor. But he did not find the 
 game very amusing; and he felt that a duke must not 
 show himself too eager to win money. After an hour 
 of it, therefore, he rose and strolled out into the gar- 
 den. 
 
 His mind was in a pleasant haziness ; and it had not 
 occurred to him that Lady Cubbington would naturally 
 join him. Her coming startled him, therefore ; and for 
 a moment he thought of flying back to the baccarat. 
 Second thoughts assured him not only that it would 
 annoy her bitterly, but also that it would be unmanly. 
 Besides, she looked prettier than ever in the moon- 
 light. Still, he strolled up and down in front of the 
 ppen windows of the bright drawing-room till he found 
 that she was growing restive ; then mere politeness de- 
 manded that they should stroll to a part of the garden 
 lighted, and not too well lighted, only by the moon. 
 Unused as he was to kissing, she had less reason to 
 complain of him than the day before; he was losing 
 his diffidence. Besides, the age of her husband 
 weighed with him. Her talk threw light on the per- 
 sonalities and habits of his fellow guests; and his re-
 
 122 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 ceptive mind stored up the information. After a 
 while he suggested that they should return to their 
 baccarat ; and with some reluctance she came. 
 
 "It's no wonder you want to go on playing," she said. 
 ''You don't often win." 
 
 "Don't I?" he said. 
 
 "Of course you don't," she said quickly. 
 
 "I'd forgotten," he said. Then, squeezing her arm 
 gently to mark the point, he added happily: "One 
 can't be lucky in everything." 
 
 He felt, with some reason, that he was growing a 
 gallant man. 
 
 But her words had put a new thought into his 
 mind: it was to him, James Whitaker, that fortune 
 was being kind ; her bounty was not for the Dukes of 
 Lanchester. It was true that he had started playing 
 with the late duke's money ; but that five hundred dol- 
 lars was intact in his pocket; his winnings were his 
 own. He wondered he had not perceived this earlier, 
 and came back to the game with quite a new zest. 
 
 Fortune still smiled on him; and for an hour again 
 he won steadily. Then the luck turned ; and he began 
 to lose. Ten minutes' losing was enough for him; 
 and he rose and said that he must be going home. The 
 announcement was received with the liveliest surprise ; 
 and he learned that they proposed to play for yet an- 
 other two hours, and that the late duke had always 
 been the very last to leave the table. But he was in no 
 mind to weary fortune ; losing, the game had lost its 
 savor. He said that, after being struck by lightning, 
 he must go to bed early for the next few days, and took
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 123 
 
 his leave. In the process of taking it, he learned that 
 he was giving a dinner and a baccarat party at the 
 Abbey on Saturday evening. 
 
 He had gone barely a mile when he found the drive 
 in the moonlight so delightful that he bade his chauf- 
 feur make a circuit and prolong it. It was past mid- 
 night, therefore, when he reached the Abbey. He 
 found Jenkinson himself sitting up for him, and por- 
 tentous with news : the lightning had not confined it- 
 self with men of rank; it had also struck a tramp on 
 Oak Tree Knoll. A keeper had found his body lying 
 under the oak. 
 
 "What was he doing there?" growled James Whit- 
 aker. 
 
 "We think he must have been taking shelter, your 
 Grace," said Jenkinson, who had himself questioned 
 the keeper closely, and discussed the matter fully with 
 the rest of the household at supper. 
 
 "Taking shelter? All that distance from the road? 
 Nonsense!" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Well, now your Grace points it out, it is a long 
 way from the road," said Jenkinson, in the tone of one 
 impressed. "P'r'aps he was after pheasant eggs, your 
 Grace." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, we couldn't have been struck by the 
 same flash," growled James Whitaker, beginning to 
 mount the stairs. 
 
 "No, your Grace. Where was your Grace when 
 you were struck?" 
 
 "Do you suppose I can remember?" growled James 
 Whitaker contemptuously.
 
 124 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Jenkinson felt himself justly rebuked. 
 
 James Whitaker found whisky and brandy and soda 
 and sandwiches on the side-table in his smoking-room, 
 mixed himself a brandy and soda, lighted a cigarette, 
 sat down to the table and began to empty his pockets. 
 
 He had kept no count of his winnings, though he 
 knew roughly that he had won a good deal more than 
 five hundred dollars. He was surprised to find that 
 they amounted to sixteen hundred and ten dollars. 
 
 The conviction that this sum was the fruit of his 
 own luck and skill was greatly strengthened by its un- 
 expected size. Indeed he had now no doubt about it; 
 he was sure that the duke would have gone on playing 
 after the luck turned, and lost it all. Every one of the 
 other players had taken it for granted that he would 
 do so. Undoubtedly his own self-restraint had brought 
 him away a winner. 
 
 It was indeed a cheering conviction : here was more 
 money than he had cleared from his business in the 
 last three years. It relieved him of anxiety about the 
 future for the next three years; it was the capital he 
 needed to remove his business to a more thronged 
 thoroughfare in Hammersmith. He could enjoy the 
 rest of his week's holiday with a mind quite at ease. 
 He thought of Elizabeth Carton and said: "Why, I 
 might even make it ten days." 
 
 He went to bed joyful and awoke joyful. The 
 possession of sixteen hundred and ten dollars had 
 changed the world for him. It had made him a 
 free man. 
 
 At breakfast he learned from Jenkinson that owing
 
 iWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 125 
 
 to the fact that the body had been lying on Oak Tree 
 Knoll for so long, the inquest on the dead duke would 
 be held that very afternoon. He showed himself in- 
 different enough about the matter. He asked carelessly 
 if anything had been found out about the man; and 
 when Jenkinson said that nothing had, he said even 
 more carelessly : 
 
 "I should rather like to know what he was doing 
 in the wood." 
 
 When he had finished his breakfast, he opened his 
 letters. He was vexed to find one from Lord Edward 
 Beddard, in which he said that he was coming down to 
 the Abbey on the following Wednesday on a matter 
 of urgent importance. It seemed to James Whitaker 
 that he had better depart on Tuesday night, or, at the 
 latest, early on Wednesday morning ; it was not worth 
 while exposing himself to this fresh and considerable 
 risk of being recognized for the sake of a few more 
 hours at the Abbey: a brother might very well per- 
 ceive differences which other people had missed. None 
 the less, the thought of having to fly at a fixed time, 
 when he had been resolved to vanish at his leisure, just 
 when the fancy took him, irked his stubborn spirit. 
 
 He had just finished his breakfast when Mr. Lam- 
 plow, the architect from Lanchester, arrived. James 
 Whitaker at once drove him in the racing car to the 
 village and the hamlets, explained to him the improve- 
 ments he proposed, and demanded his plans by Satur- 
 day night, that he might consider them at his leisure 
 on Sunday, and post them off to the builders on Sun- 
 day night, so that he might have their contracts to
 
 126 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 sign on Tuesday morning. He made it clear that he 
 wanted contracts for each of the four places. 
 
 It was but natural, and it surprised him not at all, 
 that he should find that his demand outraged the im- 
 memorial tradition of an honorable profession. The 
 plans of cottages and of systems of drainage, though 
 they might actually be made in a few hours, could not 
 possibly be produced in a finished state in two days. 
 But he was surprised to find that his ducal fury could 
 not abate the tradition. He was forced to content 
 himself with a compromise : Mr. Lamplow, an amiable 
 bearded man, undertook to let him have the plan of the 
 proposed drainage system of Little Lanchester ready 
 by Saturday night; and when James Whitaker made 
 it clear that he wished to have the builders actually 
 at work on it on Wednesday morning, he offered to 
 make his plan in conjunction with one of the Judsons, 
 the chief firm of builders in Lanchester, so that they 
 could prepare, and he could check their estimates as he 
 went on. James Whitaker accepted this offer eagerly ; 
 but he went on to urge that plans of the three different 
 cottages of which he wished the village and the out- 
 lying hamlets of Wodden, Oiigleigh and Gant, to be 
 composed, should be prepared in the same way. To 
 this the architect agreed; and James Whitaker saw 
 his way to pledging his successor to considerable im- 
 provements before his flight, for if the architect ful- 
 filled his promises, he would be able to contract defi- 
 nitely for the sanitation and rebuilding of at least 
 Little Lanchester. He ended by despatching the archi- 
 tect to Lanchester in the racing car to bring back with
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 127 
 
 him his own assistant and a representative of the firm 
 of builders. Then he set about hustling Mr. Brinkman 
 to have ready men to help them in the simpler parts of 
 the work, and impressed on him deeply, by almost 
 ferocious iteration, that it was his business to see that 
 neither the architect, nor the builder, nor any of the 
 helpers, wasted a moment. 
 
 He perceived that he had Mr. Brinkman thoroughly 
 harried ; but he also perceived that the straining stew- 
 ard would use every effort to carry out his orders. He 
 was pleased with himself. He had never suspected 
 that he possessed this capacity for organization.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER had spent no long time on 
 Mr. Lamplow; he had been indeed direct and to 
 the point ; with Mr. Brinkman he had been even more 
 direct. Therefore he reached the bridge at a few min- 
 utes past eleven to find that Elizabeth had not yet 
 come. As he waited for her the necessity of keeping 
 her in a good temper during the rest of his short stay 
 grew clearer to him than ever; it was a matter of the 
 merest prudence to keep on the friendliest terms with 
 her. He did not put it to himself as a pleasant thing ; 
 he put it to himself as a duty, sternly. If he could 
 inspire into her so strong a friendliness as would pre- 
 vent her telling the story of what she had seen on Oak 
 Tree Knoll, even after he had disappeared, it would be 
 so much the better. Not that he was in any great fear 
 of the consequences if she did tell: it was a far cry 
 from Lanchester to Hammersmith ; and there was but 
 little likelihood that he would be discovered once more 
 buried in his natural obscurity. But it was better to 
 take no chances, better that she should not tell at all. 
 Presently he was wondering, with no little earnest- 
 ness, if it could by any means be brought about that 
 he should sometimes meet her after he had retired 
 from the Abbey. For a little while the prospect filled 
 him with a keen exhilaration; but presently he aban- 
 
 128
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 129 
 
 doned the idea with a sigh: to what purpose would 
 they meet? He was a married man. 
 
 Then Elizabeth came, fresh and charming and de- 
 lightful; and his exhilaration returned. He felt a 
 sense of ease and freedom with her which he had en- 
 joyed in the case of no other woman. It may have 
 been owing to the fact that his first careless and as- 
 sured attitude to her had been to no small degree the 
 fruit of the stimulating lightning-stroke, the bottle of 
 champagne and the two glasses of '65 brandy. The 
 stimuli were no more ; but the attitude persisted. 
 
 She was greatly excited about the finding of the 
 duke's body and the coming inquest, matters which 
 had slipped well into the background of his mind. His 
 plainly unaffected indifference about them impressed 
 her. She had expected to find him nervous and anx- 
 ious. His carelessness set her once more wondering 
 whether he was not the duke, whether there was not 
 some fantastic explanation of that change of clothes 
 on Oak Tree Knoll. She talked to him about the dis- 
 covery and the inquest at length; and he let her talk 
 her fill. Never once did she stir him from his indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 At last she stopped talking about them, grew peace- 
 ful, simply ready to enjoy quietly his companionship. 
 The thought of marrying him and becoming a duchess 
 was at the moment far away in the background of her 
 mind. 
 
 It was he who brought it into the foreground. In 
 a sudden happy expansion of his spirit at the sight of 
 her beautiful face he said :
 
 130 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Well, if ever we do succeed in falling in love with 
 each other, I shall have the most beautiful and 
 charming duchess that ever was in England. The 
 Gunning sisters can not compare with you." 
 
 She flushed as she said : "But it's you who are go- 
 ing to do the falling in love. There's no 'we' about it." 
 
 "No," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 Her statement of the conditions relieved him of any 
 uneasiness lest she should fall in love with him, and be 
 unhappy at his disappearance. Of course there had 
 not been any real danger of that: his rugged-featured 
 face was not at all likely to appeal to a girl of her age. 
 None the less it was well to be quite sure. 
 
 "Who were the Gunning sisters ?" she said. 
 
 He told her their story ; and at the end of it she said 
 impatiently : "That's the worst of living in a place like 
 this : one never hears about interesting things." Then 
 with a sigh she added : "And after all they were real 
 dukes they married." 
 
 The suggestion that he was lacking in quality nettled 
 him beyond all reason; and he said with some heat: 
 "If ever I do marry you, you'll find that you've mar- 
 ried a very real duke indeed." 
 
 "If ever you marry me?" cried Elizabeth with equal 
 heat. "It was 7 who insisted on our being married." 
 
 "And I refused," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "You didn't dare to refuse outright!" she said 
 fiercely. 
 
 They glowered at each other. But even glowering 
 she looked so pretty that James Whitaker saw on the 
 instant the folly of wasting these golden hours.
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 131 
 
 "Well, well : it isn't worth scrapping about," he 
 said in a placable tone. "What we've got to do is to 
 fall in love with each other." 
 
 "No, no: there's no 'we* about it!" she cried. "I 
 keep telling you so. It's you who object to a loveless 
 marriage, not me. I haven't got to fall in love with 
 you at all." 
 
 "Oh, well: have it your own way," said James 
 Whitaker indulgently. "It's too fine a morning for 
 scrapping." 
 
 She said a few words, in a less hostile tone, about 
 the improbability of a real duke's using the wor4 
 "scrapping." Then, when he refused to accept the 
 challenge and try to justify his use of it, she began to 
 discuss one of the novels she had borrowed the day 
 before. It dealt with well-to-do people; and since he 
 was ignorant of the attitude to life of the well-to-do, 
 of their feelings and habits, he played but a poor part 
 in the discussion. 
 
 He saved his reputation happily by saying: "You 
 can't expect me to know about people of that kind. I 
 never came into contact with these middle-class people 
 not intimate contact. Of course I see some of them : 
 I see Doctor Arbuthnot and Brinkman. But what's 
 that?" 
 
 Elizabeth gazed at him with a puzzled frown: his 
 ignorance was manifestly genuine; and the inevitable 
 conclusion was that either he was the real Duke of 
 Lanchester, or a member of the lower classes. Yet 
 his hands and his speech made the latter alternative 
 impossible.
 
 132 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He perceived her bewilderment; and it pleased him. 
 He enjoyed mystifying her. It shook her girlish as- 
 surance. 
 
 "I can't conceive why these writing fellows don't 
 write their books about the right people," he growled. 
 
 Elizabeth eyed him with yet more puzzled eyes; 
 then she said : "If by the right people you mean dukes 
 and duchesses, how would authors get to know them? 
 Besides, the interesting people aren't the people for 
 whom everything is made quite smooth by money. 
 They're the people who are struggling." 
 
 He was in full agreement with her. Indeed the 
 sentiment had his deepest approval; but he said: "I 
 don't agree with you at all. Now look at you. Things 
 are made quite smooth for you ; yet you're as interest- 
 ing as can be." 
 
 Elizabeth looked pleased to be told that she was in- 
 teresting; then she frowned deeply and said: "Me! 
 Me have no trouble? Everything made smooth for 
 me? When I'm shut up in this horrid little village all 
 my life?" 
 
 "But you're not shut up in it. At least it's very un- 
 likely that you'll stay shut up in it. Women with a 
 face like yours always have things made easy for 
 them, if they don't play the absolute fool." 
 
 "You're talking nonsense just to flatter me," said 
 Elizabeth. "Of course I have to struggle." 
 
 "No, you don't," he said quickly. 'It's I who 
 have to struggle. I have to struggle not to get attracted 
 by you too quickly. It would never do for the liking 
 to be all on my side as well as the dukedom."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 133 
 
 Elizabeth gazed at him thoughtfully, considering 
 him. It was always possible that she might fall in love 
 with him. . . . Certainly he was not by any means 
 so ugly as she had considered him at first. ... In 
 fact, she was beginning to find the ruggedness of his 
 face rather attractive. ... It made him look the 
 kind of man on whom one could rely. . . . And his 
 eyes were very attractive, very fine gray eyes. 
 
 She turned her eyes from them, flushing a little; 
 they were regarding her with an admiration she found 
 disturbing. 
 
 They were silent for a while ; then James Whitaker 
 said abruptly: "By the way, what kind of a man is 
 my brother Edward? I seem to remember that he's 
 fat and beefy ; and of course he's always bothering me 
 for money. But what's he like?" 
 
 Elizabeth's eyes sparkled and her face flushed with 
 a sudden anger as she cried : "Oh, he's a perfectly hor- 
 rible person! Everybody says so! Why, one reason 
 why I didn't go straight to the police and tell them that 
 you weren't the duke was that if the duke was dead, 
 Lord Edward Beddard would come into the title." 
 
 "Oh, he's as bad as that, is he? I'd got it in my 
 mind that he was a bad lot," said James Whitaker 
 carelessly. 
 
 "Oh, he is!" said Elizabeth with the most earnest 
 conviction. "Besides, he insulted me." 
 
 "Insulted you?" cried James Whitaker. "Why 
 didn't you tell me about it ?" 
 
 "Why, you weren't here." 
 
 He had merely meant why had she not told him
 
 134 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 sooner; but the chance was too good to miss; and he 
 said with a good show of impatience: "Of course I 
 was here ! Why didn't you tell me ?" 
 
 Elizabeth stared at him with eyes full of amaze- 
 ment. She stammered: "B-b-but I didn't know you 
 then at least n-n-not really." 
 
 "That doesn't matter. You ought to have come to 
 me about it at once. You don't suppose I should let 
 a blackguard like Edward go about insulting people 
 here. I should have jumped on him hard," cried 
 James Whitaker with a fine show of indignation. 
 
 "B-b-but I thought w-w-we all thought you were 
 like him," she stammered. 
 
 "Like Edward? Of course I'm not like Edward!" 
 he cried, frowning angrily. 
 
 "I didn't know," said Elizabeth rather faintly, taken 
 aback by his violence. 
 
 "Well, you ought to have known!" growled James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 They were silent a while; and he scowled on. 
 
 Then she said : "Then you are the duke after all?" 
 
 "Of course I'm the duke," he growled. 
 
 In some odd way his anger that Lord Edward Bed- 
 dard had insulted her had made him feel every inch a 
 Duke of Lanchester. Also for the moment he 
 looked it. 
 
 Then Elizabeth said, with some reluctance: "But 
 if you're really the duke, I ought not to be meeting 
 you like this." 
 
 "Why ever not? If you don't mind meeting a false
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 135 
 
 duke, why on earth should you mind meeting a real 
 one?" he cried in considerable surprise. 
 
 Elizabeth rose with an air of the firmest determina- 
 tion and said : "If you are really the duke, you have 
 such a bad character that I can't possibly go on meet- 
 ing you." 
 
 "There's nothing like being quite frank," said James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 "Besides, if you are the real duke, you're only 
 making fun of me," she added. 
 
 She looked so determined that he said quickly : 
 "You know I'm not the duke. You know that the 
 real duke is dead. You saw his body lying under the 
 oak." 
 
 Elizabeth's face was full of the uttermost bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 "I don't know what to believe," she cried. "You've 
 muddled things up so completely now that I don't 
 know whether you're the duke or whether you're not." 
 
 "Of course I'm not the duke, I tell you I'm not; 
 do sit down !" he said impatiently. 
 
 She yielded to his imperative, not to say bullying, 
 tone and sat down. But she did not look any less be- 
 wildered. 
 
 "Now we'll work things out on this theory, that I'm 
 not the real duke, but in such a way that, if we fall 
 in love with each other, you may become the Duchess 
 of Lanchester, and that that scoundrel Edward may 
 not come into the title. I'm to go on seeming to be 
 the real duke. Does that satisfy you?"
 
 136 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He spoke in the same compelling, not to say bully- 
 ing, tone; and she looked at him helplessly, almost 
 stupidly. 
 
 "You've got me so thoroughly muddled that I don't 
 know which you are," she complained. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," he said cheerfully. "You'll 
 soon get clear again; and we'll go on just as we are." 
 
 She shook her head and said : "I am so dreadfully 
 muddled." 
 
 She looked muddled, mazed indeed; but also she 
 looked charming. He was pleased that he had in- 
 duced her to stay. Then his conscience began to re- 
 proach him. Why hadn't he let her go? ... She 
 had been convinced definitely convinced that he was 
 the real duke; and all danger from her had passed. 
 . . . The only object of his meetings with her had 
 been to secure her silence. . . . He had secured it 
 safely, for good and all; and then he had quite delib- 
 erately thrown away the advantage at which he had 
 been aiming, had deliberately awakened again her sus- 
 picions. 
 
 He did his best to feel surprised at his action, and 
 to assure himself that he had been afflicted by a sudden 
 access of idiocy. But at the bottom of his heart he 
 knew very well that he had been actuated only by the 
 keenest desire that she should continue to meet him. 
 
 Of course the meetings could lead to nothing. The 
 vision of Millicent, pale, sandy, sharp- featured and 
 querulous, rose in his mind. He hardened his heart 
 and resolved, yet again, to have his holiday as pleasant 
 as possible.
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 137 
 
 He looked at Elizabeth earnestly; she was looking 
 at him with a still bewildered air. He lighted a cigar 
 carefully and slowly. Then he said : 
 
 "You don't mind having these talks with me ?" 
 
 "No : I I like them. They're a change," she said. 
 
 "I like them too. But it isn't so much that as that 
 they're necessary that is, if you still want to be a 
 duchess. 
 
 "Yes I do," said Elizabeth; but her tone lacked 
 something of its old certainty. 
 
 'That's all right," said James Whitaker. 
 
 They both felt, for no reason quite clear to them, 
 that they had made a yet further advance in intimacy ; 
 and the talk turned on her earlier life. He learned 
 that she was her father's only child, and had lived at 
 Little Lanchester since she was six years old ; but her 
 childhood had been enlivened by the companionship 
 of her cousin Henry, the son of an uncle, a tea-planter 
 in India. Henry had spent his holidays at the vicar- 
 age during all his school-days, and had only gone to 
 join his father in India at the end of the last autumn. 
 The great period of her life had been her eighteenth 
 year, which she had spent at a finishing school at Wim- 
 bledon. Since her cousin's departure she had enjoyed 
 no society save that of Cissie Wyse. 
 
 "I expect you miss that cousin of yours," said James 
 Whitaker, looking at her earnestly with suspicious 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes I did," she said, flushing under his gaze. 
 
 James Whitaker disliked the flush heartily; and he 
 said grumpily : "I expect he made love to you."
 
 138 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Perhaps he did," she said ; and the flush deepened. 
 
 James Whitaker felt the first pang of jealousy he 
 had ever felt in his life, and its violence surprised him. 
 He had not known that he was capable of jealousy. 
 
 "I believe you're engaged to him," he growled sav- 
 agely. 
 
 "Fm nothing of the kind! Do you think I should 
 be meeting you like this if I were ?" 
 
 He felt somewhat comforted. 
 
 "Besides, there was no chance of it. I knew him too 
 well. I knew him as well as I know myself," she said. 
 
 "Ah, well; you'll never know me very well," he 
 said in a tone of gloomy satisfaction. 
 
 She looked at him and wondered. She did not think 
 that she would. He certainly was interesting. 
 
 "Why not?" she said. 
 
 "Oh, a woman couldn't or a man either," he said. 
 
 She was inclined to believe him; duke or no duke, 
 he was certainly interesting. 
 
 The love-affairs of Elizabeth were no business of 
 his : he was a married man. None the less, he re- 
 sented bitterly the existence of Henry. He scowled 
 at the thought of him. 
 
 "What's the matter? Why have you lost your 
 temper?" she said. 
 
 "I haven't lost my temper," he said with an air of 
 great dignity. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have!" she cried, suddenly gleeful. 
 "And I believe it's about Henry. But Henry doesn't 
 count. He doesn't, really."
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 139 
 
 She went on to describe Henry at some length ; and 
 it grew quite plain that she had ruled that simple 
 young man with a rod of iron. He understood dimly, 
 by instinct, that such a man would never really take 
 her fancy, that she would be only happy ruled, not 
 ruling. The jealous oppression cleared from his heart, 
 the scowl from his face. 
 
 "Oh, he's like that, is he?" he said in an easy tone 
 when she came to the end of her description. 
 
 He leaned back against the bank, silent for a while, 
 enjoying the cigar and the beauty of Elizabeth. 
 
 Then he said abruptly: "How did that brute Ed- 
 ward insult you ?" 
 
 At first she refused to tell him, then changed her 
 mind and said: "Well, you'll be thinking it ever so 
 much worse than it was, if I don't. It was last Octo- 
 ber, and I met him in the lane which runs through the 
 home wood, and he walked along with me. Of course, 
 I'd known him ever since I was a child a little. And 
 then he grew offensive and tried to kiss me." 
 
 "The brute wants horse-whipping!" cried James 
 Whitaker in a fine heat. 
 
 The jealousy with which he had only just become 
 acquainted again flamed up in him, more furious. The 
 thought of that hulking brute (he saw him as a hulk- 
 ing brute) kissing Elizabeth set his blood boiling. 
 
 "Oh, I did slap him hard !" said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Slap him? I wish I'd been there with a broom- 
 handle !" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 His face was set in the blackest of scowls.
 
 140 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 His anger pleased her: it was so plainly genuine; 
 and there was so much of it. Indeed, she thrilled a 
 little to the savagery of his tone. 
 
 He seemed to be reflecting, and he still scowled. 
 Then he burst out : 
 
 "I tell you what it is: if anything happened to me 
 ' if I disappeared or anything and that blackguard 
 took my place, you'd marry him." 
 
 "I shouldn't do anything of the kind !" cried Eliza- 
 beth, with great spirit. 
 
 "Yes, you would just to be duchess," he growled. 
 
 "I should not! Why, you were bad enough but 
 Lord Edward Beddard ! Oh, he's quite impossible ! I 
 shouldn't dream of it," she protested. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you would," he growled stubbornly. 
 
 "I should not!" she cried vehemently. "You've no 
 business to say such a thing ! It's it's an insult !" 
 
 She sprang to her feet. 
 
 James Whitaker rose more slowly, his face grim and 
 scowling. He was not going to retract what he had 
 said ; he was convinced that it was true. 
 
 She started along the bank with her head high in the 
 air, her lips curled, and her nostrils dilated in an ex- 
 pression of offended scorn. James Whitaker walked 
 beside her, his face one contracted scowl, his hands 
 thrust deep in his pockets. For a hundred yards they 
 walked in silence. Then she said haughtily. 
 
 "Aren't you going to apologize?" 
 
 "No; I'm not. It's true," growled James Whitaker 
 in a tone of ill-repressed fury.
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 141 
 
 "Very well. I shan't speak to you till you do," she 
 said very coldly. 
 
 "Then you won't speak to me for a long time," he 
 said fiercely ; and he meant it. 
 
 They parted stiffly at the bridge. 
 
 James Whitaker walked back to the Abbey in a tow- 
 ering rage. The thought of Lord Edward Beddard's 
 attempt to kiss Elizabeth was infuriating, but the 
 thought that after his return to his Hammersmith ob- 
 scurity this loathed successor would at his ease and 
 leisure prosecute his design on Elizabeth, and probably 
 in the end marry her, was ten times more infuriating. 
 He was infinitely more jealous of his successor, who 
 had had but one interview, lasting perhaps a quarter 
 of an hour, with her, than he was of the cousin Henry 
 who had been so intimate with her all his life. In- 
 deed, his natural dislike of his fortunate successor was 
 beginning to grow into a firm detestation. 
 
 He came to lunch fuming, and received Jenkinson's 
 account of the inquest on his predecessor's body with 
 a snappish ill-temper which impressed on the butler's 
 plastic mind the belief that that inquest was the last 
 thing in the world of interest to his glowering master. 
 
 But the admirably cooked food, and the bottle of 
 1868 Chateau d'Yquem he drank with it, slowly 
 soothed him to the point of reflecting with an almost 
 dispassionate calm on the matter of leaving Elizabeth 
 to his detestable successor. It had by now grown 
 quite clear to him that they would marry. Was he 
 justified in leaving her to such a wretched fate?
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 HE had time and to spare to reflect on the matter, 
 for, in his displeasure with Elizabeth that she 
 should be willing to marry such an offensive black- 
 guard as he felt his successor to be, he had not asked 
 her to meet him that afternoon. During the hour 
 after lunch he told himself more than once that he was 
 not sorry that he was not meeting such a mercenary 
 creature. None the less he found presently that he 
 was not enjoying himself among the treasures of the 
 Lanchesters with that fulness which a man on a holi- 
 day expects. His eyes would leave them to gaze out 
 of the windows at the sunlight, and twice he found 
 himself at the edge of the terrace, gazing down over 
 the park without quite knowing why he had come 
 there. The pleasing sight of Elizabeth did not meet 
 his eyes. 
 
 He did not take the usual pleasure in his tea, though 
 the cream was as rich, the cakes as delicate as ever; 
 the cigar he smoked after it lacked something of its 
 usual flavor. He found himself suffering from a 
 vague dissatisfaction with life; and he could not per- 
 ceive the cause of it. 
 
 After tea he went, somewhat listlessly, into the yel- 
 low drawing-room, which was full of the treasures of 
 the East, and took from a cabinet a tray of ivory ne- 
 
 142
 
 iWHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 143 
 
 tsuke. He was examining them through a large read- 
 ing-glass, when the door opened softly. Thinking that 
 it was Jenkinson, or a footman, come for instructions 
 about something, he did not turn his head, but gazed 
 on intently at the figure he was admiring. Then two 
 soft hands were laid gently over his eyes and a voice 
 whispered : 
 
 "Guess who it is." 
 
 "Elizabeth," said James Whitaker joyfully. 
 
 The hands were swiftly lifted, and an imperious 
 voice he did not know cried in accents of the bitterest 
 indignation : 
 
 "Elizabeth! Who is Elizabeth?" 
 
 He turned his head sharply to see a very pretty 
 black-eyed, black-haired woman, with a fine color in 
 her clear-skinned cheeks, glaring down on him with 
 an air as indignant as her tone. 
 
 "Who is Elizabeth ?" she cried again. 
 
 He gazed at her in a blank astonishment, remem- 
 bered himself, and growled huskily: "Who are you? 
 I'm hanged if I haven't forgotten!" 
 
 The lady's expression changed swiftly from extreme 
 anger to extreme dismay. She stared at him with in- 
 credulous eyes; her face fell; the corners of her lips 
 drooped ; and she cried in a lamentable voice : 
 
 "What? You've forgotten your Emily?" 
 
 James Whitaker gazed at her with knitted brow, 
 collecting all his wits to meet the emergency. The 
 lady was of the same type as Elizabeth, but not so 
 good an example of it. She was a little shorter and a 
 little plumper, but yet of a good figure. Also she was
 
 144 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 older. But even in that hurried, harassed scrutiny he 
 found her far more attractive than Lady Cubbington. 
 And she was his, or rather his predecessor's Emily. 
 
 He said slowly, scowling as if in a struggle with his 
 memory : 
 
 "Emily Emily ... I know the name . . . 
 wait a minute. . . . I'm beginning to remember 
 
 "But it's horrible your forgetting me like this ! Per- 
 fectly horrible !" wailed the lady. 
 
 "It isn't me ; it's the lightning," he protested. 
 
 "That doesn't make it any less horrible !" she cried. 
 
 With that she burst into tears, sank down on to his 
 knee, threw her right arm around his neck and kissed 
 him. 
 
 "I-I-I-I t-t-t-thought you 1-1-1-loved m-m-me !" 
 she sobbed. 
 
 The suddenness of her disturbing action took James 
 Whitaker utterly aback. He put his left arm around 
 her; but that was a wholly instinctive action. He 
 could not find words; that required an effort of will. 
 
 He was wondering whether his safety did not de- 
 mand that he should kiss her, when she gave a little 
 sniff and drew away so that he could see her face; 
 and he saw a faint bewilderment gather on it. Then 
 she drew back to the length of her arm and stared into 
 his face with all her eyes, her bewilderment plainly 
 growing and growing. 
 
 "Why . . . why . . . What is it?" she said 
 faintly. 
 
 "What's what?" he said in a sudden disquiet. 
 
 "Why, you . . . you!" she said, drawing yet
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 145 
 
 farther away. "Why . . . why ... it isn't 
 you! You're not . . . no ; you're not the duke !" 
 
 She sprang to her feet, and her eyes blazed at him. 
 
 Relieved of her immediate oppressive nearness, he 
 felt much better able to grapple with the situation. 
 
 "It's that confounded lightning," he growled husk- 
 ily. "I can't make out what it's done to me exactly. 
 It's destroyed my memory. . . . It's stiffened my 
 throat muscles so that I can hardly speak. . . . It's 
 half paralyzed my right arm. But it's done something 
 besides all that, and I can't make out what. But I'm 
 not the same person there's no doubt about it." 
 
 "The lightning? Yes; I read about the lightning in 
 the papers," she said. 
 
 "Yes, that confounded electricity," he growled. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate, came a step nearer, and 
 peered earnestly into his face. He met her searching 
 gaze with steady unconcerned eyes. 
 
 "You look like the duke, and you speak like the 
 duke exactly," she said in a doubtful voice. "But 
 I feel that you're not the duke. I feel that your face 
 of the duke is a mask hiding some one else. Besides, 
 you smell so different." 
 
 "And so would you, if you'd been struck by light- 
 ning ! It would make any one smell different a regu- 
 lar bath of electricity!" he growled. 
 
 "Of course there is the electricity," she said in a 
 shaken tone, and her eyes fell before his steady gaze. 
 
 "The wonder is it left anything to smell at all," he 
 growled. 
 
 Her expression was again mere bewilderment.
 
 146 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Then once more her eyes flashed, and she cried 
 fiercely: "No, I don't believe it. If you were the 
 duke, you'd never have forgotten me never !" 
 
 "Why, it made me forget my own name my Chris- 
 tian name," he growled. 
 
 "I don't care! I don't believe it! I don't believe 
 you are the duke !" she cried, yet more fiercely. 
 
 James Whitaker gazed at her, cudgeling his brains 
 for some way of convincing her that he was the duke. 
 He could find none. Then her chin caught his eye. 
 
 "All right," he growled. "Have it your own way. 
 You always were as obstinate as a mule." 
 
 "Obstinate? Me obstinate? Well, you're the last 
 person in the world to say that!" she cried a little 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Well, but you are. You know, if you get a thing 
 into your head, you won't let any one get it out. I 
 almost remember telling you so." 
 
 Her face cleared a little, and she said : "Well, you 
 did say something of the sort once." 
 
 "Only once get out !" he growled. "I'm beginning 
 to remember." 
 
 He wished he had taken the pains to read the bundle 
 of her letters which were, doubtless, in the bureau 
 drawer. 
 
 "It's most extraordinary," she murmured ; and her 
 face cleared yet more. 
 
 "Of course it is," he growled impatiently. "Very 
 few people get struck by lightning." 
 
 "I don't mean that. I mean it's extraordinary it has 
 changed you so so that you even smell different."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 147 
 
 "Oh, that's your fancy," he growled. 
 
 "It's nothing of the kind ! You do smell different !" 
 she cried. 
 
 "So would you, I tell you, if you'd had a bath of 
 electricity. I'm sure I smell all right." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't say you didn't," she said quickly. 
 
 He was relieved : plainly he had banished most of 
 her doubt. But he was eager to banish all of it; he 
 wished her to tell no one of it. If only he had read 
 her letters he could have clenched his assertion that he 
 was the duke by the display of some impressive piece 
 of knowledge of her. He cudgeled his brains for 
 some method of clenching it without that special 
 knowledge. He wondered how his predecessor treated 
 her. Then he had a happy thought : she was undoubt- 
 edly attractive very attractive : suppose he let him- 
 self go. Perhaps he would be most like the duke if 
 he did let himself go. 
 
 He suddenly grabbed her, pulled her down on to 
 his knee, hugged her tightly and kissed her with the 
 vehemence Lady Cubbington had demanded of him. 
 
 He seemed to have discovered by instinct the course 
 of action his predecessor would have pursued, for she 
 did not try to struggle out of his arms ; she only said 
 somewhat breathlessly : 
 
 "The electricity has left you just as rough as 
 ever." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," he growled ; and he kissed her 
 again. 
 
 "And you certainly haven't forgotten how to kiss," 
 she said in a tone of some satisfaction.
 
 148 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Oh, I'm beginning to remember all right," he 
 growled cheerfully. 
 
 He felt that he had swept away the last of her sus- 
 picions; and his mind was at ease, even though the 
 process of ridding her of them had brought him into 
 a position which accorded ill with the fact that he was 
 a respectable married man. It was at the moment 
 quite clear to him that the preservation of his secret 
 was of far greater importance than a pedantic pro- 
 priety of marital attitude. 
 
 The lady shifted her position a little, and said plain- 
 tively: "But how could you forget me at all?" 
 
 "It wasn't me. It was the lightning," he said 
 quickly : and instinctively he kissed her again. 
 
 He observed that it seemed far more natural to him 
 to kiss her than it had been to kiss Lady Cubbington. 
 He wondered whether this were the result of practise, 
 or of the fact that he found her more attractive than 
 Lady Cubbington. 
 
 "But if you really cared for me it couldn't have 
 done anything of the kind." 
 
 "Oh, come: it made you think that I wasn't my- 
 self!" he cried. 
 
 She sniffed once or twice and knitted her brow with 
 a faintly troubled air. He hoped that her suspicions 
 were not going to revive. 
 
 "The fact is, it dropped a veil between us," he said 
 hastily, to divert her attention from the change in him. 
 
 "I know what it really is," she cried ; and her eyes 
 were suddenly sparkling brightly. "It's that horrid 
 Cubbington woman. You've been seeing a lot of her."
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 149 
 
 "She had nothing to do with it nothing whatever," 
 he said hastily 
 
 'Then you have been seeing a lot of her." 
 
 "No, no : just at lunch once and an evening at bac- 
 carat," he said; and instinctively he kissed her again. 
 
 "Don't do that! You've been kissing her!" she 
 cried. 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," he growled without pausing 
 to reflect upon the truth of the assertion. 
 
 "As if I'm likely to believe that! She dragged you 
 into a corner and made you." 
 
 "She did nothing of the kind ! I wouldn't allow it !" 
 he cried with some heat. 
 
 "It wouldn't matter what you allowed with a hor- 
 rible woman like that. You're just wax in her hands." 
 
 "I'm nothing of the kind!" he growled with yet 
 greater heat. 
 
 "You are," she said firmly. "Why, she told Maria 
 Addenbroke that you're going to marry her when 
 Cubbington dies; and Maria would hardly believe me 
 when I told her that it's me you're going to marry if 
 anything happens to Harry in Central Africa." 
 
 James Whitaker felt somewhat chilled: he wished 
 he knew who the lady was; he wished he knew who 
 Harry was; and, above all, he wished that his prede- 
 cessor had not made this exceedingly dubious arrange- 
 ment with different ladies. It must have been a tic. 
 
 "Of course there was some arrangement," he said 
 feebly. 
 
 "Some arrangement! Is that how you speak about 
 it?" she cried, and made as if to rise.
 
 150 
 
 It was rather James Whitaker's arm than James 
 Whitaker's will which retained her on his knee. His 
 subconscious self seemed to find something pleasing 
 and harmonious in an attitude of which his conscious 
 self could but deplore the necessity. 
 
 She yielded to the instinctive, retaining pressure. 
 
 "It's the lightning," he growled. 
 
 "But it's me you really care for, dear?" she said 
 softly. 
 
 "Of course it is," he said firmly; and once more, 
 instinctively, he kissed her. 
 
 "That lightning has made one good change in you," 
 she said in a tone of gratification. "Your kisses aren't 
 so so grudging." 
 
 He was pleased by this compliment. Then he re- 
 membered that he had earned it by following the in- 
 junctions of Lady Cubbington. It seemed to him odd 
 that he should not have learned from Millicent how to 
 kiss properly ; but on further reflection it did not seem 
 odd to him: Millicent had been more interested in 
 culture. He kissed Emily twice firmly. It seemed to 
 him the least he could do. 
 
 She seemed to have relaxed from her tense jealousy, 
 and was nestling against him in a peaceful satisfaction. 
 He, too, was content to be silent ; and at last enjoyed 
 a breathing-space in which to grasp his exact position. 
 He was undoubtedly nursing a lady, probably a lady 
 of title ; and he was not revolted, or even embarrassed, 
 by the action. He found that, owing to some odd 
 kink in his mind, of which he had hitherto been quite 
 unaware, it was her prettiness which made it thus easy
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 151 
 
 for him. He felt that had she been unattractive he 
 would have found it quite awkward and unpleasant. 
 He was surprised to find himself more than once 
 vaguely regretting that it was not Elizabeth Carton 
 he held upon his knee. But he was compelled to admit 
 that Emily was a fair substitute. He kissed her 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 With an arm round his neck she gabbled to him 
 fondly. Also she spoke now and again of Harry with 
 genuine affection; and he gathered that he was her 
 husband, and engaged in hunting big game in Central 
 Africa. This affection seemed the stranger to him 
 that she had definitely arranged to marry the late 
 duke, should a lion or some other of the African fauna 
 devour Harry. 
 
 She talked of the arrangement, however, with a 
 natural, unaffected simplicity quite irreconcilable with 
 any sense of moral depravity; and it was plain that 
 his predecessor had regarded it with a like simplicity. 
 James Whitaker began to suspect that his own Ham- 
 mersmith attitude to conjugal responsibility might be 
 at fault. After all, now that he came to think of it, 
 he had taken his views on marriage second-hand from 
 his cultured wife; and Millicent was strongly feminist. 
 Plainly in this higher sphere quite other conceptions 
 obtained. Perhaps he ought to reconsider the matter 
 carefully. 
 
 He kept wishing he knew a little more about the 
 lady; it was hardly safe to leave their intercourse a 
 monologue. After a while his chance came. The
 
 152 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 afternoon was hot; the lady was plump; she moved 
 into an armchair; and said that she had left her fan 
 with her dust-coat. He rose and hurried out into the 
 hall to fetch it. 
 
 There he found Jenkinson, and said with great 
 asperity: "Why on earth don't you show people in 
 properly yourself ? Why do you let them come dash- 
 ing in on me just anyhow?" 
 
 "B-b-but Lady M-M-Middlemore always d-d-does," 
 stammered Jenkinson. 
 
 "Well, see that she doesn't not, at least, when my 
 nerves are all upset by being struck by lightning. Where 
 does she come from?" 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. London, your Grace. She came 
 in a taxi from Lanchester." 
 
 "Then bring her in some tea. Why haven't you done 
 it?" 
 
 "Your Grace has forgotten that her ladyship likes 
 grapes and benedictine at this time, your Grace," said 
 Jenkinson, waving his hand toward a silver tray on 
 which they were. 
 
 "Well, why haven't you brought them in to her?" 
 cried James Whitaker. 
 
 Jenkinson coughed a faint distressed cough, and 
 said: "But your Grace has forgotten. Your Grace 
 has given instructions more than once that I am not 
 to bring tea till you ring for it." 
 
 "Oh, bring in those grapes! And a fan, too!" 
 growled James Whitaker. 
 
 He went back into the drawing-room; and in two 
 minutes Jenkinson brought the grapes, the benedictine
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 15*5 
 
 and the fan. James Whitaker, as politeness bade, ate 
 grapes and drank a glass of the liqueur with sufficient 
 pleasure. When she was lighting a cigarette after 
 them he said : 
 
 "When's Middlemore coming home?" 
 
 "Oh, you are beginning to remember!" she cried. 
 "I didn't think you remembered my name!" 
 
 "I never forgot it," said James Whitaker firmly. 
 
 They talked about her husband for a while ; and he 
 learned several facts which might prove useful. Then 
 she suggested that they should go tip to his smoking- 
 room, since it would be cooler. He was on the point 
 of accepting the suggestion when it occurred to him 
 that his suite of rooms was so very private and com- 
 promising, and that after all he was a married man. 
 He said hastily that the garden would be cooler still; 
 and though she pouted and protested that she hated 
 gardens, into the garden they went. They strolled 
 about it; and he gathered that she knew it well, for 
 at frequent intervals he found that they had come into 
 a retired nook. It was quite plain to him on each oc- 
 casion that she expected him to be tender ; and he felt 
 that his predecessor had committed him to tenderness. 
 However, he found it less and less difficult on each 
 fresh occasion. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a faint dissatisfaction in her 
 air and in her voice; and he wondered whether his 
 tenderness, in spite of the fact that he was doing his 
 best, lacked genuine conviction. Suddenly, with the 
 air of one who makes a thrilling discovery, she cried : 
 
 "I know what it is ! It's Elizabeth !"
 
 i 5 4 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "What's Elizabeth ?" he said, somewhat startled. 
 
 "It's Elizabeth who's changed you so. I thought 
 it was that Cubbington woman."' 
 
 "It isn't Elizabeth. It's the lightning," he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is. Who is Elizabeth?" she said firmly. 
 
 He hesitated long enough to perceive clearly that he 
 must by no means make an admission about Miss Car- 
 ton; that his predecessor's general behavior did not 
 allow of it. 
 
 "There isn't any Elizabeth," he said firmly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is!" she cried. "When I put my 
 hands over your eyes you said it was Elizabeth." 
 
 "It was the first name which came into my head. 
 I only said it to score off you." 
 
 His husky growl imparted a certain air of veri- 
 similitude to the statement; uttered in an ordinary 
 voice, she would have rejected it on the instant. 
 
 "I don't believe it," she said in a tone which lacked 
 conviction. 
 
 "All right : don't," he said, and laughed. 
 
 "Oh, you are aggravating!" she cried. 
 
 "That's what you're always saying," he growled, at 
 a venture. 
 
 "Never mind ! I shall find out !" she cried angrily. 
 
 She was really angry; and it was some time before 
 he soothed her. But he learned that it had been the 
 habit of the late duke to enrage her at least once every 
 time they met; and he was glad that he had instinc- 
 tively done the same thing. Certainly his attitude and 
 manners had convinced her that he was the duke ; she
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 155 
 
 no longer attached any credit to the suggestion of her 
 nostrils. 
 
 When her anger had abated they talked peacefully 
 about their common friends; or, rather, to be exact, 
 she talked, and he confined himself to monosyllabic 
 comment on what she said. He was patiently acquir- 
 ing more facts, when it occurred to him that he was 
 acquiring far more than he could possibly need be- 
 tween now and the morning of the next Wednesday. 
 None the less he did not relax his attention. 
 
 At seven o'clock she said that she must be going. 
 He pressed her to stay to dinner with him. Since it 
 was unlikely that he would see the indignant Elizabeth 
 that evening, it seemed to him that the society of Lady 
 Middlemore would be the next most pleasant thing 
 within his reach. But she declared that she must catch 
 the seven-thirty-five train from Lanchester to London, 
 that all her arrangements compelled her to be in town 
 by nine. He let her go reluctantly. 
 
 As he watched, regretfully, the cab disappear 
 through the distant gates of the park, he suddenly 
 realized that he was beginning to feel uncommonly 
 like an unmarried man. He could not decide whether 
 it was owing to the fact that a veil, or rather a series 
 of veils, was falling between him and the old life at 
 Hammersmith, and that Millicent seemed very far 
 away, or whether it was a case of evil communications 
 corrupting good manners. Whichever of the two it 
 might be, it was quite clear that if the deplorable con- 
 duct of the late duke forced him into contact with 
 many more ladies whom the necessity of self-preserva-
 
 156 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 tion compelled him to treat with the tenderness he had 
 lavished on Lady Cubbington and Lady Middlemore, 
 his domesticated nature would become a thing of the 
 past. 
 
 He came into the Abbey great hall rather sadly, for 
 he would have enjoyed Lady Middlemore's society at 
 dinner. But without it he enjoyed that meal far more 
 than he had enjoyed his tea, for in some way she had 
 blunted for the time being his desire for the society 
 of Elizabeth. After dinner he found that the flavor 
 of his cigar had regained its delicate excellence. 
 
 But he had smoked barely an inch of it when the 
 desire for the society of Elizabeth returned in all its 
 strength. 
 
 It wanted but a few minutes to nine, and it seemed 
 to him that he might very well go down to the bridge 
 to see whether she had by any chance come to it. He 
 felt it to be very unlikely that she had come, but he 
 felt that he must make sure. 
 
 She was not at the bridge, and he sat on the parapet 
 for a while smoking. Then he thought that she might 
 have come in the direction of the bridge without caring 
 to come right to it, and he took the path along the 
 farther bank of the stream to the village. He had 
 not gone very far along it when he saw a white gown 
 at the next stile, and he was surprised by the way his 
 heart leaped at the sight, and even more surprised by 
 the intensity of his disappointment when he found that 
 the gown contained a village girl. He walked on, 
 rather more briskly, to the end of the field-path, and 
 from it looked down the empty street to the village.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 157 
 
 He sat on the stile for a while, waiting to see if Eliz- 
 abeth would appear. When she did not he walked 
 down the street. There were still a few of the vil- 
 lagers sitting about the doors of their cottages, and it 
 seemed to him that there was little cordiality in the 
 civil greetings they gave him as he passed. Again 
 he regretted that he would not be long enough at the 
 Abbey to change their feeling about him. Beyond 
 the village stands the church, and beyond the church 
 the vicarage. He was walking very quietly in his 
 pumps, and when he came to the hedge of the vicarage 
 garden he peered through it. His heart leaped again at 
 the sight of Elizabeth sitting in a garden-chair under 
 a tree in the middle of the lawn. He came through 
 the garden gate very quietly, and since she seemed 
 buried in a reverie she did not see him until he was 
 within a few feet of her. When she did see him, she 
 started to her feet with a faint cry of surprise and 
 dismay. 
 
 "Why ever have you come here?" she cried. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I come here?" he said calmly. "If 
 we're going to get to know each other thoroughly, 
 with a view to being married, I ought to see you 
 in your own home." 
 
 "But my father: he won't believe he'll be awfully 
 upset if he finds that I know you like this. I wasn't 
 going to tell him anything about it till everything was 
 settled. You know what a bad character you've got." 
 
 "No, I don't. I've forgotten. And anyhow, that 
 lightning-stroke has changed it altogether. It must 
 have."
 
 158 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "But my father doesn't know that. He'll be per- 
 fectly horrified to find you here with me." 
 
 "Well, I can't help that. I had to come. We never 
 fixed up a meeting this evening when we said good-by 
 to-day." 
 
 "As if I'd come after what you said!" she cried. 
 
 "Well, that was exactly what I wanted to see you 
 about," he said quickly. "I realized after you had 
 gone that you believed I was really in earnest about 
 Edward. Of course I was only joking. You'd no 
 more dream of marrying Edward than I would of im- 
 personating the Duke of Lanchester." 
 
 She looked at him with somewhat mollified eyes, 
 and said grudgingly : "Well, I think that's a silly kind 
 of joke." 
 
 "Perhaps it is," he said. 
 
 "Besides, I don't know that you're not impersonat- 
 ing the Duke of Lanchester." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do in the bottom of your heart," 
 he said firmly. 
 
 "I don't," she said. "But now that you've apolo- 
 gized we might get out of this garden before my 
 father, or some villager, sees us. People wouldn't 
 understand. And suppose after all we didn't didn't 
 fix things up, they would gossip and gossip." 
 
 "Oh, we shall fix things up all right," he said cheer- 
 fully. "But there's no point in your running any un- 
 necessary risk. Where shall we go?" 
 
 She led the way across the lawn to a little gate open- 
 ing into the churchyard, crossed it to a gate on its 
 farther side, went through it and up a path through
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 159 
 
 a thicket. From the end of the thicket he saw, about 
 a mile away, the back of the Abbey; and five minutes' 
 walk brought them into the park. They turned up the 
 side of it, under the trees. 
 
 "Why didn't you come to the bridge at nine as 
 usual? We might have had ever so much more time 
 together," he said in a reproachful tone. 
 
 "It was likely I should come ! After what you said ! 
 And when you'd been spending all the afternoon with 
 Lady Middlemore!" cried Elizabeth. 
 
 "Oh, come: it wasn't all the afternoon. She didn't 
 come till after tea," he protested. 
 
 "I expect you thought I shouldn't know anything 
 about it, because she came in a taxicab." 
 
 "I never thought about it," he said. 
 
 "No, you wouldn't ! You were so taken up with her 
 that you couldn't think of anything else," she said 
 almost fiercely ; and he was surprised by the flame of 
 anger in her eyes. 
 
 He was taken aback by this sudden vehemence. 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't taken up with her so much as that." 
 
 "You ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself! 
 You know you ought !" she cried. 
 
 "What about ?" he said, even more taken aback. 
 
 "You know quite well !" 
 
 "I'll be hanged if I do!" he said with conviction. 
 
 "You know you've no business to be spending the 
 whole afternoon with that woman when you're en- 
 gaged to me!" 
 
 "This is rather sudden," he said faintly. "Do you 
 mean to say you've fallen in love with me already?"
 
 160 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Certainly not!" she cried. 
 
 "I thought you couldn't have so soon." 
 
 "I should think not!" 
 
 "Then why are you so annoyed by my spending an 
 hour or two with Lady Middlemore?" 
 
 "I I I'm not annoyed. ... It isn't that. 
 . . . I don't care about Lady Middlemore. . . r .i 
 It isn't that that annoys me. . . . But what's 
 the use of our trying to get to like each other if 
 you spend all your time with other women?" said 
 Elizabeth in an explanatory tone. 
 
 "But I don't," said the obtuse James Whitaker. "I 
 spend most of it with you." 
 
 Elizabeth was too young and beautiful to snort. The 
 noise she made could only have been described as a 
 snort had it come from an older and less beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a while. James Whit- 
 aker gazed at her with puzzled interest. He had gath- 
 ered both from his reading and from his intercourse 
 with old Amy that women were not logical creatures; 
 but he wished that he could grasp Elizabeth's exact 
 point of view. 
 
 At last he said sapiently: "Look here: if you 
 weren't really annoyed about Lady Middlemore you 
 wouldn't be so jealous." 
 
 "Jealous! ... Of that woman? 
 About you?" gasped Elizabeth. 
 
 "Well, it must be jealousy," he said in a patiently 
 instructive tone. "You wouldn't be so angry if it
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 161 
 
 weren't. And I tell you what: if you're as jealous as 
 this, you must be beginning to fall in love with me." 
 
 The laugh of Elizabeth was more like the snarl of 
 an exceedingly angry wolf than any human sound. 
 She ground her teeth; her face was flushed; her eyes 
 were shining very brightly. 
 
 "In love with you?" she said in an indescribable 
 tone. 
 
 "Perhaps you're not conscious of it yet. But that's 
 what it must be," he said, with an air of illumination. 
 
 Elizabeth said nothing ; she turned on her heel, and 
 began to retrace her steps briskly. She was panting 
 a little. 
 
 He perceived that he had said enough for the time 
 being, and though he wished that he had not failed 
 to grasp her exact attitude, his instinct assured him 
 that this was not the time to continue his researches. 
 He let her go some distance in silence; then he began 
 to talk tactfully of the beauty of the moonlit park. 
 
 Her anger was fierce, but short-lived. Presently she 
 was listening to him ; then she glanced at him several 
 times with cold suspicion. 
 
 Then she said : "I'm sure you must have found 
 Lady Middlemore's conversation a great deal more in- 
 teresting than this. You had so much more to talk 
 about." 
 
 "You've forgotten that it must have been the first 
 time I met her," he said. 
 
 "But it wasn't the first time she'd met you," she 
 said quickly.
 
 1 62 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Apparently not." 
 
 "And didn't she recognize that you weren't the 
 duke?" 
 
 "She was convinced that I was." 
 
 Elizabeth's eyes began to gleam again. 
 
 "And did she did she talk to you exactly as if 
 you were the duke?" 
 
 "I couldn't see any difference," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 "Then it's perfectly disgusting; and you ought to 
 be ashamed of yourself !" she cried. 
 
 "Well, I couldn't be rude, could I?" 
 
 "And did she did she oh, how are we to get to 
 like each other if this kind of thing goes on?" she 
 almost wailed. 
 
 "What kind of thing?" he said disingenuously. 
 
 "You know perfectly well!" 
 
 "Well, if you mean ladies calling on me, I sup- 
 pose they will. They do call on dukes," he said. 
 
 She walked on in silence to the entrance of the 
 path through the thicket. 
 
 At the stile she stopped and bade him come no 
 farther. 
 
 "Very well. But will you meet me at the bridge 
 at eleven to-morrow? By to-morrow you'll see that 
 it's all nonsense about Lady Middlemore," he said. 
 
 She looked at him very doubtfully, shook her head 
 and said: "I don't know. I don't think I shall. I 
 don't want to." 
 
 "You ought to, you know," he said. 
 
 "I know one thing," she said quickly. "When we
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 163 
 
 if we ever do arrange things I won't have any- 
 thing to do with this Smart Set so there! There 
 must be other sets for duchesses. Good night." 
 She went quickly, without shaking hands with him.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER walked slowly to the Abbey, 
 pondering those two illuminating words "Smart 
 Set." They made so much that had puzzled him clear. 
 He had read much about it in the evening pa- 
 pers; and naturally, as a member of that set, the 
 late duke would make arrangements to marry various 
 ladies (he wondered for a moment how many more 
 there were of them) should their husbands expire. It 
 'did not occur to him that this was purely a personal 
 idiosyncrasy. Naturally, too, the late duke had been 
 careless of his rank, his name, his family and his re- 
 sponsibilities ; he had only valued them for the money 
 and pleasures they brought him. Naturally, the in- 
 habitants of Little Lanchester disliked their scorching, 
 grasping lord. 
 
 But he was surprised that a duke should belong to 
 the Smart Set. He had had a dim idea that it was 
 composed only of inferior noblemen, American mill- 
 ionaires, and other rich tradesmen; he had thought 
 that dukes were above it. 
 
 He was in full sympathy with Elizabeth; and un- 
 doubtedly there must be another set for duchesses, 
 and for dukes too. Had he been going to remain a 
 duke, he would certainly make haste to withdraw from 
 
 164
 
 L WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 165 
 
 his predecessor's circle of friends into an atmosphere 
 more congenial to his once so domesticated nature. 
 As it was, he might as well make the best of them till 
 the evening of the next Tuesday, using them to make 
 his holiday as pleasant as possible. 
 
 At breakfast next morning he was annoyed by the 
 long accounts, in the London papers, of the inquest on 
 his predecessor. The coincidence of a duke and a 
 tramp having been struck by lightning at the same 
 time in the same wood was the kind of fare for which 
 their readers were greediest; and they had made as 
 much of it as possible. James Whitaker felt their in- 
 sistence on the coincidence to be dangerous. It made 
 him the more eager to return to his obscurity before 
 Lord Edward Beddard should come to the Abbey. 
 
 It was this eagerness which despatched him directly 
 after breakfast to Mr. Brinkman's office to inquire 
 what progress had been made in the preparation of the 
 plans of the alterations in Little Lanchester. Mr. 
 Brinkman received him gloomily, without rubbing his 
 hands together, and assured him that Mr. Lamplow 
 had spent the day before, along with his two assistants, 
 taking measurements, and that they had been at work 
 again since eight that morning. James Whitaker was 
 very pleased to hear it; their energy promised to let 
 him escape safely, the contracts signed and his suc- 
 cessor committed to his scheme, on Tuesday night. 
 The work would be half done before they began to 
 suspect that he had disappeared for good. 
 
 He thought it well to encourage the workers in this 
 strenuousness, and strolled down to the village. He
 
 166 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 found Mr. Lamplow hard at work ; and with him, note- 
 book in hand, Mr. Judson, the chief builder of Lan- 
 chester. He said a few affable words of appreciation 
 to them, and presented either of them with one of 
 his fine cigars. He left them striving hard indeed 
 to humor his whim for speed. 
 
 As he came back down the village, he met Doctor 
 Arbuthnot, stopped and greeted him with a cheeriness 
 as gratifying as it was unexpected. 
 
 "I'm getting on, Doctor," he growled. "My mem- 
 ory hasn't all come back; but some of it has. My 
 arm is getting less stiff, and so is my throat." 
 
 "Good, your Grace good, I'm pleased to hear it," 
 said the beaming doctor. 
 
 "I'm inclined to fancy that, bar that loss of mem- 
 ory and stiffness, the electricity did me good. I'm 
 feeling more cheerful." 
 
 "Yes, yes : a large dose like that would indeed have 
 a tonic effect," said the doctor. "I've no doubt that 
 when you've quite recovered from these temporary 
 disabilities you'll be much the better for it much the 
 better." 
 
 "It was a queer thing that tramp's getting struck 
 too," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Very queer indeed, your Grace. In fact, it was 
 quite mysterious. And judging from his hands and 
 his extreme cleanliness, he must have been a man who 
 had seen better days." 
 
 "Had he now?" said James Whitaker in a tone of 
 quiet interest. 
 
 "Yes. But I didn't dwell on it at the inquest. I
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 167 
 
 know how your Grace dislikes these newspaper fusses 
 especially about things which happen about here." 
 
 "Quite right quite right. They don't do any one 
 any good." 
 
 "No, your Grace. And it was odd his being on 
 Oak Tree Knoll so far from the road, your Grace." 
 
 "Jenkinson told me he had gone there for shelter," 
 said James Whitaker. 
 
 "He'd hardly go so far for shelter; there's plenty 
 nearer the road than that." 
 
 "No perhaps not. Well, we shall get to know 
 all about it one of these days. These things always 
 come out. Good morning, Doctor," said James Whit- 
 aker cheerfully; and he walked on. 
 
 He was pleased to have the chance of being affable 
 once more to the doctor. He might always prove a 
 useful friend. 
 
 He felt that he had already done a good morning's 
 work ; but on reaching the Abbey he found that it was 
 only half past ten. He took from the bureau the 
 bundle of letters his predecessor had received from 
 Lady Middlemore and read a number of them care- 
 fully. In several he found pieces of gossip about 
 people with whom he had played baccarat, and stored 
 them in his mind since they might prove useful that 
 evening. 
 
 At eleven o'clock he was at the bridge in the hope of 
 finding Elizabeth. But no Elizabeth came ; and his dis- 
 appointment was keen. At a quarter past eleven, 
 therefore, he crossed the bridge and took the path 
 through the wood to the village. There was a sharp
 
 1 68 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 turn in it just before the gate of the wood. He came 
 round the corner to find Elizabeth sitting on the gate. 
 
 Possibly the elevation to his exalted station \vas 
 inspiring into him the diplomatic spirit, for he said 
 reproachfully. "So you never came after all." 
 
 "I never meant to come," said Elizabeth stiffly. 
 
 He leaned against the gate-post, looking up in a 
 very pleasant content at her charming face. He had 
 no desire to talk; at the moment it was enough to 
 gaze. But he had to talk ; and he said several things 
 about the weather. Elizabeth replied coldly and un- 
 graciously; but he was not hurt. He took it that 
 women were like that ; besides, he had read somewhere 
 that it was foolish to lose your temper with angry 
 women or children. 
 
 At last he changed the subject and asked her a 
 direct question about herself; and presently she was 
 telling him of the year she had spent at school. It 
 had been the great period in her life; and to a man of 
 less domesticated nature than himself these great hap- 
 penings would have sounded trivial. His simplicity 
 enabled him to take a sympathetic interest in them 
 which completed the process of appeasement. 
 
 Presently she came down from the gate ; they walked 
 back through the wood, across the stream, and along 
 its bank to their sheltered nook. There she took up 
 for a while the tale of what she would do when she 
 was a duchess. She learned from him that he had 
 already put in hand the work of rebuilding and drain- 
 ing the village ; and she was indeed pleased with the 
 quickness with which he had acted on her suggestion.
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 169 
 
 Presently she said thoughtfully : "There's no doubt 
 that we could do lots of good when we're the duke and 
 duchess." 
 
 "Rather," he said cheerfully. 
 
 On their way back to the bridge she said that she 
 would like to fish the stream; and he learned that 
 she had for years fished the free water lower down 
 it, on the farther side of Little Lanchester. He begged 
 her to fish it, since they could still continue the process 
 of settling their future relations while she fished. 
 Moreover, did any one see them together, it would 
 afford an excellent excuse for her presence in the 
 park. She said she would begin that very afternoon. 
 
 At three o'clock that afternoon, since he did not find 
 her at the bridge, he strolled along the bank of the 
 stream. Before he had gone three hundred yards 
 down it he heard her voice, and along with it a man's 
 voice. He was surprised, disagreeably surprised, to 
 find that she had a male acquaintance; and since his 
 curiosity was awakened he walked quietly along 
 among the trees which bordered the stream. 
 
 From some distance away he caught the words: 
 "But you ought ter 'ave a written permit from Mr. 
 Brinkman himself, miss ; and well you know it." 
 
 James Whitaker breathed a sigh of relief: it was 
 only a keeper with her. 
 
 "But I tell you, Pittaway, the 'duke himself gave 
 me leave," came the voice of Elizabeth in firm tones. 
 
 "I don't know nothing about that," growled the 
 keeper. "My orders is to stop anybody fishing with- 
 out a written permit from Mr. Brinkman."
 
 170 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Well, I haven't got any written permit from Mr. 
 Brinkman," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Then you'll 'ave ter stop fishing. 'Is Grace's 
 leave makes no matter at all. You know quite well, 
 miss, as Mr. Brinkman keeps this fishing for 'imself 
 and 'is friends ; an' you've got to stop." 
 
 "I shan't do anything of the kind!" cried Elizabeth. 
 
 "Then I shall take your rod away, miss," said the 
 keeper in a surlier tone than ever. 
 
 James Whitaker came sharply round the clump of 
 hazels which hid him from the speakers, to find Eliz- 
 abeth, very finely flushed, facing an old keeper with 
 a red, gnarled and very surly face. 
 
 "What's this ? What's this ?" cried James Whitaker 
 in deep husky tones. "What the devil do you mean 
 by interfering with this young lady when I've given 
 her leave to fish, Pittaway?" 
 
 The keeper turned sharply, blenching. 
 
 "P-p-please, your G-G-Grace, it's Mr. B-B-Brink- 
 man's orders," he stammered. 
 
 "You lying old blackguard! You're just making 
 use of them to be rude to Miss Carton !" roared James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 "S'welp me! I'm not, your Grace! Them is 'is 
 Orders !" cried the keeper. 
 
 "Then you go straight to Mr. Brinkman and tell 
 him that no one no one ! is to fish this stream with- 
 out leave from me! And you take a week or a 
 month's notice whichever it may be, and clear out!" 
 roared James Whitaker. "Be off !" 
 
 "B-b-but I've bin in your G-G-Grace's service all
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 171; 
 
 my life," stammered the keeper in accents of the deep- 
 est dismay. 
 
 "Go and tell Mr. Brinkman what I've just told you ! 
 Be off!" roared James Whitaker. 
 
 The keeper slunk away. James Whitaker turned 
 to Elizabeth, bade her good afternoon and apologized 
 for the behavior of Pittaway. 
 
 Elizabeth was looking a little frightened; the flush 
 had faded from her cheeks; there was, if anything, 
 rather less color in them than usual. 
 
 "So you are the duke after all," she said in a hushed 
 voice. 
 
 "Because I make such a noise when I'm angry?" 
 
 "Not exactly that. But you you look like a duke 
 when your're angry." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad I look like a duke sometimes." 
 
 "Oh, you do!" said Elizabeth with conviction. "But 
 you're not really going to discharge Pittaway. He 
 was only carrying out orders." 
 
 "Of course I am. He threatened you." 
 
 Elizabeth flushed faintly with pleasure. 
 
 "Oh, but I don't want him discharged !" she cried. 
 
 James Whitaker hesitated. He had been furiously 
 annoyed with the man ; but he had no desire to punish 
 him severely; after all he was a poor man. 
 
 "All right: have it your own way," he said. 
 
 Elizabeth thanked him, and presently got to her 
 fishing. He lighted a cigar and watched her. The 
 fishing did not prevent them from talking. 
 
 After a while she said : "It's no good : I don't feel 
 a bit shy with you, though you are the duke."
 
 172 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "That's the difference between us. I feel awfully 
 shy with you," he said quickly. 
 
 "Shy! You shy?" she cried, and laughed. 
 
 He was pleased to hear that he did not produce the 
 impression of being shy with her; and he was doubt- 
 ful whether he ought to regret the fact that he was. 
 After all shyness was becoming to a married man; 
 also it helped to keep him out of mischief. 
 
 They spent a very pleasant afternoon ; but Elizabeth 
 would not come to tea at the Abbey, declaring that if 
 she came once a week it would be as often as was 
 safe. He walked with her to the bridge, deploring 
 her firmness : and as they were parting he said that it 
 was the more to be deplored since his baccarat party 
 would prevent him from coming out that evening. 
 
 "Is Lady Middlemore coming?" she said sharply. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, I don't know who's coming 
 and who isn't. That confounded lightning has 
 knocked it clean out of my head." 
 
 "You mean you never knew at all who were in- 
 vited," she said quickly and captiously. "Is Lady 
 Cubbington coming?" 
 
 "Oh, yes: she's coming." 
 
 "It's perfectly sickening!" she said with some heat 
 "You pretend to like being with me; and you spend 
 every moment you can .get with Lady Middlemore 
 and Lady Cubbington." 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped. This party was fixed up 
 before I met you," he said calmly. 
 
 "But it's got to be helped!" she cried indignantly. 
 "I'm not going to stand it. If it goes on, I shall just
 
 [WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 173 
 
 stop the whole thing; and then you know what will 
 happen." 
 
 "Yes : you won't be a duchess," he said calmly. 
 
 "And you certainly won't be a duke." 
 
 "And would you really inform the police, Eliza- 
 beth?" he said sadly. 
 
 "How dare you call me Elizabeth ?" she cried. 
 
 "Well, people who are going to be married gen- 
 erally call each other by their Christian names." 
 
 "Going to be married! When you've only known 
 me two or three days !" 
 
 "Well, I thought that was the idea," he said some- 
 what helplessly. 
 
 "And you spending all your time with Lady Middle- 
 more and Lady Cubbington!" 
 
 "But what do they matter? I can't marry either of 
 them. They're married already," he protested. 
 
 "That makes it all the worse," she said with very 
 stern coldness. 
 
 "Ah, you're prejudiced," he said. 
 
 "I'm nothing of the kind!" she cried. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and looked patient. 
 
 She was silent, gazing at him thoughtfully with 
 puckered brow. 
 
 Then she said: "I don't mind Lady Cubbington 
 nearly so much. She's not at all like me." 
 
 With that cryptic utterance she left him. 
 
 He walked up to the Abbey in a thoughtful con- 
 tent. Women were indeed odd illogical creatures, 
 but it was pleasant that Elizabeth should be jealous 
 of Lady Middlemore. It was certainly a great pity
 
 174 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 that he was not really the Duke of Lanchester, and 
 that he was already hampered by a wife. It would 
 have been delightful to take Elizabeth away from Little 
 Lanchester and give her the full life she craved. 
 
 He had always been vaguely unsatisfied in the mat- 
 ter of Millicent, but he had never before considered 
 her an actual impediment to the expansion of his 
 spirit. 
 
 He wondered whether Elizabeth did or did not be- 
 lieve him to be the duke. 
 
 After he had dressed for dinner he bade Jenkinson 
 announce his guests very distinctly, and awaited their 
 coming with very little nervousness. He was grow- 
 ing confident of his power to make the friends of his 
 predecessor accept him: if such intimate friends as 
 Lady Cubbington and Lady Middlemore had failed 
 to perceive with certainty that he was not the duke, it 
 was very unlikely that any one of their circle would 
 discover it. Indeed after he had received the first 
 half-dozen, he was not only at his ease but he was en- 
 joying a pleasant sense of his importance in the world. 
 
 He had left everything to Jenkinson and his chef, 
 and everything went smoothly. The Countess of Haps- 
 worth, a subdued American lady of forty, interested in 
 small Pomeranians, sat on his right, Lady Cubbing- 
 ton on his left. She was looking most beautiful, 
 dazzling indeed, and when she pressed his foot under 
 the table he returned the pressure with conviction. 
 He found himself called on to say little; Lady Cub- 
 bington and Lady Hapsworth talked all the while with 
 the furious vivacity of schoolgirls. Now and again
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 175 
 
 he growled a husky phrase; for the rest, he enjoyed 
 his dinner and the beautiful face of Lady Cubbington. 
 
 Dinner over, they were not long getting to baccarat. 
 He did not bring with him any of his previous win- 
 nings, for he was not playing the game to please him- 
 self, but merely to maintain the proper ducal attitude ; 
 he brought with him five hundred dollars of the money 
 his predecessor had left in the bureau. 
 
 He played cautiously, but with the fortune which 
 had apparently always attended his predecessor, and 
 lost about three hundred dollars. Then his luck turned, 
 and he won about four hundred dollars. Lady Cub- 
 bington, who was playing beside him, whispered to 
 him that it would be delightful in the garden; and 
 he was in half a mind to quit the game and go out 
 with her, when he was called on to take the bank. 
 For a moment he hesitated, then he took it, making 
 it five hundred dollars. 
 
 For a while he played with varying fortune, then 
 luck set steadily his way, and in half an hour he 
 won nine thousand dollars. It was enough for him. 
 He rose, drank a brandy and soda, lighted a cigar 
 and presently thinking it wiser to humor Lady Cub- 
 bington, went with her into the garden. He was in a 
 considerable elation at his success at baccarat, and he 
 found that he had lost his earlier shyness with her. 
 For her part, she seemed more satisfied with him ; she 
 said that he was recovering from the lightning, fast 
 becoming his old self. He could not but take credit 
 to himself for the manifest improvement he had made 
 in the art of kissing.
 
 176 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He learned from her that his guests did not expect 
 him to sit up till four in the morning playing baccarat 
 with them; that he might slip away at any time he 
 liked, bidding no one good night, and no one would 
 feel slighted. This easy fashion of entertaining one's 
 guests pleased him: it was indeed different from the 
 almost solemn ceremoniousness of the Christmas 
 parties of his late father-in-law. But before he fell 
 asleep he reflected with some sadness on the oddity 
 of the world : he had kissed Lady Cubbington and 
 Lady Middlemore much more than he really desired ; 
 but Elizabeth, whom he desired keenly to kiss, he had 
 not kissed at all. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast a fresh pink-cheeked 
 maid waited on him, and he took it that Jenkinson and 
 the footman were sleeping off the late hours of his 
 predecessor's friends. He liked the change. It seemed 
 to him that in the fresh morning a fresh maid was 
 better for the eyes than middle-aged men. He bade 
 her wait on him at breakfast every morning. 
 
 He was somewhat annoyed that it was Sunday, for 
 Elizabeth had told him that she must go to church and 
 could by no means come into the park that morning. 
 He thought that it would be pleasant to go to church 
 in order to look at her, but he was doubtful about it. 
 On the one hand it would be a good thing to go to 
 church and be seen by everybody; but on the other 
 hand the late duke might very well have had certain 
 ways of behaving in church which the congregation 
 had studied for years. Any deviation from them 
 would be marked and might set tongues wagging dan-
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 177 
 
 gerously. Yet it might be the practise of the duke 
 to go every Sunday. 
 
 He rang for Tomkins and said to him gloomily: 
 "When did I go to church last ?" 
 
 "I don't remember, your Grace," said Tomkins in 
 a tone of surprise. 
 
 "And I've forgotten too. It doesn't matter," 
 growled James Whitaker yet more gloomily. 
 
 He betook himself to the study of Mr. Lamplow's 
 plan for the drainage of Little Lanchester. 
 
 He found that Sunday had made no difference in 
 the habits of the late duke ; dinner was not, as he had 
 thought likely, in the middle of the day. There was 
 lunch as usual. 
 
 He was somewhat taken aback by the arrival of 
 Sir Richard Starton, who had motored over to lunch 
 with him. He welcomed him gloomily, and since he 
 feared lest he should prevent him from meeting Eliz- 
 beth in the park in the afternoon, he remained some- 
 what gloomy in his manner to him. He kept a careful 
 watch on himself that he might make no slip in eating 
 or drinking, but he had little fear that his guest would 
 observe anything. 
 
 Indeed, in the middle of the lunch, Sir Richard said : 
 "There's no doubt about it, Lanchester; you're the 
 last of the dukes. You're the only one of them left 
 with the real manner. I was watching you all last 
 night, and not once did I see you smile." 
 
 James Whitaker was staring at him in great aston- 
 ishment ; he thought that he must be joking. But he 
 was plainly enough doing nothing of the kind.
 
 178 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "There was nothing to smile at," he growled. 
 
 But the tribute pleased him. 
 
 "Yes, that's it. That's the right attitude," said Sir 
 Richard in a tone of warm approval. "You're really 
 TT.' The only thing is you're living a hundred years 
 too late." 
 
 "Am I?" growled James Whitaker yet more 
 gloomily. 
 
 "Of course you are. You ought to have lived a 
 hundred years ago. Why, you'd have been the bosom 
 friend of George IV." 
 
 George IV was one of the persons in history whom 
 James Whitaker most detested, and with genuine ducal 
 feeling he growled : 
 
 "Nothing of the kind! The fellow was a damned 
 tailor!" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; you are the last of the dukes. There's no 
 doubt about it," said his guest, laughing gently. 
 
 James Whitaker was much pleased by this tribute 
 to his fitness for the position he was holding. But he 
 wondered why Sir Richard had been moved to make 
 it, whether it was disinterested. It was hard to per- 
 ceive what motive he could have had for this lavish 
 praise unless it came from his heart. After lunch, 
 indeed, he suggested that they should play picquet for 
 a couple of hours, but he did not seem at all vexed by 
 James Whitaker's refusal to play on the ground that 
 be had not yet recovered his picquet memory. He 
 suggested that they should motor over to Wanstairs 
 and play bridge with the Hapsworths. When James 
 Whitaker rejected this diversion also, he looked at
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 179 
 
 him with commiserating eyes, said a few sympathetic 
 words and presently motored off to play without him. 
 
 James Whitaker was pleased to be left free, and at 
 three o'clock he betook himself to the bridge in the 
 park. He had not waited ten minutes when, to his 
 joy, Elizabeth came. She came in a very pleasant, 
 smiling mood, for she was wearing her prettiest frock 
 and hat. She had wished him to see her at her best. 
 
 She did indeed charm him; his heart warmed and 
 warmed to her young loveliness. Had not his air been 
 set and stern and gloomy, she must have seen how 
 profoundly she moved him. As it was she only ob- 
 served that his eyes were much brighter than she had 
 yet seen them. Once more she thought them very 
 fine eyes. 
 
 She was not only charming to his eye, but she was 
 in a charming mood, no longer captious or inclined 
 to raise the matter of Lady Cubbington or Lady Mid- 
 dlemore. His violence to Pittaway the day before 
 had convinced her for the while that he was the duke, 
 though, indeed, she was not letting the matter trouble 
 her. They enjoyed, therefore, a delightful afternoon. 
 She talked much more than he, but he was very sym- 
 pathetic with her. He abated the husky growl little 
 by little, and spoke in his natural deep but musical 
 voice, and she found it attractive. Of a sudden a 
 sense of intimacy had awakened in their hearts, and 
 for no fresh reason that either of them could have 
 given, they felt drawn more closely together. She 
 was easily persuaded to come to tea on the terrace. 
 
 She was talking less about what she would do when
 
 i8o WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 she was duchess, and showing more curiosity about 
 him, how things affected him. There were questions 
 and speculations in her eyes when they rested on him. 
 He found it quite easy to talk to her. 
 
 She went away at six, for she had to go to evening 
 service ; and she went reluctantly. She promised readily 
 to meet him at nine. 
 
 He came back to the Abbey in a very pleasant exalta- 
 tion. The view from the terrace had a finer beauty, the 
 dishes at dinner, the wine, the cigar were of finer 
 flavor. The beautiful face of Elizabeth kept rising 
 before his eyes, quickening his other pleasures. 
 
 He went to their trysting-place in some doubt 
 whether he would find her as charming that night as 
 she had been in the afternoon. But he found that in 
 the light of the moon she was even more charming. 
 
 He went to bed very pleased with his day; it had 
 been the ideal day for which he had looked when he 
 had started on his holiday. He was falling asleep 
 when he was fully awakened again by the thought that 
 from Elizabeth to Millicent, from Lanchester Abbey 
 to Hammersmith would be a fall indeed distressing. 
 Then the thought came to him that he might never 
 go back to Millicent and Hammersmith: he had ten 
 thousand dollars. Millicent neither needed nor desired 
 him; and Hammersmith had been but an unkindly city.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HE awoke with the feeling strong in him that the 
 ten thousand dollars he had won at baccarat 
 had indeed changed the world. It had made him a free 
 man; not, indeed, as free as a Duke of Lanchester, 
 but free enough. At any rate, he was no longer bound 
 to the failing business at Hammersmith. All the 
 world was open to him; he could now carry his knowl- 
 edge and his talents into any sphere where they could 
 find scope. 
 
 None the less, it would be very hard to leave the 
 Abbey, or rather, to be exact, it would be very hard to 
 leave Elizabeth. Of course, he would not suffer se- 
 riously from seeing her no more, for he had only 
 known her five days, and that could not have given 
 his feeling for her time to take root in any depth of 
 his being. Yet it would be hard to leave her. 
 
 After breakfast he sent Mr. Lamplow's plan for the 
 draining of Little Lanchester to him at Lanchester by 
 Hibbert in the racing car, with a note reminding him 
 that the contract was to be ready to sign at six on the 
 Tuesday evening; then he dismissed that matter from 
 his mind. He had nothing to do but enjoy the last two 
 days of his stay. 
 
 Therefore, before he went to the park to meet Eliza- 
 beth, he sent for Jenkinson, bade him tell the chef 
 
 181
 
 182 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 that he had a fancy for an especially good dinner that 
 night, and then questioned him about the rarities in 
 the Abbey cellars. He weighed his statements care- 
 fully, and decided to drink '68 Chateau d'Yquem and 
 '92 Pol Roget with that dinner. Jenkinson suggested 
 a glass of '70 port, Martini's, to drink after dinner, 
 and after a little thought James Whitaker accepted 
 the suggestion with becoming gravity. 
 
 He spent the morning in the park watching Eliza- 
 beth fish, and he spent the afternoon in the same 
 pleasant occupation. Now and again she rested from 
 her fishing, and they talked. In the evening they only 
 talked; Elizabeth did not fish. All the day and eve- 
 ning they did not fall a-sparring once. This question 
 whether he was, or was not, the duke was not raised ; 
 the far graver questions of Lady Cubbington and Lady 
 Middlemore were not once debated. Elizabeth seemed 
 content to try merely to learn more about his per- 
 sonality, to let slip confidences about herself, to let 
 their intimacy deepen. 
 
 They lingered over their farewell that night, hesi- 
 tant, a little confused; and quite suddenly the knowl- 
 edge came to James Whitaker that he might kiss her. 
 It startled him : he must not kiss her ; it was not fair 
 to her he was a married man. He delayed no longer ; 
 he bade her good night, and left her. 
 
 He came back to the Abbey a little shaken by his 
 sudden discovery, and not a little exultant. He tried 
 to banish his exultation ; he felt that he had no right 
 to it. Of course she could not really be in love with 
 him; she had known him so short a time. He must,
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 183 
 
 however, have taken her girlish fancy. He had cer- 
 tainly no right to be exultant about it. 
 
 He never, for a moment, thought that he might have 
 been mistaken ; he knew that he might have kissed her 
 as surely as he knew that he was James Whitaker. 
 
 After he had gone to bed and lay thinking of her 
 there came a revulsion. The while his moral sense 
 had the worst of it, and he was filled with an almost 
 violent regret that he had not kissed her. There was 
 no doubt about it ; she had taken his fancy no whit less 
 than he had taken hers. They might surely have had 
 the pleasure of a few kisses. 
 
 It was a long while before his moral sense got the 
 better of his unhallowed thought, and he perceived 
 clearly and with regret that his domesticated nature 
 was indeed weakening under the pressure of the ducal 
 life. 
 
 He awoke to his last day at the Abbey, resolved to 
 enjoy to the full every minute of it. He ate a large 
 breakfast very slowly, for he might never again in his 
 life enjoy a breakfast cooked by so great an artist as 
 the Abbey chef. After it he lighted a cigar with an al- 
 most solemn air. At eleven he met Elizabeth and spent 
 the morning with her. A little while before they parted 
 he told her that he was going up to London that eve- 
 ning, and that he might have to stay there some days. 
 She received the news glumly, saying: 
 
 "It will be very dull here again." 
 
 "It will be much duller for me without you," he 
 said quickly. 
 
 His suddenly devouring eyes set her flushing.
 
 i84 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 After lunch, an excellent lunch, treated with a ten- 
 der thoroughness, he practised his predecessor's signa- 
 ture for a little while, to be sure that his hand would 
 be in when it came to signing the contract with the 
 builders. Then he ordered Tomkins to pack a port- 
 manteau with everything he should need for three days 
 in London. Tomkins asked if he should come with 
 him, and James Whitaker said that he would not need 
 him. 
 
 "By the way, I've quite forgotten where I stay when 
 I'm in London," he growled. 
 
 "Your Grace used to stay at Claridge's; but lately 
 you've taken to staying at the Ritz," said the valet. 
 
 "All right: forward my letters to the Ritz," said 
 James Whitaker. 
 
 The knowledge that it was his last afternoon with 
 Elizabeth weighed on him heavily. It made him eager 
 to lose nothing of the pleasure to be drawn from it, 
 and it informed his attitude to her with a tenderness 
 which for the time being smoothed away his natural 
 roughness. The new sense of intimacy which had 
 sprung to being in them the day before had not weak- 
 ened; his attitude deepened it. 
 
 All the while he was alert to miss no beauty of her 
 changing face and supple figure and delightful voice. 
 He strove to store his mind with memories of her 
 beauty which should remain with him, a lasting re- 
 freshment in the dry ways of the world. He was aware 
 that he might well be storing it also with a lasting re- 
 gret ; but of that he was careless. 
 
 Elizabeth was susceptible to the new tenderness in
 
 .WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 185 
 
 his attitude, the frequent tender inflections of his 
 voice, and she was gentle with him all the time. Now 
 and again a kind of dreary oppression weighed on 
 them, and they fell into silences hard to break. 
 
 At half past four he persuaded her to come to tea 
 on the terrace of the Abbey, and she needed but little 
 urging. It was at tea that he observed another change 
 in her : she seemed to have grown older, to have be- 
 come much more of a woman in the three days which 
 had passed since she had last had tea with him. She 
 still took a healthy interest in the delicate cakes; but 
 she was quieter, even graver, and plainly she was far 
 more interested in him. 
 
 After tea he had lighted a cigarette and was watch- 
 ing her as she gazed rather dreamily across the valley 
 of the Wyper, when, of a sudden, the full knowledge 
 of all that he was losing in leaving her came to him 
 with an almost violent shock. It was good, indeed, to 
 have had a splendid holiday, and to be ending it a free 
 man with ten thousand dollars in his pocket; but 
 money and memories profited nothing, if he was 
 passing into a life empty of Elizabeth. A clear glimpse 
 down its dreary vista filled him with a dreadful panic. 
 Presently it left him in a raging bitterness. 
 
 Surprised by his sudden scowling gloom, she asked 
 him what was the matter. 
 
 "It's going to London away from you." 
 
 "Will you miss me so much as all that ?" she said in 
 a tone of great pleasure. 
 
 "You can't think how much I shall miss you," he 
 said earnestly.
 
 1 86 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 She wondered for a moment whether he had missed 
 other women as much. She nearly asked him, but the 
 quick desire not to mar this pleasant afternoon checked 
 her. 
 
 "It's only for three days," she said in a cheering 
 tone. 
 
 He said nothing; he only gazed at her with angry 
 miserable eyes. 
 
 "It's very odd that we should be going to miss each 
 other so much when we've only known each other 
 such a little while," she said. 
 
 "Odd? It's incredible! I wouldn't have believed 
 it!" he cried. 
 
 She flushed and gazed at him with grateful eyes; 
 there was a most flattering sincerity in his tone. 
 
 "But you you must have missed other women just 
 as much," she said. 
 
 She was sure he had not; but she wished to hear 
 him say it. 
 
 "Other women?" he growled. "There aren't any 
 other women! There never were any." 
 
 She breathed a soft sigh of content and gazed at 
 him with eyes more grateful than ever. 
 
 He gazed at her somberly, a dull flame in his eyes. 
 Wild ideas kept taking possession of his mind: he 
 would tell her that he was not the Duke of Lan- 
 chester, but James Whitaker, furniture-dealer, of Ham- 
 mersmith; he would tell her that he was married; 
 then he would beg her to come to America with him 
 to start a new life. If she loved him, it would mat- 
 ter little to her whether he were, or were not, the duke.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 187 
 
 If she loved him, she would come. He had an odd 
 certain conviction, deep down in his heart, that he 
 could persuade her to come. 
 
 But he was silent. It was all so absurd, so unfair to 
 her. He gazed round somewhat wildly ; the imposing 
 mass of the Abbey, the beautiful garden, and beauti- 
 ful, peaceful valley seemed so incongruous with the 
 turmoil in his breast. 
 
 Then Jenkinson came through the window of the 
 blue drawing-room, bringing a telegram on a salver. 
 
 James Whitaker opened it, scowling. It ran: 
 
 "Regret contract can not possibly be ready before 
 three-thirty to-morrow Judson can not complete speci- 
 fications earlier Lamplow." 
 
 Here was a pretty business : either he would have 
 to take his departure leaving the contract unsigned, 
 or he would have to stay and expose himself to the 
 risk of being recognized by Lord Edward Beddard. 
 iWhich should he do? 
 
 His mind was in too great a turmoil for a clear con- 
 sideration of the matter at the moment; and in any 
 case it was not one to settle out of hand. Then he 
 leaped at the chance of another evening in the park 
 with Elizabeth. 
 
 "This settles my going to London to-night," he said. 
 "I must wait and go to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad!" said Elizabeth softly. 
 
 He succeeded in putting the question of what he 
 should do about meeting Lord Edward Beddard out
 
 1 88 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 of his mind till he parted with her in the wood on the 
 way to the village. Then he gave all his mind to it. 
 
 He might even now spend the evening with her, 
 catch a morning train to London and escape, leaving 
 the contracts unsigned. The drawback to this course 
 was that it might excite the suspicion that he had fled 
 just before Lord Edward Beddard's arrival in order 
 to avoid him. There was indeed no great chance of 
 it; but his flight might have that result. Again it 
 went sorely against the grain to fly so directly from 
 this sponger. To depart the evening before his coming 
 had not gone against the grain, but this definite flight 
 was another matter. He had grown to detest his suc- 
 cessor so heartily. 
 
 But most of all he was set on signing the contract. 
 All his obstinacy was up in arms at the thought of 
 abandoning his scheme for the improvement of the 
 condition of the perpetual dwellers on the estate. He 
 had a dim thought that it justified his temporary 
 usurpation. 
 
 Throughout the dinner he weighed the arguments for 
 and against his going, and as he lighted his cigar he 
 came to the final resolve that he would stay and risk 
 recognition. 
 
 He walked briskly across the terrace with his mind 
 at ease. As he came to the top of the steps he saw 
 the lights of a motor-car coming through the distant 
 park gates. He chuckled at his escape. He was nearly 
 at the bridge when it stopped at the Abbey doors. 
 
 He came to the bridge and leaned against the par- 
 apet, waiting. He told himself that he must be care-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 189 
 
 ful not to raise Elizabeth's hopes any higher for her 
 own sake. He observed with some surprise that in the 
 expectation of her coming his heart was beating quick- 
 ly. Presently she came, on quicker feet than usual. 
 Her face was clouded, but at the sight of him it 
 cleared. 
 
 "I didn't expect to find you here. I saw Lady 
 Cubbington's motor-car," she said quickly. 
 
 "It would take a great deal more than Lady Cub- 
 bington to keep me away from you," he said quickly, 
 forgetting his intention of not raising her hopes 
 higher. 
 
 "But there were four or five people in the car," she 
 said. "And they must know you saw it come through 
 the park." 
 
 "I don't care," he said. 
 
 "I suppose that's one great advantage of being a 
 duke : you can do as you like, and no one thinks you 
 rude for doing it. If any one else did it, every one 
 would think it awfully rude." 
 
 "Oh, they'll amuse one another quite well without 
 me," he said carelessly. "But let's stroll along to our 
 usual nook. It would be just like their cheek to send 
 out a search-party for me." 
 
 She came with a little sigh of relief, for she had 
 feared that these unbidden guests had spoiled their 
 evening. 
 
 When they came to their nook on the bank of the 
 trout-stream they sat down on turf still warm from 
 the sun, their backs against a bank. But now that 
 they were safe from interruption by a search-party,
 
 i 9 o WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 they seemed to have but little to say to each other. 
 On this, his last night with her, James Whitaker de- 
 sired keenly to shine, to leave a final attractive im- 
 pression of himself on her mind. But an oppression, 
 an intense self-consciousness was on him; he could 
 hardly talk, much less shine. It was annoying, but 
 presently he lost his annoyance in the pleasure of be- 
 ing with her. It was almost enough for him to gaze 
 at her face in the moonlight. Her eyes looked so 
 large and wonderful and mysterious. 
 
 Now and again she moved a little uneasily and 
 looked at him with a question in her eyes, as though 
 she were troubled by something he could explain. 
 
 Then a craving to touch her came on him; and his 
 hand moved toward hers involuntarily. He drew it 
 sharply back. That would never do. If he once held 
 her hand in his, he would assuredly kiss her, and tell 
 her all she was to him. He must not ; it would be 
 grossly unfair. He lighted another cigar hastily. 
 There was no doubt about it : whether he went in the 
 morning or the afternoon of the morrow, go he must 
 for her sake. Perhaps he had already stayed too 
 long. 
 
 Yet he did not think that. At first she would miss 
 him; but she surely would not miss him for long. 
 After all she had only known him a week. 
 
 The cigar loosed his tongue a little, and he talked 
 more easily. Now and again the craving to touch her 
 returned; but he kept it under control. They talked 
 fitfully and with an effort of trivial things ; they could 
 not help it that their eyes and their tones held a differ-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 191 
 
 ent, far more weighty discourse. She did not try 
 to help it. 
 
 The church clock, striking eleven, brought Eliza- 
 beth to her feet, and he arose with a sigh for the last 
 of his enchanted hours. They took their way slowly 
 to the bridge. He murmured something foolish about 
 the moonlight on the water, and they went on in si- 
 lence. They crossed the bridge into the wood. 
 
 Midway along the path through the wood the un- 
 controllable impulse seized James Whitaker. They 
 were walking close beside each other, and her shoul- 
 der rested for a moment against his arm. The touch 
 broke his resolve; almost against his will he put his 
 arm clumsily around her and drew her to him. She 
 gasped and threw up her hands and pushed at his 
 chest, but with no great vigor. He threw the other 
 arm around her, lifted her off her feet and kissed her. 
 
 "Oh, don't, J-J-John please!" she cried faintly. 
 
 But his lips were too thirsty, and he kissed her again 
 and again violently. When he did let her go, she 
 leaned against him, shaken and trembling. 
 
 "You are a darling!" he said hoarsely. 
 
 "How strong you are and rough !" she said faintly. 
 
 "I couldn't help it," he said penitently. "I felt 
 as as as if I could have eaten you !" 
 
 "I felt as if I were being eaten," she said, and 
 laughed faintly. 
 
 He put his arm round her again, and she found that 
 he was trembling, even as she was. The discovery 
 thrilled her almost more keenly than his violent kisses. 
 
 "It's very odd. I never felt like that in my life be-
 
 192 
 
 fore never," he said slowly in the accents of the 
 strongest conviction. 
 
 "I'm sure I never did," said Elizabeth with no less 
 conviction. 
 
 He heaved a great relaxing sigh of pleasure. 
 
 "You you didn't mind? Did you?" he said a lit- 
 tle anxiously. 
 
 "Oh yes no I don't know." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her again gently. 
 
 "It was rather thrilling," she confessed. 
 
 "I do love you," he said, and felt her quiver to the 
 avowal. 
 
 "It seems such a short time to fall in love in a 
 week," she said, loosing herself, and moving on. 
 
 "It seems a lot longer than a week to me. I seem 
 to have moved into a new world altogether since I 
 knew you." 
 
 "Well, that's exactly how I feel," she said. 
 
 He stopped her to kiss her again, and kept his arm 
 round her when they moved on. 
 
 "To think that I thought you weren't the duke!" 
 she said presently. 
 
 "Well, it was always possible I wasn't," he said. 
 
 She squeezed his arm gently. 
 
 "How I did bully you !' : she said. 
 
 At the end of the wood they lingered; it was hard 
 indeed to part. But when the church clock struck 
 twelve she hurried away. 
 
 James Whitaker came back to the Abbey very slow- 
 ly. His mind was still in a whirl from the emotional 
 explosion which had upturned the very depths of his
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 193 
 
 being. He was aware that he had beyond measure 
 complicated his already very difficult position ; but none 
 the less, his strongest feeling was a great exultation. 
 The future was black enough ; but he would not let its 
 blackness trouble him. He abandoned himself to 
 memories of Elizabeth. 
 
 They would not let him sleep. It was a long while 
 before his exultation died down; and he began to 
 face the new situation. It was new, wholly new. The 
 sudden violent outburst of his passion had wholly re- 
 moved their love affair from the region of light loves. 
 He had won from Elizabeth a response to that pas- 
 sion; and he had incurred heavy obligations toward 
 her. He had given her rights beside which he felt 
 the rights of his unloved and unloving wife to be 
 shadowy. To desert her forthwith would be beyond 
 words shameful. 
 
 On the other hand, he could not see what he would 
 gain by staying. He could not remain Duke of Lan- 
 chester: that was out of the question. He could not 
 marry Elizabeth, at any rate as long as Millicent was 
 alive; and she might 1'ive another half century. If 
 ever any one was in a blind alley! 
 
 He found some relief in damning Lamplow for his 
 delay about the contracts; and then, ungratefully, he 
 cursed the voluptuous life he had been leading, and 
 the stimulation of Lady Cubbington and Lady Middle- 
 more which had so sapped his domesticated nature as 
 to render him incapable of keeping his resolve to leave 
 the Abbey on the terms, the ostensible terms at any 
 rate, of a mere flirtation with Elizabeth.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHEN at last he fell asleep he slept soundly 
 enough; but he awoke with his perplexity of 
 the night no whit lessened. It did not spoil his break- 
 fast, though it lessened his enjoyment of it by diverting 
 from it his full attention. 
 
 He learned from Jenkinson that Lord Edward Bed- 
 dard was wont to arrive at the Abbey about noon. 
 That was satisfactory, for it would give him an hour 
 with Elizabeth before the dangerous and possibly fate- 
 ful meeting. As he was finishing his breakfast, a foot- 
 man brought a message from Mr. Brinkman asking 
 if he might see him on a matter of importance. He 
 sent word that he would come to him in his office ; and 
 after breakfast he went. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman rose at his entrance and washed his 
 hands at him as he bade him good morning. 
 
 "Good morning. What is it?" growled James 
 .Whitaker. 
 
 "It's about your racing-stable, your Grace. We ar- 
 ranged, you know, that it should be sold by auction; 
 and I was taking steps to carry out that arrangement. 
 But an opportunity has arisen for selling it by private 
 contract. Sir Otto Bernstein, hearing, I suppose, that 
 you were selling it, has made an offer of two hundred 
 thousand dollars for it, lock, stock and barrel." 
 
 194
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 195 
 
 This was indeed good news, for in the short time 
 at his disposal James Whitaker had not hoped to be 
 able to get rid of the stable, eager as he was to do so ; 
 and he had been sure that his successor would undo 
 any arrangement he mighbmake to sell it by auction. 
 He had made up his mind, therefore, that he must be 
 content with draining and rebuilding Little Lan- 
 chester. Now, he could probably make certain of get- 
 ting rid of the stable too. 
 
 But he showed no pleasure at the news ; he scowled 
 and said : 
 
 "That infernal outsider?" 
 
 The breath of opposition stimulated Mr. Brinkman; 
 his little eyes sparkled ; his nose reddened ; and wash- 
 ing his hands furiously, he grew almost eloquent in 
 urging his employer to accept the offer. He declared 
 that the horses might, at auction, sell for a thousand 
 or two more ; but then they were quite as likely to sell 
 for a thousand or two less. In any case, there was no 
 security that they would not fall into the hands of out- 
 siders. 
 
 James Whitaker listened to him, scowling; but in 
 the end he let his face clear, and growled : 
 
 "All right. Have it your own way. But I don't 
 want a lot of trouble and bother about it. Write a 
 letter accepting the offer at once for me to sign; and 
 then draw up a deed for me to sign when I come in, 
 so that you can put the sale through without bothering 
 me any more about it. Can you do that?" 
 
 "Certainly, your Grace, certainly," said Mr. Brink- 
 man, beaming at getting his way.
 
 196 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Forthwith he wrote the letter; and James Whit- 
 aker signed it glumly. But as he came out of the 
 office he smiled a smile of great content. He felt that 
 in removing from the turf one of its oldest and most 
 respected patrons he had done it what harm he could. 
 He went to meet Elizabeth in excellent spirits, his 
 coming dangerous meeting with his successor for the 
 while forgotten. 
 
 Both he and Elizabeth were at first a little shy, 
 meeting on this lower level of emotion after their ex- 
 altation of the night before. But their shyness soon 
 vanished as nearness rekindled the flame. The eyes 
 of Elizabeth were not, indeed, so wonderful and mys- 
 terious as they had been in the moonlight; but fine 
 candid eyes, they had their beauty of the day. 
 
 He felt bound to kiss her (he must play the part into 
 which his passion had thrust him), and she did not find 
 that the daylight at all lessened the fervor of his lips. 
 
 Presently he said, carelessly enough: "I've got to 
 get back by twelve, unfortunately. I'm expecting my 
 brother." 
 
 "Is he coming to stay at the Abbey?" she said, 
 frowning at the thought of him. "We shan't be able 
 to see so much of each other." 
 
 "I shan't let him interfere with us," he said firmly. 
 
 She smiled; and then she said: "How terrified 
 you'd be, if you weren't really the duke !" 
 
 "Oh, for anything you know, my heart may be in 
 my boots." 
 
 "It isn't. I can feel it beating," she said confidently.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 197 
 
 "It's your own you feel," he said. 
 
 In truth it was difficult to distinguish their heart- 
 beats, so close together were they sitting. 
 
 He had no doubt that he had wholly cleared her 
 mind of any doubt that he was the duke. He felt 
 bound to pretend to himself that he wished he had not, 
 for had she continued to doubt she might not have let 
 herself grow so fond of him. In truth, he would not 
 on any account have had her less fond. 
 
 They parted, reluctantly, at a few minutes past 
 twelve ; and he walked slowly up to the Abbey, bracing 
 himself for the meeting with his detested successor. 
 He had a foreboding that it would not go well, that 
 his luck had been too good to last ; and the thought of 
 trouble from Lord Edward Beddard set him scowling 
 very darkly. It was not only that he had to give 
 up to him this pleasant life ; but he was the man who 
 had tried to kiss Elizabeth, who might even, when he 
 had gone, try to marry her. He detested him even 
 more heartily on this account than he detested him for 
 ousting him from his dukedom. He came on to the 
 terrace not so much ready as eager for the struggle, 
 his combative spirit on edge. He would not merely 
 bluff his opponent out: if he were too annoying, -he 
 would give him the hammering of a lifetime. To think 
 that the blackguard had tried to kiss Elizabeth! 
 
 He came on to the terrace before the Abbey, frown- 
 ing, hunched together, with the air almost of a beast 
 crouching to spring. He walked toward the big doors 
 and had almost reached them, when a voice called
 
 i 9 8 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Hallo, John!" from the dining-room, and a man 
 came out of one of the long windows, carrying a 
 tumbler in one hand and a cigar in the other. 
 
 "How are you, old chap?" he said in a gurgling 
 oily voice ; and he put the cigar in his mouth and held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "How are you?" growled James Whitaker, gazing 
 at him with all his eyes. 
 
 He saw a very thick-set, bull-necked man, a little 
 shorter than himself, black-haired, with brown eyes 
 to which the bloodshot whites gave a reddish hue, 
 with thick fleshy lips, parted as if he were afflicted by 
 adenoids, and with a heavy jowl. 
 
 With something of a shock he knew that, some- 
 where or other (he could not remember where) he had 
 seen that repulsive face before. 
 
 "You don't look very cheery," said Lord Edward 
 Beddard with a gurgling chuckle; and he pressed 
 James Whitaker's limp hand with a fat soft hand, un- 
 pleasantly hot and dry. 
 
 "How are you after being struck by lightning?" he 
 went on in a tone of resolute pleasantness. "I read 
 about it in the papers, and I gathered that you must 
 have had a devilish narrow shave. But I met Berk- 
 eley ; and he told me that he had been playing baccarat 
 with you at the Cubbingtons' and you were as right as 
 rain." 
 
 "He was wrong, then," growled James Whitaker. 
 "My right arm is still stiff and so are my talking 
 muscles ; and I never know what I'm going to remem- 
 ber and what I'm not."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 199 
 
 As he was speaking he saw a look of perplexity come 
 into Lord Edward's face, the very look which had 
 come into the face of Lady Middlemore; and he 
 braced himself. 
 
 Lord Edward bent forward, peering at him. James 
 Whitaker affected to perceive nothing, turned to the 
 left and began to stroll along the front of the Abbey. 
 Lord Edward kept pace with him, staring at him side- 
 wise. Mechanically he raised the glass he was carry- 
 ing to his lips, drained it and stared again. 
 
 James Whitaker said nothing. The searching eyes 
 gave him the unpleasant sensation that they were bor- 
 ing through the mask of his flesh to the man beneath. 
 He bent all his energy to keeping his face impassive, 
 unconcerned, unaware. He felt that he was succeeding 
 with his face : it was rigid : but that his eyes were not 
 so well under control. His eyelids flickered ; and then 
 they flickered again. 
 
 "My my goodness !" said Lord Edward Beddard 
 faintly. 
 
 James Whitaker strolled on, still impassive, and 
 turned the corner of the Abbey. Lord Edward Bed- 
 dard dropped the glass, gripped his arm and said 
 thickly : 
 
 ''Here I say!" 
 
 James Whitaker turned and met the gaze of his ex- 
 cited, burning eyes full and square. There was a dull 
 dangerous glow in his own. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he growled; and he shook 
 the fat hand from his arm very roughly. 
 
 "The matter, by God!" cried Lord Edward Beddard
 
 200 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 in a high wheezy voice. "Why why it isn't Lan- 
 chester! You're not Lanchester at all!" 
 
 "You're drunk," growled James Whitaker; and in- 
 tent as he was on the matter in hand, he heard a win- 
 dow pushed up near them. 
 
 "Drunk be damned ! You're not Lanchester ! You're 
 an impostor! Damn it! I know! I know! You're 
 that damned broker!" 
 
 On his words the vision of a sale at Christie's rose 
 before James Whitaker's mind, and the face of the 
 ugly red- faced brute who had stared and stared at 
 him. That ugly red- faced brute was Lord Edward 
 Beddard. 
 
 With this discovery came the realization of the ex- 
 tent of his danger : here was a man who could point the 
 way to the duke's double, to James Whitaker. 
 
 "If you're not drunk, you're mad," he growled, and 
 he thrust his fierce scowling face forward into that 
 of Lord Edward Beddard. He had to thrust his hands 
 deeper into his pockets not to hit it. 
 
 "M-m-mad? D-d-drunk?" wheezed Lord Edward 
 Beddard, and he drew sharply back from that savage 
 mask. "I I I'll damned well show you, you infer- 
 nal impostor !" 
 
 His crimson face was working wildly as wonder and 
 rage and joy chased one another across it. 
 
 "You are drunk!" cried James Whitaker. 
 
 Lord Edward Beddard coughed oddly, and James 
 Whitaker's glaring eyes saw a darker, purple stain 
 ousting the crimson from his face, as he clutched at his 
 head with both hands ; his blood-shot eyes rolled in their
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 201 
 
 sockets, and then stuck with only the whites show- 
 ing; he uttered another snorting cough, staggered 
 jerkily in a half circle, fell heavily on his back, writhed 
 for perhaps ten seconds, and lay still, snoring ster- 
 torously. 
 
 James Whitaker stood and stared down at him 
 blankly, utterly taken aback. Then he recovered, 
 dropped on one knee, and unfastened slowly, with 
 bungling fingers, the fallen man's collar and shirt. It 
 did not ease the stertorous snoring. 
 
 James \yhitaker gazed round helplessly and saw, at 
 the open window of his office twenty yards away, Mr. 
 Brinkman staring with parted lips. On the instant it 
 flashed on him that the steward had heard every word 
 they had uttered ! But he roared at him : 
 
 "Don't stand staring there like a stuck pig! Fetch 
 Jenkinson! Send a footman for Doctor Arbuthnot! 
 Get on, you blockhead! Every minute may be pre- 
 cious !" 
 
 Mr. Brinkman disappeared from the window ; James 
 Whitaker rose and stared down on his stricken ad- 
 versary. He did not know what to do; he was over- 
 whelmed by surprise at this ending of their interview. 
 Then Jenkinson and a footman came, running. 
 
 Jenkinson stopped, bent down, looked at the snor- 
 ing man and cried : 
 
 "It's come, your Grace! Your Grace always said 
 it would !" 
 
 "What's come?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Apoplexy, your Grace. Just like his poor grand- 
 father only so much younger."
 
 202 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Well, hurry up ! Don't stand jabbering there ! Get 
 him to bed ! Have you sent for the doctor ?" 
 
 "Mr. Brinkman's sending Taylor for him, your 
 Grace." 
 
 On his words the steward came panting round the 
 corner of the building. His face was flushed, his eyes 
 were sparkling. He had nothing of the air of a man 
 whose employer's brother had just been stricken with 
 apoplexy under his eyes. It was plain to James Whit- 
 aker that not only had he heard what they had said, 
 but that he had fully grasped its importance,; that even 
 now he was reckoning the advantages to be drawn 
 from it. 
 
 "Fetch a couple of gardeners, Mr. Brinkman! Be 
 sharp!" he growled at him. 
 
 For a breath the steward hesitated; then he went. 
 
 They soon carried Lord Edward Beddard, still snor- 
 ing stertorously, to a bedroom, and Jenkinson and 
 Tomkins set about undressing him. James Whitaker 
 left them to it. As he went down the stairs he met 
 Doctor Arbuthnot hurrying up them. 
 
 "Jenkinson says it's apoplexy," he said. 
 
 "I always expected it!" cried the doctor, hurrying 
 on. 
 
 James Whitaker went down into the garden (he felt 
 that he needed plenty of air) and walked up and down 
 considering this change in the situation. It had become 
 so much more dangerous since Lord Edward Beddard 
 had seen him at Christie's. The police would have 
 little difficulty in tracing him to his Hammersmith 
 shop; they would only have to show the late Duke
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 203 
 
 of Lanchester's portrait to one of the clerks at Chris- 
 tie's. His dealings with the firm had not been ex- 
 tensive, but there had been dealings enough in the 
 days when he was buying for his father-in-law. 
 
 Then there was the matter of Brinkman. He did 
 not know what to expect from that little ferret. Prob- 
 ably he would help Lord Edward Beddard; indeed, 
 it was almost certain that he would unless he could 
 see his way to making a greater profit by helping him 
 retain the title and estates. That did not matter since 
 he did not propose to retain them. He must give all 
 his mind to devising some means of escaping safely. 
 
 He fixed his mind on the discovering of those means, 
 and walked up and down, frowning deeply as he 
 cudgeled his brains. At the end of a quarter of an 
 hour of absorbed concentration on the matter, he was 
 beginning to see that he must not only leave England, 
 but that he must grow a beard and mustache to dis- 
 guise himself; and he wished that the upper part of 
 his face were more commonplace. A beard and 
 mustache were hardly disguise enough for him. Then 
 Doctor Arbuthnot came out of the Abbey, wearing 
 a very grave air. 
 
 As he drew near James Whitaker, he shook his 
 head, and said in a very mournful tone: "I'm afraid 
 I can give you no hope, your Grace. It's only a mat- 
 ter of hours." 
 
 "Good God! You don't mean that!" cried James 
 Whitaker in unaffected astonishment. 
 
 Oddly enough, it had not occurred to him that Lord 
 Edward Beddard's stroke might prove fatal.
 
 204 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "I do. It's only a matter of hours, as I say." 
 
 James Whitaker stared at him, weighing this new 
 development, a dozen ideas thronging his mind. 
 
 "Will he recover consciousness?" he said. 
 
 "Not a chance of it," said Doctor Arbuthnot with 
 conviction. 
 
 "Then we shan't know his last wishes, or anything," 
 said James Whitaker, concealing his immense relief 
 at this grateful news. 
 
 "No. But I was thinking that your Grace might 
 like a second opinion." 
 
 "No no. But yes it's always more satisfactory. 
 Will you send Hibbert to Lanchester for some one? 
 You know the best man to have." 
 
 "Doctor Marriott," said Doctor Arbuthnot. 
 
 He went very briskly to despatch the car. 
 
 He left James Whitaker somewhat shocked by this 
 intervention of death in his affairs. He could not, 
 indeed, feel grieved at hearing that Lord Edward 
 Beddard was doomed; but after all it was such a little 
 while since this wretched man was enjoying that cigar 
 and that whisky and soda with so plain and full- 
 blooded an enjoyment. 
 
 He pondered the curious fact that his coming into 
 contact with the members of the family had been, as 
 it were, the signal for their death. Truly the co- 
 incidence was indeed odd; the kind of coincidence 
 which would give a dabbler in the occult food for 
 endless speculation. Millicent, for example, would 
 never tire of discussing it, should she hear of it. He 
 would take care that she never did. Such coincidences,
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 205 
 
 not a whit dissimilar really, for all that they were less 
 startling, were always occurring. Yet he could not 
 but feel that it looked as if Providence were bent on 
 thrusting him into the position of Duke of Lanchester. 
 
 He paced restlessly up and down the lawn, consid- 
 ering the new situation. Then he went up to his 
 smoking-room and tried to sit quietly and smoke. He 
 could not: Lord Edward Beddard's purple face kept 
 rising before his mind, keeping his nerves on edge. 
 Then he bethought himself that he had instructed 
 Brinkman to draw up a deed selling the racing-stable, 
 and wondered whether he had carried out the instruc- 
 tion. Then he thought that it would be a diversion 
 to go to Brinkman and learn what his attitude was. 
 Now that Lord Edward Beddard could never put any 
 one in the way of tracing him to the Hammersmith 
 shop he had little fear of the steward. 
 
 When he came into the office Mr. Brinkman gazed 
 up at him with a startled air, and did not, as was 
 his custom, rise and wash his hands at him. Then his 
 eyes filled with a challenge. 
 
 "That deed?" growled James Whitaker. "Is it 
 finished?" 
 
 The steward tried to meet his lowering eyes, but 
 could not. 
 
 "I I began it. B-b-but I didn't go on." 
 
 "Why not?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "I d-d-didn't know whether it would b-b-be wanted 
 after all." 
 
 "Why shouldn't it be wanted?" growled James 
 [Whitaker in a very threatening tone.
 
 206 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "I d-d-didn't know. I thought Lord Edward 
 b-b-being so ill," stammered the steward. 
 
 He had grown somewhat pale under James Whit- 
 aker's menacing glare. 
 
 "What business have you to think?" roared James 
 Whitaker. "Get on with it at once !" 
 
 The steward jumped in his chair and muttered : 
 "Very well, your very well!" 
 
 James Whitaker glowered at him fiercely for half 
 a minute, then went out of the office, slamming the 
 door behind him. There was now no reason to make 
 haste to sell the racing-stable, but he wished to make it 
 quite clear to Brinkman that if he proposed to make 
 trouble on the strength of what he had overheard he 
 would not find him shrinking from it. 
 
 He had, indeed, shaken the steward. He left him 
 almost inclined to disbelieve his ears, sure as he was 
 that he had heard Lord Edward Beddard call the 
 duke a damned impostor. Before he had opened it 
 wider the window of his office had been open ; and he 
 had lost scarcely a word of their talk. Moreover, he 
 had been pondering the matter with all his mind since 
 he had come back from helping to carry the stricken 
 man up to his bedroom, and he perceived that many 
 circumstances manifestly bore out Lord Edward Bed- 
 dard's assertion: the pseudo-duke's pretended loss of 
 memory, the amazing change, far beyond the power 
 of any lightning-stroke, in his character; his sudden 
 interest in the laborers on the estate ; his equally sud- 
 den loss of interest in the turf shown by his determina- 
 tion to sell the racing-stable.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 207 
 
 No: no lightning-stroke could have so changed the 
 duke. . . . His love of racing had been fully as 
 great as his dislike of the agricultural laborer. The 
 steward felt that he must have been blind not to have 
 perceived this amazing fraud before Lord Edward 
 Beddard opened his eyes to it. 
 
 But the likeness. . . . The extraordinary like- 
 ness in face, and figure, and manner, in everything 
 but voice. . . . Of course! That hoarse growl- 
 ing voice, that pretense that the throat muscles were 
 stiff. . . . That was another damning fact. 
 . . . It must have been from the man's voice that 
 Lord Edward Beddard had recognized that he was 
 not the duke. . . . He ought to have recognized 
 it too. . . . And not only the stiffness of the 
 throat muscles, but also the stiffness of the right arm. 
 . . . The duke had not mounted a horse or touched 
 a billiard cue since the lightning-stroke ! 
 
 But who was the man? . . . Lord Edward 
 Beddard had recognized him. . . . He had recog- 
 nized him as a stockbroker. . . . There was some 
 family mystery here. . . . Yes; the fellow was 
 a brother of the duke and Lord Edward. . . . On 
 the wrong side of the blanket. . . . That must 
 be it. ... That would explain the likeness. 
 . . . The duke's father must have bought him a seat 
 on the Stock Exchange. . . . That was where he 
 must seek for traces of him and learn who he was. 
 . . . Doubtless the duke had known about him as 
 well as Lord Edward Beddard. 
 
 But where was the duke? . . . Surely he had
 
 208 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 not disappeared of his own free will. ... It 
 was the last thing he was likely to do. . . . He 
 had always shown the strongest sense of his import- 
 ance as Duke of Lanchester. . . . There must 
 have been foul play. . . . This illegitimate stock- 
 broker must have made away with the duke. . .' . 
 But how and where? 
 
 Mr. Brinkman was trying to recall exactly the 
 events of the day on which the duke had been struck 
 by lightning, when James Whitaker descended on 
 him and hectored him into finishing drawing up the 
 deed. As he did it he struggled to get clearly in his 
 mind all the facts he had heard about the duke's light- 
 ning-stroke. James Whitaker's behavior had con- 
 firmed him in his belief that if he was not the duke, 
 he was undoubtedly his brother, an unscrupulous, fero- 
 cious and illegitimate stockbroker. But he could have 
 wished that the confirmation had come in gentler 
 guise : James Whitaker's care-free brutality had indeed 
 stamped him as a man with whom it was dangerous 
 to meddle. But Mr. Brinkman had recognized that 
 danger earlier, and in spite of it he congratulated him- 
 self on the fortunate interposition of Providence 
 which had caused him to overhear that pregnant con- 
 versation just before apoplexy closed forever the lips 
 of Lord Edward Beddard. 
 
 But where was the duke ? Or rather where was the 
 duke's body? Where had this brutal and ferocious 
 stockbroker concealed it when he made away with 
 him?
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER came to his lunch filled with 
 the comfortable conviction that in treating him 
 like a dog he had found the right attitude toward 
 Brinkman. He was therefore eating his oeufs en co- 
 cotte with a natural high satisfaction, when he remem- 
 bered the condition of Lord Edward Beddard, and at 
 once felt that he ought not to be enjoying his lunch 
 with that unfortunate man dying on the floor above 
 him, that at such a juncture, indeed, enjoyment of any 
 kind was unseemly. But his appetite was in such a 
 healthy state that he found it quite impossible not to 
 enjoy his lunch, and was forced to content himself 
 with assuming an appropriate, mournful air, like that 
 which Jenkinson was wearing. Now and again, re- 
 membering the character of the late duke, he delib- 
 erately made it less mournful, for he feared lest he 
 might overdo it. 
 
 He was smoking a Corona after lunch with his usual 
 satisfaction, since he had come to the conclusion that 
 he had no control over his palate, when Mr. Lamplow 
 and Judson, the Lanchester builder, arrived with the 
 contract for draining and rebuilding Little Lanchester. 
 He told Jenkinson to take them to the steward's office, 
 and there he read, discussed, approved and signed the 
 
 209
 
 210 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 contract. Then he bade them draw up like contracts 
 for draining and rebuilding Wodden, Chigleigh and 
 Gant. They took their leave with faces beaming at 
 the prospect of so much work. 
 
 It had not escaped James Whitaker's notice that 
 Brinkman had been very gloomy throughout the whole 
 proceeding, that he had actually squirmed at the order 
 for more contracts, and that he was gloomy still. He 
 thought it an excellent occasion to treat him once 
 more like a dog. 
 
 "Well, we're getting on," he said in a tone of grati- 
 fication. "With four model villages on the estate, 
 the laborers will be better off than they have been for 
 generations." 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's frown was almost a scowl, and he 
 said in a very sour tone : "If you think you're going 
 to get any thanks from them " 
 
 "I don't," growled James Whitaker. "If I get any 
 thanks from any one, it will be from their grand- 
 children." 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's eyes opened wide, and James Whit- 
 aker saw that he had shown more knowledge, or more 
 intelligence, than his predecessor had possessed. 
 
 "At any rate, the newspapers say that when you 
 improve the condition of the laborer you improve the 
 quality of his work," he said. 
 
 "Yes! But who for?" cried the steward bitterly. 
 "For the tenants not for for us!" 
 
 James Whitaker marked that he had avoided say- 
 ing that he was not improving it for himself, and he 
 also marked that he had not once uttered the words
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 211 
 
 "Your Grace" words which had been wont to come 
 from his lips with a frequency quite needless. 
 
 But he said quietly: "Well, we can always raise 
 the rents, if we think it fair." 
 
 "You'll find yourself unpopular enough without 
 doing that. There isn't a landowner in the county who 
 won't resent these improvements." 
 
 "Oh, there must be some who house their laborers 
 decently," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Not on this side of the county!" snapped the 
 steward. Then, correcting himself, he added hastily: 
 "Decently: yes. They house them as they've been 
 housed for generations. But they don't build extrava- 
 gant model cottages for them. It's just waste." 
 
 "Then it's time that some one set them an example," 
 said James Whitaker carelessly ; then, frowning at the 
 steward, he growled : "It's a devilish odd thing how a 
 man in your position always tries to keep the wretched 
 beggars down." 
 
 "I want to keep them in their place the place 
 they're fitted for," cried Mr. Brinkman in a somewhat 
 lofty tone. 
 
 "You want to keep them in pig-sties, you mean," 
 growled James Whitaker. "Anyhow, it's a good thing 
 that the two hundred thousand for that racing-stable 
 gives me plenty of money to make the improvements, 
 and something over." 
 
 As he expected, the steward flamed up and cried 
 even more hotly: "Selling the stable won't mend 
 matters! It'll make the county more furious than 
 ever!"
 
 212 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "The county can burst itself if it likes," said James 
 Whitaker scornfully. 
 
 "It's all very well to talk like that, but look at the 
 loss of prestige!" cried the steward. "The Dukes of 
 Lanchester have always been English country gentle- 
 men leaders of sport sound Tories dead against 
 newfangled ideas! The county won't stand these 
 changes." 
 
 "Did you ever know me to give a damn for the 
 county?" growled James Whitaker scornfully. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman was taken aback. As a matter of fact, 
 as James Whitaker had hoped when he said it, the 
 late duke never had given a damn for the county, and 
 he had made no secret of that fact. 
 
 "It won't stand it you know it won't," said Mr. 
 Brinkman weakly. 
 
 "But what's it going to do about it ?" growled James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman gazed at him rather helplessly, 
 opened his mouth and shut it again. 
 
 "You're all wrong about the county," growled James 
 Whitaker. "It won't care. You stick at the Abbey 
 here and you never learn anything. The county has 
 stopped caring about that kind of thing. All it cares 
 about is amusing itself." 
 
 As soon as he had uttered the words he was sur- 
 prised at himself. They were the final expression, the 
 summing-up of the impressions Lady Cubbington and 
 her circle had made on him; and now that he had 
 pronounced it he believed it to be a very sound and 
 accurate judgment of their attitude to life.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 213 
 
 "OK, yes: those with investments bringing in big 
 incomes, and those who let their places are like that. 
 But I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about 
 those whose incomes come from the land, and are ever 
 so much smaller than they used to be. They'll resent 
 these cottages bitterly you'll see," said the steward. 
 
 "The backwoodsmen!" sneered James Whitaker. 
 ".What do they matter to me?" 
 
 Again Mr. Brinkman was taken aback. The words 
 and the air were in the manner of the duke ; only the 
 voice was rougher and harsher. But he could not be- 
 lieve that it was the duke, and he said in a tone of 
 bitter irritation: 
 
 "Well, I've warned you. You'll destroy the prestige 
 of the family for the next ten years." 
 
 James Whitaker could not permit that tone. Indeed, 
 he had brought the steward to the point where he 
 wanted him. He stepped nearer to him, and leaning 
 forward, almost over him, he roared : 
 
 "What the devil do you mean by throwing cold 
 water on my hobbies? Do you think I pay an infernal, 
 little pettifogging whippersnapper like you to put ob- 
 stacles in the way of my doing what I want to ?" 
 
 At the sudden roaring violence Mr. Brinkman paled 
 and began to tremble. It shook his nerves. 
 
 "N-n-no. Of c-c-course not !" he stammered. 
 
 "Then just drop it!" roared James Whitaker, yet 
 more loudly. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman only gasped. James Whitaker glow- 
 ered down on him. 
 
 "You keep your place !" he roared again.
 
 214 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Y-y-yes, your Grace!" squeaked Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 James Whitaker glowered down at him for half 
 a minute. Then he went slowly out of the office. The 
 "your Grace" pleased him. He had certainly brought 
 Mr. Brinkman where he wanted him at any rate for 
 the time being. But he did not underrate the serious- 
 ness of Mr. Brinkman's discovery. He did not fear 
 him so long as he was at the Abbey, for he felt that 
 the steward was not quite sure that he was not the 
 duke; and he could always bully him into abjectness. 
 But once he disappeared, the steward would be sure; 
 and he would set inquiries afoot. Who could say 
 where they would stop? He had a very unpleasant, 
 uneasy feeling that he was trapped. 
 
 When he had slammed the door behind him, Mr. 
 Brinkman put his elbows on his desk, laid his face on 
 his hands and nearly wept. This sudden horrible 
 violence had indeed shaken him. It was quite in the 
 manner of the duke; but he would not believe that it 
 was the duke. He was convinced that it was a fero- 
 cious and illegitimate stockbroker, near akin to the 
 duke. 
 
 If only he could find proof of it! There was a for- 
 tune in it. And the proof must be somewhere to be 
 found. There was, indeed, clearly a double line of 
 proof; he must find the duke's body, and he must 
 establish this pseudo-duke's identity with a stock- 
 broker who had lately disappeared from his usual 
 haunts. 
 
 With regard to the duke's body, it was probably in 
 the wood. The story of his supplanter had been that
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 215 
 
 he had been struck by lightning in the wood. There 
 he had evidently met and murdered and buried the 
 duke. Mr. Brinkman entertained no doubt whatever 
 that he had murdered him : a man of that violent fe- 
 rocity would not stick at murder. He must search the 
 wood. 
 
 It should not, on the other hand, be difficult to estab- 
 lish the identity of the supplanter with a vanished 
 stockbroker. Four days in the city of London with 
 the duke's photograph would do that. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's spirit began to burn higher within 
 him. Here was El Dorado within a mile of him. He 
 shut his desk, put on his straw hat and set out for the 
 wood. 
 
 James Whitaker soon lost the satisfaction with 
 which he had come out of the office in a faint annoy- 
 ance. He had been unaware that while he had the 
 proper contempt for the obsequiousness of Brinkman, 
 it had none the less been pleasant and soothing to him ; 
 and he missed it. It grew clearer and clearer to him 
 that the steward was, for all his cowardice, a difficulty 
 and a danger. It was clear that he could not now 
 leave the Abbey till after the funeral of his brother. 
 He began to think that it would not be safe to leave it 
 till he had somehow or other (he could not at all see 
 how) drawn Brinkman's sting. 
 
 For a while he walked about the gardens; then he 
 went to the library and tried to read. He found that 
 he could not keep his mind on a book. The knowledge 
 that Lord Edward Beddard was dying oppressed him ; 
 but he was chiefly restless because he wanted to be
 
 2i6 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 with Elizabeth. Yet he felt strongly that it would 
 be in the highest degree indecorous that the Duke of 
 Lanchester should be philandering with a pretty girl 
 on the banks of a beautiful stream while his brother 
 lay dying in the Abbey. He felt also that in the actual 
 circumstances the decorous was rather silly. But it 
 was nearly four o'clock. If Elizabeth had come, as 
 usual, at three, on the chance of his meeting her at the 
 bridge, she had gone back home long since. 
 
 But she was unlikely to have come. She was sure 
 to have heard of Lord Edward Beddard's apoplectic 
 seizure, and would not expect him. He felt that he 
 ought to feel less annoyed at being kept from her, and 
 more kindly to the dying man whom he had so suc- 
 cessfully supplanted. But he could not. The fact that 
 the dying man had tried to kiss Elizabeth was very 
 present in his mind ; and he still disliked him heartily. 
 
 The hours dragged. Twice he sent Jenkinson to 
 inquire whether there were any change for the better 
 in the sick man's condition. There was not. He tried 
 not to feel thankful to hear it. Also he tried not to 
 enjoy his dinner. He failed. 
 
 After dinner he went out into the moonlit gardens, 
 and presently, by no definite act of will, he found him- 
 self on the bridge in the park. 
 
 Elizabeth was not there ; but having come so far, it 
 seemed rather foolish not to go on, and he crossed the 
 bridge and on the other side turned and strolled along 
 the path in the direction of the village. He had come 
 nearly to the end of the wood, when he turned a corner 
 and met Elizabeth.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 217 
 
 They greeted each other with a thrill of joyful ex- 
 citement which found expression in their tones. 
 
 Then she said: "I didn't think you'd come with 
 your brother so ill. And then I thought you might." 
 
 "There's no point in my waiting at the Abbey. He's 
 unconscious, and it's most improbable that he will be- 
 come conscious. All the same, it might shock people 
 to hear that I had been seen enjoying your society 
 while he was so ill. Isn't there some retired nook in 
 this wood where we could talk without shocking any 
 one?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; there's one quite close. But no one ever 
 comes into the wood. They're much too afraid of 
 you. It's only a path to the Abbey, you know." 
 
 "Never mind, let's go to the nook ; a servant might 
 come along or a gamekeeper." 
 
 "Very well," she said, and presently she turned into 
 a narrow side-path, about sixty yards from the bridge. 
 
 She led the way, and about fifty yards deep in the 
 wood the path ended in a little turf-covered dell. It 
 was so small that only in the middle of it was the 
 moonlit sky visible, through a hole, about ten feet 
 across and sixty feet above their heads, in the thick 
 foliage. 
 
 When she stopped in the middle of the dell and 
 faced him he promptly caught her up and kissed her. 
 
 "Oh, you are so violent!" she said with a soft un- 
 certain laugh. 
 
 "You'd make anybody violent," he said with con- 
 viction. 
 
 He found that the grass was dry, and they sat down
 
 2i8 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 at the foot of an oak. He put his arm round her and 
 drew her very close to him. They were too much in 
 the shadow to please him: he could not see her face 
 clearly enough. But he endured it, since no game- 
 keeper on his rounds, even if he saw them at all, could 
 in that deep shadow see how close they were together. 
 
 For a while they were silent save for now and again 
 a murmur of endearment from him. They felt almost 
 under a spell, either intensely aware of the other's 
 nearness. The dark wood, the silence only broken by 
 the faint sounds of the woodland at night, made them 
 feel extraordinarily alone together out of the world. 
 
 Presently she drew a little away from him, and said 
 in a somewhat uncertain voice : "It's it's sad about 
 your brother. It must have been a shock." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said, in a somewhat indifferent tone. 
 
 "He's the only close relation you have, isn't he?" 
 she said. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "That must make it so much worse," she said. 
 
 He felt a real need on him not to make any more 
 pretenses to her than were forced on him, and he 
 said: 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact, it doesn't hit me very 
 hard. You see we haven't seen much of each other 
 for years." 
 
 "But you were boys together," she said gravely. 
 
 "That was a long while ago," he said quickly. 
 
 "Of course," she said. 
 
 They were silent a while, then he drew her closer 
 again, and said :
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 219 
 
 i 
 
 "The fact is I can't think of any one or anything but 
 you." 
 
 "Can't you? Not really?" she said softly. 
 
 "No, I can't. Whether I'm with you or away from 
 you, I can't think of anything else. I didn't know that 
 any one could absorb some one else like that. There 
 isn't anything of real interest anywhere in the world, 
 except you." 
 
 She thrilled to the genuine fervor of his tone. 
 There was no disbelieving it. 
 
 "I I feel rather like that," she said softly. 
 
 He threw his other arm round her and strained her 
 to him. 
 
 They stayed in the dell till the church clock struck 
 eleven. Then, after a lingering good-by at the end 
 of the little path and after arranging to meet there at 
 eleven the next morning, they went their different 
 ways. 
 
 James Whitaker walked back to the Abbey with 
 both his conscience and intelligence in abeyance as far 
 as Elizabeth was concerned. He was too deeply 
 moved to think with any clearness ; and when his con- 
 science tried to raise its still small voice, he refused 
 to face his actions and their probable results. He de- 
 sired only to be with her as often and as long as pos- 
 sible; and he desired it with an overmastering ve- 
 hemence which prevented in him all regard for its 
 wisdom or propriety. He was, for the time being, re- 
 moved from the intellectual and moral spheres wholly 
 into the emotional. 
 
 He came into the Abbey feeling really grateful to
 
 220 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Lord Edward Beddard for having, by his apoplectic 
 seizure, rendered it out of the question for him to 
 disappear yet a while, and so forced him to enjoy more 
 of the society of Elizabeth. This sense of gratitude 
 made the visit to the sick-room, which he thought ad- 
 visable, less irksome. 
 
 He found that Doctor Arbuthnot, with a due sense 
 of his patient's social prominence, had procured two 
 nurses for him. They were manifestly impressed by 
 the presence of a duke in the sick-room. Both of them, 
 with decorous mournfulness, assured him that their pa- 
 tient would not live many hours. They said that Doctor 
 Arbuthnot had been twice that evening and was com- 
 ing again at about twelve to spend the rest of the night 
 with him. James Whitaker could not perceive any 
 change in the sick man: the face was still darkly 
 flushed ; the monotonous snoring seemed to him neither 
 louder nor softer, faster nor slower than it had been. 
 He stood gazing down at him in a frowning gloom, 
 and the nurses watched his troubled face with sympa- 
 thetic eyes as he pondered whether it was worth 
 while spending the night in the sick-room and sharing 
 Doctor Arbuthnot's disagreeable vigil. On the whole it 
 seemed better not to do so: the action would prob- 
 ably be out of keeping with his predecessor's character 
 and set tongues needlessly wagging. He wished all 
 possible attention to be centered on the unfortunate 
 Lord Edward Beddard, as little as possible diverted 
 to himself. He shook his head gloomily, bade the 
 nurses good night and went to bed. 
 
 When Tomkins awoke him next morning he in-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 221 
 
 formed him, with decorous mournfulness, that Lord 
 Edward Beddard had died at sunrise. James Whit- 
 aker said nothing ; he frowned gloomily and continued 
 to frown gloomily while he dressed and was shaved. 
 With the same gloomy frown he listened during his 
 breakfast to the sympathetic lamentations of Jen- 
 kinson. 
 
 After breakfast he betook himself to the library 
 and after a short search through the letter-files, dis- 
 covered that his family lawyers were Messrs. Blenkin- 
 sop and Tudor, of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He tried to 
 learn from Debrett who was now the heir to the 
 dukedom, or, to be exact, who was now the rightful 
 Duke of Lanchester, but failed. 
 
 He rang for Jenkinson and said to him: "I sup- 
 pose the lawyers had better arrange the funeral and 
 send out the invitations." 
 
 "Well, your Grace, Plunkett and Crewson, the un- 
 dertakers at Lanchester, generally attend to all that. 
 Mr. Brinkman helps them." 
 
 "I'd forgotten," said James Whitaker. He paused 
 with an air of thoughtful consideration, then con- 
 tinued : "I suppose they'll have to invite my heir." 
 
 "The Earl of Fleetham will certainly have to be in- 
 vited to the funeral, your Grace," said Jenkinson 
 quickly. Then he coughed apologetically and added: 
 "But after after that that dispute with your 
 Grace, I don't suppose he'll come." 
 
 "Well, it doesn't matter," growled James Whitaker. 
 "Send Mr. Brinkman up to my smoking-room." 
 
 He went up to it himself, and had scarcely dis-
 
 222 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 posed himself at ease in a deep saddle-back chair when 
 the steward came. 
 
 He entered with an uneasy furtive air, and stood 
 still before James Whitaker, looking half timorous, 
 half defiant. His appearance was pleasing to James 
 Whitaker, and he surveyed him with a faint mock- 
 ing smile. Mr. Brinkman shuffled his feet and tried 
 vainly to meet his eye. 
 
 "Have you written to those Lanchester people 
 what are their names ? Plunkett and Crewson, to ar- 
 range the funeral?" said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Not yet," said the steward sulkily. 
 
 "Then why haven't you?" suddenly roared James 
 Whitaker in a voice which made Mr. Brinkman jump. 
 
 "I I was g-g-going to," he stuttered. 
 
 "And don't forget to tell them to invite that damned 
 Fleetham not that he'll come." 
 
 "Of c-c-course, your G-G of course." 
 
 "Have you wired the news to Blenkinsop and Tu- 
 dor?" 
 
 "N-n-not yet." 
 
 "Then what the devil have you been doing?" roared 
 James Whitaker. 
 
 "It's only half p-p-past t-ten," stammered the 
 steward. 
 
 "Well, get on to it ! And be quick about it !" 
 
 "Are they to invite everybody who might be ex- 
 pected to be asked?" said Mr. Brinkman with a sud- 
 den eagerness. 
 
 James Whitaker saw it and wondered what was the 
 meaning of it.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 223 
 
 "Of course. Why not?" he said. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's face fell: he had been expecting 
 that he would shrink from publicity. He felt certain 
 enough that James Whitaker was not the duke; but 
 he was ready enough to have his certainty strength- 
 ened as often and in as many ways as possible. He 
 gazed at him viciously. 
 
 "What the devil are you standing there idling for?" 
 roared James Whitaker more loudly than ever. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman again jumped, muttered something 
 about waiting for further instructions, and slunk out 
 of the room. In his office he found himself trembling 
 so violently that he had to rewrite his telegram to 
 the lawyers. When he had written the letter to Plun- 
 kett and Crewson, and arranged that a groom should 
 at once ride with it to Lanchester, he rested his face 
 on his hands and resumed the process of cudgeling 
 his brains for the clue to the El Dorado on the floor 
 above him. 
 
 He cudgeled them, however, with a rather less hope- 
 ful eagerness than the day before. He had been 
 shaken by the patness with which the names of the 
 undertakers, the lawyers and the heir had come from 
 James Whitaker's tongue. He might, indeed, have 
 learned them from Tomkins or Jenkinson in casual 
 talk without their dreaming that they were telling him 
 things of which he was ignorant. But he had spoken 
 of them with a familiarity which was discomfiting. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman ground his teeth. He could not be 
 wrong. He must find the clue to the mystery. He 
 would search every inch of the wood.
 
 224 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 James Whitaker walked down to the bridge aflame 
 with eagerness to be with Elizabeth again. He was 
 surprised by the vehemence of this perpetual desire 
 to be with her; never in his life before had he desired 
 anything with such vehemence. It was true that never 
 in his life before had he known any one so charming 
 and delightful as Elizabeth. But that fact did not, to 
 his thinking, account for all the vehemence of his de- 
 sire. He suspected that living luxuriously in this free- 
 dom from care was strengthening him emotionally as 
 well as physically. The change was pleasing to him. 
 
 He was a little early at the trysting-place, but he 
 found Elizabeth already in the dell, and as she rose, 
 flushing and smiling, to welcome him, he found her 
 more ravishing than ever. 
 
 They talked more in the daylight than they had 
 the night before about the death of Lord Edward 
 Beddard, and his funeral; about the rebuilding of the 
 village and the hamlets. She was able to inform him 
 that the villagers were looking forward to the change, 
 some with doubt merely, others with resentment. 
 Owing to the weeding effect of the neighboring town 
 of Lanchester, there was hardly any one left in the vil- 
 lage of sufficient intelligence to look forward with any 
 pleasure to dwelling in a roomier cottage. 
 
 "Well, I suppose the idea is to make the place fit 
 for the more intelligent people to live in. At least, 
 I read something like that somewhere : perhaps it was 
 in The Times," he said with an air of vagueness. 
 
 "Oh, you'll never do that," said Elizabeth. "The 
 intelligent ones, young men and young women, are
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 225 
 
 like me : they can't stand the dulness. All you will 
 really do will -be to keep the children healthier." 
 
 "At any rate, they'll have decent baths," said James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 "Baths!" cried Elizabeth. "Well, you'll have to 
 make a very strict rule that they're not to keep coal, 
 or onions, or potatoes in them; and you'll have to 
 get papa to see that they keep it. But that's as near as 
 they'll go to having baths." 
 
 "How would it be if I were to offer a prize for the 
 cleanest child?" 
 
 "It would be a horrid cruel thing to do!" cried 
 Elizabeth. "Why, they'd scrub the skin off the chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 "It looks as if the improvements were going to be 
 rather wasted," he said somewhat gloomily. 
 
 "Oh, no ; they won't," she said hastily. "It will be 
 much healthier for the children. And, of course, papa 
 will badger some of them into taking baths, and I will 
 talk to the elder girls about the pleasure of it. After 
 all, a certain number of them will take baths in sum- 
 mer." 
 
 "Well, as long as you're satisfied, I am. The whole 
 business of improving the places was your idea," he 
 said carelessly 
 
 She flushed with pleasure.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MR. BRINKMAN cudgeled his brains vainly for 
 half an hour, then he resolved on action. He 
 walked briskly across the park to the bridge, and on it 
 he paused and considered the home wood. In it the 
 impostor professed to have been struck by lightning, 
 and the indignant steward proposed to search its sur- 
 face for the signs of a newly-made grave, and to ex- 
 amine all natural holes and nooks such as hollow trees 
 and pools, and the little-used quarry and saw-pit. 
 
 He knew the wood, or, rather, parts of it, for in 
 the summer he had often strolled through it, and he 
 began by searching out-of-the-way parts of it where a 
 man would be most likely to hide a dead body. That 
 very nearly brought him to the dell in which James 
 Whitaker and Elizabeth were talking. But it occurred 
 to him that the impostor, being a stranger, would not 
 know the spots convenient for making away with the 
 duke and burying his body ; he would take him where 
 he found him and deal with him there. Therefore 
 it was no use searching for the grave or the corpse 
 only in the likely places; he must search the whole 
 wood. He forthwith mapped it out, in his mind, into 
 sections, walked across it, and began to search that 
 section of it along which the highroad ran. That 
 spared James Whitaker and Elizabeth his intrusion. 
 
 226
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 227 
 
 He searched rather more than an acre of it before 
 lunch, and in the evening he searched another acre. 
 Several times, with a heart that beat high, he believed 
 himself about to discover the body of the duke, but 
 found that he had been misled by a dead rabbit. 
 
 The Abbey was quieter than ever, now that Lord 
 Edward Beddard lay dead in it. James Whitaker did 
 not find him at all an oppression; indeed he thought 
 very little about him, for he had naturally ceased to 
 count. Besides, Elizabeth filled his mind; and he was 
 spending every possible hour with her in the dell 
 
 On the day before that appointed for the funeral 
 he came back to lunch to find Sir Richard Starton 
 waiting for him. He said that he had driven over to 
 lunch with him and cheer him up. Since he had now 
 no fear whatever that he would discover that he was 
 not the duke James Whitaker was pleased to have his 
 society. 
 
 As happened before, the burden of the talk fell upon 
 Sir Richard ; and he talked of their common acquaint- 
 ances in a lively and agreeable manner. His one al- 
 lusion to the dead man up-stairs showed frankly that 
 he was aware that he was not lunching with a deeply 
 sorrowful brother. His talk grated somewhat on 
 James Whitaker: it still further robbed the subjects 
 of it of their likeness to the distinguished county peo- 
 ple in the novels of the cultured lady authoress Milli- 
 cent had taught him to revere. They were an idle, 
 pleasure-seeking gang; and he felt that their doings 
 as translated through the temperament of Sir Rich- 
 ard ought not to amuse him as they did.
 
 228 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 After lunch, as they were drinking their coffee, Sir 
 Richard questioned him about his progress to recov- 
 ery from the lightning-stroke. He seemed to be really 
 interested in it. 
 
 "My arm's still about as stiff as it was ; and so are 
 the muscles of my throat," growled James Whitaker 
 quite truthfully. 
 
 He had been prudently talking all the while in a 
 raucous voice. 
 
 "I was thinking about your memory, rather," said 
 Sir Richard. 
 
 "Oh, it varies; but I think it's improving," growled 
 James Whitaker in a tone of satisfaction. "I recog- 
 nized Edward." 
 
 "Ah, but you were expecting him. Do you think 
 you'd have recognized him if you'd just seen him 
 casually?" 
 
 "Yes, I knew his face." 
 
 "Well, that's satisfactory," said Sir Richard. 
 
 He was silent for a while; and once or twice he 
 glanced at James Whitaker with thoughtful question- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 Then he said in a testing tone : "Lady Cubbington's 
 rather sick about it." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "About your loss of memory." 
 
 "Well, I can't help it, can I ?" growled James Whit- 
 aker. 
 
 "No, of course you can't; of course you can't," 
 said Sir Richard quickly ; then he added more slowly :
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 229 
 
 "Only she feels you're not giving your memory a fair 
 chance to recover as far as she's concerned, you 
 know. You used to drive over to the Grange nearly 
 every day." 
 
 "Did I now?" said James Whitaker in a tone of ex- 
 treme and plainly genuine surprise. 
 
 "You did," said Sir Richard. 
 
 James Whitaker was again silent. He appeared to 
 be reflecting on this forgotten habit. Sir Richard ap- 
 peared to be awaiting his declaration that he would 
 forthwith resume it; but James Whitaker had no in- 
 tention in the world of adopting this habit of his 
 predecessor. 
 
 Sir Richard awaited his declaration of resumption 
 for rather more than two minutes. Then he said some- 
 what sadly : 
 
 "These lightning-strokes are queer things. What 
 about Cara L'Esterre ?" 
 
 "What about who?" cried James Whitaker, using 
 his natural voice in his surprise. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you've forgotten that 
 queen of musical comedy!" cried Sir Richard. 
 
 "But I have," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "These lightning-strokes are queer things. I could 
 have understood your forgetting so much better, if 
 she'd spent money on you," said Sir Richard philosoph- 
 ically. "But there : she'll remind you all right." 
 
 James Whitaker frowned at him, but said nothing. 
 It seemed to him that this acquaintance of his prede- 
 cessor must be regarded in the same light as his racing-
 
 230 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 stable. He could only hope that he would have as 
 little trouble in parting from her as he had had in part- 
 ing with it. 
 
 "Of course, Cara is a quite uncommon dear," said 
 Sir Richard. 
 
 "Is she?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Do you really mean to say that you don't remem- 
 ber her at all?" said Sir Richard earnestly. 
 
 *'I didn't know that there was such a person in the 
 world till you told me," said James Whitaker not only 
 truthfully but in the most convincing accents of the 
 truth. "I don't think I could have been really inti- 
 mate with her." 
 
 Sir Richard looked doubtful; but he only said: 
 "Well, you're bound to hear from her." 
 
 "Am I ?" said James Whitaker glumly. 
 
 But his face brightened almost in the instant : after 
 all, it was personal interviews, not letters, which were 
 so discomfiting. 
 
 Presently Sir Richard asked him if he would like a 
 game of picquet. But James Whitaker said that he 
 was still unable to remember it, that -baccarat, which 
 he had learned since the lightning-stroke, was the 
 only game he knew. 
 
 "Well, I tell you what it is: you come over to 
 the Grange let's see: the funeral's to-morrow on 
 Monday: and we'll start to teach you auction all over 
 again." 
 
 "I'll see what I feel like if my mind seems a bit 
 brighter," said James Whitaker with no great hearti- 
 ness.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 231 
 
 If he had proposed to continue Duke of Lanchester 
 it might have been wise to learn bridge, though he 
 doubted the need to do so; but as it was, there was 
 plainly nothing to be gained by it. By going to the 
 Grange he would expose himself to the danger of 
 having to embrace, or be embraced by, Lady Cubbing- 
 ton ; and he had a strong feeling that, with his mind so 
 full of Elizabeth, he would find it somewhat tiresome. 
 
 At a quarter to three Sir Richard pleased him by 
 taking his leave. He departed with a faint look of 
 dissatisfaction on his face; and James Whitaker did 
 not know whether he was dissatisfied because he had 
 failed to excite his warmer interest in auction bridge 
 or in Lady Cubbington. But he fancied that the latter 
 failure was the reason of his chagrin. 
 
 He went to his tryst with Elizabeth, very well con- 
 tent. 
 
 For the most part they now met in the dell. It 
 was indeed, thanks to the dread the late duke had in- 
 spired into the country-folk, but little more secluded 
 than the banks of the trout-stream; but it had the air 
 of being more secluded, and it filled them with the 
 pleasant sense of being alone together out of the 
 world. In it the delightful hours fled on swift feet. 
 
 James Whitaker was naturally somewhat uneasy, 
 though not very fearful about the funeral. He was not 
 inexperienced in funerals : he had been chief mourner 
 at that of his father: and he had supported Millicent 
 at that of William Ward. He found that the gloomy 
 frown, which came so easily to his face, met every re- 
 quirement of decorum. He had only to growl at the
 
 232 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 old gentlemen who came to him, one by one, and 
 pressed his hand and murmured a few, carefully 
 thought-out words of sympathy. 
 
 He observed that the guests at the funeral were not 
 the same people, or indeed of the same type, as those 
 he had entertained at baccarat. On the whole they 
 were older; and all of them were more sober and se- 
 date. He had not thought highly of the intelligence 
 of his card-playing acquaintances. He had perhaps 
 underrated their intelligence in his disappointment at 
 rinding them so very different from the country peo- 
 ple who really adorned the pages of the cultured au- 
 thoress of whom Millicent was so earnest an admirer. 
 But he could not but perceive that these more sedate 
 worthies looked not only duller but far more stupid. 
 
 He soon found that there had been no need to feel 
 uneasy about confronting so many of the late duke's 
 acquaintances. Not one of them perceived, or could 
 have perceived, anything amiss. After they had taken 
 their leave, he walked down to his tryst with Elizabeth 
 more assured of his position than ever. He felt indeed 
 that having weathered the recognition by Lord Ed- 
 ward Beddard, and compassed his end of rebuilding 
 the villages, he ought to disappear as soon as he had 
 signed the contracts for the improvement of Chigleigh, 
 Wodden and Gant. But his mind was too full of 
 Elizabeth for him to give the matter his serious con- 
 sideration. 
 
 It was on the morrow that the matter of Mr. 
 Brinkman was recalled to his mind. Elizabeth had 
 come to the dell as soon as she had dismissed her Sun-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 233 
 
 day-school class ; and they were sitting under the oak, 
 talking little, and that in low voices, when they heard 
 a rustling in the bushes on the farther side of the dell. 
 Elizabeth slipped into the covert of a clump of hazels 
 in which they had arranged that she should hide, if 
 a keeper came that way; and James Whitaker went 
 quietly up to the edge of the dell and peered round a 
 tree-trunk. At first he could see nothing; but he ob- 
 served that the rustling moved up and down, up and 
 down, with a considerable regularity, thirty yards this 
 way and thirty yards that. Then, he caught sight of 
 the figure of a man; and then, as he drew nearer on his 
 slow and uncommonly zigzag advance, he saw that it 
 was Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 He watched him for three or four minutes in some 
 wonder. It seemed such an odd way of coming 
 through a wood: Mr. Brinkman would not reach the 
 tree from behind which he watched for several minutes 
 yet. Then he saw that he was stooping a little as he 
 walked up and down, and that his eyes were fixed on 
 the ground. Plainly the steward was searching foi 
 something. 
 
 James Whitaker came very quietly down into tht 
 dell, drew Elizabeth from her hiding-place and told 
 her that they must decamp. Half-way down the nar- 
 row path the object of the steward's search flashed orj 
 him. ... It could only be one thing! . . . 
 The body of the duke ! 
 
 He stopped short in his surprise and (Hammer- 
 smith fashion) slapped his thigh, and muttered: "By 
 jove!"
 
 234 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "What is it?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Oh, nothing nothing. The man who disturbed 
 us was Brinkman; and he was hunting," he said, and 
 chuckled grimly. 
 
 "Then he must have been hunting us !" cried Eliza- 
 beth, leaping to a not unnatural conclusion. "But 
 what horrible cheek!" 
 
 "Oh, I'll deal with him all right," said James Whit- 
 aker with careless assurance. 
 
 He was amused for a while by the steward's hope- 
 less quest ; then he grew annoyed with him. 
 
 "Hang it all! I'm not paying the swine a good sal- 
 ary to spend his time trying to convict me of fraud !" 
 he said to himself indignantly. 
 
 None the less he was pleased to have learned what 
 Brinkman was doing: he would not be taken by sur- 
 prise. 
 
 He was careful to go to the office next morning to 
 observe the steward's temper and attitude. He found 
 him looking depressed and nervous ; and his eyes were 
 a little wild. He talked to him about the contracts 
 for the rebuilding of Chigleigh, Wodden and Gant, 
 since they were the most annoying subject he could 
 think of, and presently, because Mr. Brinkman could 
 not tell him when they would be ready, he fell into a 
 sudden passion and bellowed at him in a very furious, 
 nerve-racking fashion. He was not abusive ; he merely 
 bellowed questions. 
 
 After he had gone Mr. Brinkman fairly sniveled 
 with nervous exasperation. 
 
 On the following evening he came to the end of
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 235 
 
 his vain search for a grave in the home wood in the 
 keenest disappointment. But he soon regained hope: 
 he was assured that the duke had been made away 
 with; his body was to be found; and sooner or later 
 he would find it. The sight of his walking El Dorado 
 was a frequent stimulation. In spite of the fact that 
 he was an impostor living gorgeously in stolen lux- 
 ury and always truculent with him, he by no means 
 hated James Whitaker. Though James Whitaker 
 racked his nerves by his bellowing, he did not lacerate 
 his vanity by abuse. Indeed Mr. Brinkman may be 
 said almost to have been regarding him with a sneak- 
 ing liking as the ultimate source of great riches. He 
 had certainly a stronger liking for this ferocious and 
 illegitimate knave of a stockbroker than he had had 
 for the late duke, whom he had considered merely an 
 unpleasant fool. 
 
 His search in the home wood having proved vain, 
 while promising himself further searches in the woods 
 nearest it and along the banks of the stream, he set 
 himself to find other paths to the damning purse- 
 opening facts. On the next evening he contrived to 
 be overtaken by Tomkins, who was on his way to the 
 village, greeted him in a friendly fashion, paid the 
 usual tribute to the climate of the British Isles, offered 
 him a cigar, and when he had lighted it, said with a 
 careless air and in a careless tone : 
 
 "Do you think his Grace has changed much since 
 he was struck by lightning?" 
 
 "I can't say as I've took pertickler notice of 'im, Mr. 
 Brinkman," said Tomkins affably.
 
 236 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Well, I think that he's altered. And I should have 
 thought that being always in such close contact with 
 him, any change in him would have been forced on 
 your notice," said Mr. Brinkman smoothly. 
 
 "Well, now you come to speak of it, 'e 'as changed. 
 He's grown more 'umanlike. He don't get into the 
 rages 'e did about nothing at all. Not once since 'e 
 was struck 'as 'e up and thrown a boot at me. Why, 
 I don't believe 'e's as much as cursed me. Oh, yes: 
 now you come to speak of it, that lightning-stroke 'as 
 changed 'im." 
 
 "You would almost say he was a different man, in 
 fact," said Mr. Brinkman eagerly. 
 
 "No; I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said 
 Tomkins with a judicial air. "But I will say as it's 
 done 'im a world o' good." 
 
 "It would be rather interesting to you, as a student 
 of human nature" Tomkins drew himself upright 
 with a complacent air "to observe exactly how far 
 the change goes," said Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 He foresaw that whatever Tomkins noticed could 
 be used as evidence, should he be compelled, instead 
 of living on this ferocious stockbroker, to sell his in- 
 formation to the Earl of Fleetham. 
 
 "It might, Mr. Brinkman it might," said Tom- 
 kins with an important air. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman hugged himself to perceive that the 
 valet was the very stuff of which useful witnesses are 
 made: he could easily be persuaded that he had ob- 
 served anything. 
 
 Then he said : "By the way, I should like to see that
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 237 
 
 coat which was struck by lightning. I should like to 
 see the exact effect of the electricity." 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Brinkman, I'll bring it round to 
 your office in the morning," said Tomkins eagerly, 
 foreseeing a tip. 
 
 "Thank you. It's sure to be interesting." 
 
 "Oh, yes; coats struck by lightning aren't exactly 
 common," said Tomkins. 
 
 When they came through the little wood out on to 
 the road, Mr. Brinkman bade the valet good night and 
 walked up it to his house, which stood above the vil- 
 lage. He walked with an air of importance, very like 
 that of Tomkins, for he could not but feel that this 
 endeavor to procure evidence on which to blackmail 
 this impostor was by far the most important transac- 
 tion in his life. He was also very pleased that he 
 would on the morrow have the coat in his possession. 
 He did not believe that any one had been struck by 
 lightning, and he expected that it would be clear that 
 the coat had been deliberately set on fire. He hoped 
 also to find that it was stained with blood. 
 
 As a rule he was of a taciturn habit in his home, for 
 he was uncommonly conscious of his manly superior- 
 ity; but to-night he was very affable with his wife, 
 condescending often to the level of the womanly intel- 
 ligence. He thought that this new line of research 
 was promising, and the thought cheered him. 
 
 Mrs. Brinkman was the daughter of a farmer, and 
 that night she expressed considerable resentment at 
 the scheme for improving the condition of the labor- 
 ers on the estate. He found her sympathetic.
 
 238 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He took with him to his office next morning a fairly 
 strong reading-glass, for though he had no intention of 
 returning the coat to Tomkins, he was impatient to 
 justify his suspicion that it was stained with blood. 
 
 When Tomkins brought the coat Mr. Brinkman pre- 
 tended to be very busy, and only tore himself from 
 his writing to give the valet half a dollar and bid him 
 set the coat on a chair. But no sooner had the valet 
 shut the door behind him than he pounced on the coat 
 and bore it to the window. 
 
 The burned patch proved a disappointment, for it 
 bore no signs of having been set on fire. Plainly it 
 had been scorched, and the part of it which had crum- 
 bled away had left a neat, clean-cut, straight edge. He 
 was forced to the conclusion that the coat had been 
 struck by lightning. 
 
 This discovery altered the complexion of the affair 
 for him. He sat considering this, to him, new fact 
 for a long while ; it did not affect the main feature of 
 the case : the duke's body must none the less be buried 
 somewhere. He pondered all he had heard about the 
 impostor's arrival, struck by lightning. It did not now 
 seem improbable that he had been slightly struck; he 
 might have been with the duke when he was struck. 
 It certainly was the oddest of coincidences that three 
 men should have been struck by lightning in the woods 
 on the same day the duke, the impostor and the 
 tramp. 
 
 Then the truth flashed on him : there had never been 
 any tramp! Or, rather, the stockbroker had been the 
 tramp. Plainly he had lost his position and come to
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 239 
 
 grief. The duke had met him in the wood, doubtless 
 in answer to some violent appeal and probably with the 
 intention of helping him once more. The lightning had 
 struck both of them, scorched and twisted the face of 
 the duke out of all recognition (the steward had served 
 on the coroner's jury and seen the dreadful face), the 
 impostor had seized his chance and changed clothes 
 with the dead man. 
 
 It was as plain as a pikestaff 1
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ]\ /T R - BRINKMAN was still in the first fine flush 
 J. V JL of his joy when James Whitaker paid his morn- 
 ing visit to the office. Fortunately he heard his ap- 
 proaching footsteps in time to cram the coat into a 
 drawer, out of sight. 
 
 James Whitaker entered scowling, as usual; but 
 Mr. Brinkman was careless of his scowl, for he felt, 
 joyfully, that he held him in the hollow of his hand. 
 As James Whitaker gave him instructions about cer- 
 tain details of the management of the estate, and in 
 particular to observe and report the progress the work- 
 men were making in the draining of Little Lanchester 
 (they were leaving the rebuilding till the sanitation 
 should be sound), and to decide whether they were 
 working as hard and as quickly as could be expected, 
 or whether they needed a little urging, the steward 
 gloated over him. He even asked him a foolish ques- 
 tion, in order to provoke him to bellow at him and en- 
 joy the feeling that now he did not care a tinker's 
 curse for his bellowing. Indeed, the more violent 
 James Whitaker grew, the more keenly Mr. Brink- 
 man enjoyed the sense of his power to bring him, 
 confounded and lamb-like, to his feet. He even dared 
 to address him as "Your Grace," in a tone of the 
 most marked sarcasm. 
 
 240
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 241 
 
 James Whitaker was quick to observe the change 
 in him, and wondered what new discovery he had 
 made, or believed himself to have made, to give him 
 ihis ease and confidence. He was not at all distressed 
 that he should have made one. He was sure that it 
 could not be of real importance ; he could not possibly 
 in the time have discovered the Hammersmith shop. 
 He had dismissed him carelessly from his mind before 
 he had gone half-way across the park on his way to 
 his tryst with Elizabeth in the dell. 
 
 He had not left the office very long before Mr. 
 Brinkman's triumphant joy began to fade. As he con- 
 sidered the situation at greater length his discovery 
 began to grow less cheering. He did not for a mo- 
 ment doubt its correctness; but he began to doubt, 
 painfully, its value. He began to see that it was going 
 to be very difficult indeed to make it a commercial as- 
 set. The full difficulty of proving that this impostor 
 had changed places with the duke in those extraor- 
 dinary circumstances was growing clear. It was in- 
 deed an amazing tale. If he went with it to the Earl 
 of Fleetham, he might indeed persuade that nobleman, 
 since he enjoyed the reputation of being nearly an 
 imbecile, of its truth ; but his lawyers would not think 
 it worth examination. 
 
 Besides, there was no evidence of the change. It 
 was useless to exhume the duke : the lightning had done 
 its work too thoroughly. On the other hand, the cor- 
 oner and every man on the coroner's jury, except him- 
 self, would swear confidently that the man on whom 
 they had held an inquest was not the duke. He might
 
 242 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 indeed find dozens of witnesses to swear that the im- 
 postor was, or had been, a member of the Stock Ex- 
 change ; but the impostor could produce as many and 
 far more credible witnesses to swear that he was the 
 Duke of Lanchester. They would swear it with the 
 more vigor since, if he were not the duke, he had made 
 utter fools of them all. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman's high spirits sank and sank. The 
 longer he considered the situation the more difficult 
 it grew. He pondered and pondered it, but he could 
 not see how to turn it to his profit. He felt strongly 
 that not only had fortune entrenched the impostor 
 almost impregnably, but that he was of a dour and 
 stubborn character to make the fullest use of those en- 
 trenchments. 
 
 He pondered his employer's character at length, and 
 slowly his spirits rose again. It might be difficult be- 
 yond measure to prove in a law-court that he was not 
 the duke; but after all, he had no intention of going 
 with his tale to the Earl of Fleetham, unless the im- 
 postor refused to pay. But he would not refuse. No 
 matter how savage the nature of a probably disrep- 
 utable and almost certainly illegitimate stockbroker 
 who had usurped a dukedom, he must pay to have the 
 secret of his usurpation kept. However furious the 
 impostor might be, Mr. Brinkman was sure that he 
 was far too intelligent not to grasp that fact. He 
 might rage ; indeed, he would rage ; but he would pay. 
 His spirits rose again to their triumphant height as 
 his last misgiving vanished; he would go to his black- 
 mailing with his heart free from care.
 
 243 
 
 But he made no haste about it; he wished to enjoy 
 to the full his anticipations of triumph before he en- 
 joyed the triumph itself. 
 
 The next afternoon Mr. Lamplow and Judson 
 brought the contracts for the draining and rebuilding 
 of Chigleigh, Wodden and Gant, and James Whitaker 
 signed them. Mr. Brinkman perceived that he might 
 easily prevent this by apprising the usurper (he now, 
 in his mind, substituted this milder term for the ear- 
 lier "impostor") of his knowledge of his secret and 
 bidding him go no further with the scheme than the 
 draining and rebuilding of Little Lanchester. But he 
 had come to the conclusion that the Duke of Lan- 
 chester was now committed to the scheme, and to re- 
 fuse to sign the final contracts would set tongues need- 
 lessly wagging. It seemed to him that the less the 
 Duke of Lanchester was, at the moment, in the public 
 eye the better. 
 
 But this signing of the contracts was for James 
 Whitaker the signal for departure. His work at Lan- 
 chester Abbey was done. 
 
 He was bitterly resentful at it. He had now been 
 at the Abbey eighteen days, and this extension of his 
 stay had made a great difference in his feelings. He 
 had settled down very comfortably in the position of 
 duke; indeed, he could not be blind to the fact that 
 his was a nature admirably attuned to the position. 
 Already it had become wholly natural to him to be 
 waited on by skilful servants, to enjoy the cooking of 
 an accomplished chef, and the flavors of the finest 
 wines and cigars; and it would be difficult and not a
 
 244 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 little painful to break himself of these excellent habits. 
 For him they were excellent he was sure of it and 
 after all, it must be a scientific impossibility that a 
 man should be the very spit of a duke and not also 
 possess a ducal nature. If he had not given it play, if, 
 as he had intended, Providence had allowed him to 
 depart at the end of the first week, it would have -been 
 a very different matter : these habits could not have ob- 
 tained this hold on his perhaps too susceptible disposi- 
 tion; indeed, they would not have had the time to be- 
 come habits at all. Naturally he was resentful, and he 
 felt that he had every right to be resentful; these 
 habits were no fault of his. 
 
 But after all, these were the merest trifles compared 
 with Elizabeth. He had now known her seventeen 
 days, and had spent in her society some hours of fif- 
 teen of them; and with all the force of his simple 
 and direct nature he had all the while been growing 
 more and more absorbed in her. Never in all his life 
 had he enjoyed a feeling about any one, or anything, 
 one-twentieth as strong as his feeling for her. She 
 was not merely the chief thing in his life; she had 
 been that within three days of their first meeting. He 
 could not now see life at all apart from her. Without 
 her he could not accept it. How was he to disappear 
 and yet keep her? The difficulty of doing so seemed 
 insuperable. 
 
 He did not allow himself to be immediately har- 
 assed by this. It was true that the signing of the con- 
 tracts was the signal to depart. But there was no one 
 to make him act on it. He was rather of the opinion
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 245 
 
 that the value of his work gave him the right to stay 
 a little longer. At any rate, he was not going until he 
 had found the way of taking Elizabeth with him, and 
 he gave no little time and thought to its discovery. 
 
 But though he was not actually harassed by the 
 problem he was somewhat irritated by his slowness in 
 finding its solution; and in the middle of his dinner 
 the next evening he was yet more irritated by a heavy 
 shower, which presently became a steady downpour. 
 It made it plainly impossible for Elizabeth to meet 
 him in the dell that night. Mr. Brinkman therefore 
 did not choose the most propitious evening for ap- 
 prising him of his exact knowledge of the way in which 
 he had attained to his dukedom. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman was, as a rule, an abstemious man, 
 but he braced himself for this important interview 
 with half a bottle of port, a wine he drank with his 
 dessert on Sunday afternoons because he believed it 
 to be still the wine of the English country gentleman. 
 Thanks to its heartening warmth, he came through 
 the rain to the Abbey and asked to see the duke in a 
 fine confidence. 
 
 Jenkinson was surprised by this unusual and late 
 visit, and left him in the great hall while he went to 
 see if the duke would receive him. 
 
 James Whitaker's ill-temper had been growing and 
 growing as he sat in his smoking-room listening to 
 the sound of the rain which was keeping Elizabeth 
 away from him, till he might very well be described 
 as being in the condition of spoiling for a fight. At 
 the news that Mr. Brinkman had come to see him on
 
 246 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 important business, some of the gloom lifted from 
 his spirit and his face; he felt in the very mood to 
 deal faithfully with a blackmailer, and with con- 
 siderable heartiness he bade Jenkinson bring him to 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman entered the room with a brave air, 
 and was quite undaunted by his new employer's grim 
 face : as was but natural, seeing that he had the whip- 
 hand of him. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Brinkman. Sit down. What 
 have you come about?" growled James Whitaker. 
 
 "Good evening," said Mr. Brinkman coldly. 
 
 He chose the most comfortable easy chair with os- 
 tentatious slowness, sat down in it and gazed at James 
 .Whitaker with shining, triumphant eyes. James 
 Whitaker disliked them exceedingly. 
 
 "I have come to see your Grace on a matter of great 
 importance," said Mr. Brinkman in a pompous tone, 
 laying a deep sarcastic stress on "your Grace"; and 
 he paused. 
 
 "All right: fire away," said James Whitaker care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "I think I think your Grace could guess what I 
 have come about," said the steward in a tone of deep 
 meaning and with a yet deeper sarcastic stress on the 
 title. 
 
 "Could I ?" said James Whitaker, with the same in- 
 difference. 
 
 He was thinking how very much he disliked the 
 steward's greedy little eyes and mean foxy face. 
 
 "You could, your Grace. I'm sure you could," said
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 247 
 
 the steward yet more slowly and in a tone of yet 
 deeper meaning. 
 
 He had read of men, chiefly detectives, playing with 
 other men as a cat plays with a mouse, and he felt 
 that he was so playing with this truculent scoundrel. 
 It pleased him greatly. 
 
 James Whitaker gazed at him with indifferent eyes ; 
 then, with sudden violence, he snapped : 
 
 "But I'm not going to try ! Get on !" 
 
 Mr. Brinkman had come prepared for violence, but 
 its suddenness jarred his nerves badly. 
 
 "It's no use your t-t-taking that t-t-tone. You're 
 not in a p-p-position to do it," he stammered. 
 
 "Position ? What position ? What do you mean ?" 
 roared James Whitaker, pleased to have set the stew- 
 ard stammering. 
 
 "You know quite well what I mean ! I know your 
 secret!" snapped Mr. Brinkman, with the air and 
 something of the squeak of a cornered rat. 
 
 "Secret? What secret?" roared James Whitaker. 
 
 "The secret of your impersonation how you came 
 to be the Duke of Lanchester!" 
 
 "The secret of are you mad, or are you drunk?" 
 bellowed James Whitaker. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman made a great effort, got control of 
 his voice and squeaked quickly and shrilly, but clearly : 
 "It's no good your kicking; the game's up. I know 
 the whole affair every step of it your illegitimacy 
 the way you threw away your chances in life espe- 
 cially the mess you made of stockbroking and the way 
 you grew more and more disreputable your coming
 
 248 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 down here to see the duke his being struck by light- 
 ning your changing places with him and concealing 
 the change by pretending it was the result of being 
 struck by lightning yourself. I know the whole busi- 
 ness, I tell you every step of it." 
 
 He paused, and James Whitaker glared at him with 
 unaffected amazement: what was this about his ille- 
 gitimacy and his failure as a stockbroker? 
 
 "You may well look flabbergasted!" cried Mr. 
 Brinkman in a less squeaky voice, with a touch of 
 triumph in his tone. "You thought that your luck had 
 covered all your tracks. You didn't allow for Eras- 
 mus Brinkman." 
 
 He rapped his chest proudly. 
 
 "Well, I'm damned!" said James Whitaker softly, 
 but in a tone of unspeakable ferocity. 
 
 He saw the mistakes into which the steward had 
 fallen by misunderstanding the word broker, and he 
 saw that they made him harmless. 
 
 "I'm glad you see where you are," said Mr. Brink- 
 man on a fuller note of triumph. "You thought you 
 were having everything your own way, and had 
 scooped up the whole lot. But you were wrong quite 
 wrong. It's Brinkman, Lanchester and Company ; and 
 Brinkman is head of the firm, drawing two-thirds 
 two-thirds." 
 
 James Whitaker's natural antipathy to the steward 
 rose to its full height, and he made no effort to check 
 it. His instinct showed him the right way to treat 
 him; and his reason approved his instinct. 
 
 Without a word he sprang across the space between
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 249 
 
 them and caught Mr. Brinkman a thundering box on 
 the ear. With a shrill yelp of pain Mr. Brinkman 
 rose to receive a thundering box on the other ear and 
 yelp again. Then James Whitaker set about him; he 
 smacked him, he pommeled him and he kicked him. 
 He did not hit him a tenth part as hard as he could 
 have hit, nor did he mark his face ; but his smacks and 
 blows and kicks were exceedingly painful. Mr. 
 Brinkman blubbered as he howled, and he howled 
 louder and louder. Then he threw himself on the 
 floor, with his arms over his head, and howled and 
 blubbered there. 
 
 James Whitaker kicked 'him hard in the ribs three 
 times, then he went to the table and mixed himself a 
 brandy and soda with the air of a man who has per- 
 formed a useful task in a thoroughly satisfactory 
 fashion. He lighted a cigar, returned to his easy chair 
 and gazed at the blubbering blackmailer with an air 
 of pleasant content. 
 
 The vehemence of Mr. Brinkman's emotion grew 
 less intense; his blubbering sank to a dismal snivel; 
 and James Whitaker growled: 
 
 "You infernal little blackmailing scoundrel. I've 
 a good mind to give you the sack." 
 
 Mr. Brinkman only sniveled. 
 
 "If I didn't think you were drunk, I would give you 
 the sack, though I don't want the trouble of a new 
 man who doesn't know about things," growled James 
 Whitaker. 
 
 He was silent again till Mr. Brinkman stirred ; then 
 he bellowed: "Get up!"
 
 250 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Mr. Brinkman sat up slowly and stiffly, sniveling 
 still. With his red, tearful, dazed eyes and his red, 
 tear-stained, working face, he was indeed a dismal 
 sight. He should have gazed at James Whitaker with 
 the eyes of hate ; he merely gazed at him with the eyes 
 of misery. 
 
 James Whitaker scowled at him for a good minute, 
 then he growled : "Stop that sniveling and get out. 
 You'd better not let Jenkinson see you, or it will be 
 all over the place that I gave you the licking you asked 
 for, you dirty little hound." 
 
 Mr. Brinkman gazed at him with a dazed air; then 
 he seemed to grasp his meaning and rose slowly to 
 his feet. He wiped his eyes and face with his hand- 
 kerchief, then he went stiffly, on unsteady feet, out of 
 the room. He found the great hall empty and hurried 
 stiffly across it, down the corridor into his office. He 
 turned the key in the door, sat down, and rubbing 
 aching spots, collected his wits. Then he wept afresh 
 that he should have been so hardly treated. 
 
 James Whitaker smoked on quietly in a great satis- 
 faction with the drastic fashion in which he had 
 treated his steward. He was sure that the pommeling 
 had not made him any more dangerous than he had 
 been; he thought it quite likely that it had made him 
 less dangerous. He would have liked to discharge 
 him and be done with him. But it seemed more pru- 
 dent to keep him under his eye at the Abbey. He 
 would perceive, he thought, any symptoms of his grow- 
 ing again dangerous. 
 
 When Mr. Brinkman dried his fresh tears his mind
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM . 251 
 
 was again in working order, and he found that his 
 conviction that James Whitaker was a ferocious and 
 illegitimate stockbroker was shaken to its foundations. 
 It would be too much to say that he believed him to 
 be the duke, for doubts still lingered in his mind. But 
 the longer he considered James Whitaker's spontaneity 
 of word and action the stronger grew his feeling that 
 he had been misled by what he had heard of Lord 
 Edward Beddard's quarrel with him, that he \vas in- 
 deed the Duke of Lanchester. Besides, there was one 
 fact in the affair which weighed with him above every- 
 thing else, and that was that James Whitaker preferred 
 to put up with a blackmailer as a steward than be a 
 little bothered by a stranger. That was the Duke of 
 Lanchester he had always known. 
 
 When at last he was quite composed he came cau- 
 tiously out of his office, along the corridor, into the 
 great hall. To his relief it was still empty. He put 
 on his cap and mackintosh, slipped out of the door 
 and walked stiffly home, a sore dispirited man. 
 
 As the exhilaration at having dealt faithfully with 
 his steward wore off James Whitaker's gloom at being 
 robbed by the rain of his evening with Elizabeth grew 
 heavier than ever ; and he went to bed very sad. 
 
 But the next morning was fine and sunny; and he 
 breakfasted in good spirits. After breakfast he 
 thought it well to go to Mr. Brinkman's office. This 
 morning the steward once more rose as sharply as his 
 stiffness allowed, washed his hands at him and said 
 in a meek voice: 
 
 "Good morning, your Grace."
 
 252 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He knew that he ought to be full of resentment 
 against the man who had put such a humiliation on 
 him. But he was not. If he had been sure that James 
 Whitaker was an impostor he would have hated him 
 freely enough; but he might be the duke. If he were 
 the duke he could hardly resent having been thrashed 
 for trying to blackmail him ; and in any case it would 
 have been impossible to hate a man of his high rank. 
 His feeling toward James Whitaker was, at any rate 
 for the time being, a wholesome dread. 
 
 "Good morning. Sober?" growled James Whit- 
 aker. 
 
 Mr. Brinkman did not reply to the question; he 
 looked sheepish and shuffled his feet. James Whit- 
 aker asked a few questions about the morning's let- 
 ters and left him. Mr. Brinkman had had thoughts 
 of resigning his post: not very serious thoughts, for 
 it was a good post. James Whitaker's careless atti- 
 tude to him seemed to him to render resignation un- 
 necessary, and he was relieved. 
 
 Thanks to their disappointment the night before 
 Elizabeth and James Whitaker met that morning with 
 a greater delight than ever. But the dell, damp from 
 the heavy rain, was no longer the place for lovers it 
 had been; and he had little difficulty in persuading 
 her to come to the Abbey in the afternoon. Once 
 more they approached it through the shrubberies and 
 entered it by one of the windows of the blue drawing- 
 room ; and when, an hour and a half later, Jenkinson 
 found them sitting on the terrace in front of the blue
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 253 
 
 drawing-room, he supposed that Elizabeth had just 
 come. 
 
 They had spent a very pleasant hour in the library. 
 Elizabeth had asked him to take her to see the rooms 
 in which he lived himself ; but he had refused to take 
 the risk. It meant traversing all the Abbey. She 
 protested that now that they were quite definitely going 
 to be married she would not be compromised by com- 
 ing to the Abbey; but he had it in his mind that he 
 would yet disappear, and she must not be talked about. 
 She had grown the dearer to him for that he felt that 
 he was no longer merely a means to her of obtaining 
 a freer fuller life ; it seemed to him that he had grown 
 for her, as she had grown for him, the chief part of 
 life. 
 
 It was an enchanting thought, but naturally it made 
 it more difficult to disappear ; it made it impossible to 
 leave her behind him. He felt that that might easily 
 be nearly as cruel to her as it would be to himself. He 
 was loath enough to hurt himself so cruelly, but he was 
 infinitely more loath to hurt her. 
 
 There is no saying whence the story of the thrashing 
 of Mr. Brinkman spread abroad. It may be that 
 Jenkinson had heard sounds of pommeling; it may 
 have been that the great hall had not been so empty 
 as the dazed and disheveled steward had supposed 
 when he hurried across it to his office; or it may be 
 that he had failed to hide his bruises from his wife 
 and she had told one of her sisters, the wives of 
 farmers at Wodden. But in the course of the day
 
 254 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 the story had spread all round the countryside, and 
 Elizabeth heard it from her father at dinner. 
 
 She was surprised by it : not by the fact that James 
 Whitaker had beaten his steward, but by the fact that 
 he had told her nothing about it. She had believed 
 herself more in his confidence. 
 
 They met that evening at their old trysting-place, 
 the bridge over the stream, and took the way to a 
 thatched summer-house in one of the lower shrub- 
 beries, since the dell would be damper than ever at 
 night. 
 
 When they had sat down, she came straight to the 
 matter of interest, saying: "Why did you thrash Mr. 
 Brinkman?" 
 
 James Whitaker was taken aback. He had not 
 thought for a moment that Brinkman would be so 
 foolish, or so careless, as to let any one know of his 
 punishment. 
 
 "How do you know I have been thrashing Brink- 
 man?" he said. 
 
 "Everybody knows it! Why did you do it?" she 
 said with the firmness of one who has a right to an 
 answer. 
 
 "Oh, they don't know why I did it?" he said quickly. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I hammered him for trying to blackmail 
 me," he said slowly. 
 
 "How did he try to blackmail you ?" she said quickly. 
 
 "He came to me with a story that I wasn't the duke 
 but a disreputable stockbroker who had taken his 
 place."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 255 
 
 "B-b-but that was what I t-t-told you," she stam- 
 mered ; and he could see her eyes shining brightly with 
 excitement. 
 
 "His story had more details in it : you never said I 
 was a stockbroker, disreputable or otherwise," said 
 James Whitaker calmly. "And he went on to propose 
 to share my income." 
 
 "Just as I proposed to share the d-d-dukedom," said 
 Elizabeth faintly. 
 
 "But he proposed to take two-thirds of the income. 
 You were ready to go halves," said James Whitaker. 
 "I always did detest that little man. He has such 
 a mean face," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Yes, he's a very different thing. Anybody would 
 be charmed to share anything with you. But with 
 Brinkman, no. As you say, he hasn't a nice face," 
 said James Whitaker; and he drew her yet closer to 
 him and kissed her. 
 
 She quivered in his arms and laughed a low con- 
 tented laugh. 
 
 "I'm glad that you didn't beat me," she said. 
 "No, this is better," he said. 
 
 They were silent for a minute or two ; then he per- 
 ceived that here was an excellent opening for sound- 
 ing her. 
 
 "Suppose I turned out not to be the duke after all ?" 
 he said in a sufficiently careless tone. 
 
 "I often wonder whether you are," she said quietly. 
 "You wonder what?" he cried. 
 "Whether you're the duke. At first I thought you 
 were. But lately ever since since you first kissed
 
 256 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 me I've felt sometimes that you're not. But generally 
 I know you must be ; it would be so extraordinary if 
 you weren't. But all the same, I feel you're not," she 
 said, speaking quietly and thoughtfully. 
 
 He was indeed surprised and amazed. 
 
 "But if I'm not the Duke of Lanchester, who on 
 earth could I be?" he cried. 
 
 "You'd be the man they buried, or thought they 
 buried, of course the tramp," she said quickly. 
 
 "Well, I'll be shot!" cried James Whitaker. 
 
 She was truly full of surprises to-night. He had 
 suddenly learned not only that she had been cherishing 
 these suspicions all the while, but that she had worked 
 out the process by which he had gained his dukedom. 
 He stared at her blankly ; and he was glad that, in that 
 'dim light, she could not see his face. 
 
 "But after all it doesn't matter," she said calmly. 
 
 "It doesn't?" he cried. 
 
 "No. You've got the dukedom; and nobody can 
 turn you out," she said firmly. 
 
 "Oh, come : do you mean to say you would encour- 
 age me to stick to it if I weren't the duke?" he said 
 in an aggrieved tone. 
 
 He felt an odd sense of injury at hearing any doubts 
 thrown on his right to the dukedom. 
 
 "Well, I've thought it all out; and it seems to me 
 that though it would be very wrong for any one else 
 to have seized the dukedom, you're different," she said 
 in a confident voice. "Already you've started to do 
 more for the people on the estate than the last five 
 dukes have done. And then if you weren't the duke,
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 257 
 
 the Earl of Fleetham would be ; and he never expected 
 to be the duke ; so he won't be disappointed ; and any- 
 how, he has all the money he wants as it is. Besides, 
 they say that he's a dreadful person half -cracked." 
 
 "I see," said James Whitaker in a non-committal 
 tone. 
 
 ''And besides all that, I have a feeling that you were 
 meant to be duke," she said in a solemn tone. "Dukes 
 don't get struck by lightning for nothing. And then 
 Lord Edward Beddard was struck in a different way. 
 You were meant to take their place." 
 
 James Whitaker had himself had a feeling that 
 Providence had a hand in clearing these obstacles from 
 his path ; but on hearing its intentions firmly put into 
 words he shook his head. 
 
 "Oh, yes : you were," said Elizabeth firmly. 
 
 "I really believe you would rather I weren't really 
 the duke," he said. 
 
 He felt her quiver; then she said slowly: "Well, 
 if you weren't really the duke, you you wouldn't 
 have been mixed up with those horrible women."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 JAMES WHITAKER came away from that meet- 
 ing still resentful, unreasonable as he knew such 
 resentment to be, at her doubt that he was the Duke 
 of Lanchester. But that resentment did not blind him 
 to the advantage of her doubt : it would soften for her 
 the shock of learning, when the time came to tell her, 
 that he was not the duke. It would probably make it 
 easier to persuade her to disappear with him when the 
 time came to disappear. 
 
 He could indeed see no likelihood of his disappear- 
 ing in the immediate future. Mr. Brinkman was justi- 
 fying his treatment of him by fawning on him like a 
 beaten dog; but it was quite clear that, did he disap- 
 pear, he would be yelping savagely on his trail. His 
 desire for a short holiday had indeed led him into a 
 trap. 
 
 He chafed bitterly at this constraint. The fact that 
 he was for the while a duke by compulsion robbed the 
 dukedom of something of its charm, while the pros- 
 pect of beginning life afresh, in some younger coun- 
 try, with Elizabeth and the money he had won at 
 baccarat, grew more and more alluring. 
 
 There was no doubt that this easy and luxurious 
 life was developing his nature, for he chafed at this 
 
 258
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 259 
 
 restraint which the steward was exercising on him 
 with an almost greater fierceness than he had chafed 
 under the oppression of his old life at Hammersmith. 
 When he dictated his letters to him, he gazed almost 
 lovingly at his skinny throat, and tingled with the 
 pleasant thought of choking the life out of the little 
 brute. But he had no intention of risking his own 
 neck for the pleasure, of wringing Mr. Brinkman's. 
 
 It began to appear probable that he was settled in 
 the dukedom for some time; and much as he longed 
 to start life afresh with Elizabeth in a new country, he 
 made up his mind that he must make the best of it. 
 In his heart of hearts he knew that he would be very 
 well content with the dukedom, if it were not being 
 forced upon him by Mr. Brinkman. 
 
 He had, moreover, a feeling, a foolish feeling which 
 he did not encourage, that Providence, or Fate, or 
 whatever was the directing impulse behind the affairs 
 of mortals, was conspiring with Mr. Brinkman to force 
 the dukedom on him. Now that the duke and Lord 
 Edward Beddard were dead, it did not seem to belong 
 to any one in particular. He was far too much a son 
 of his common-sense age to feel that the fact that a 
 great-great-grandfather of the affluent but crack- 
 brained Earl of Fleetham had been Duke of Lan- 
 chester, gave him any pressing right to it. Indeed, 
 the thought that a position of such responsibility and 
 power should be filled by an imbecile was bitterly an- 
 noying. There was so much to be said for its being 
 held by a man who would try to put it to a better use 
 than keeping a racing-stable. He would certainly re-
 
 260 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 main in it without any very painful moral qualms as 
 long as the danger of abandoning it kept him duke. 
 
 In spite of the constraint under which he was living, 
 he enjoyed the next two days exceedingly. 
 
 Then on the morning of the third day came three 
 letters. Lady Cubbington wrote that she was coming 
 to lunch on the morrow to try to cheer him up after 
 the recent depressing event; Lady Middlemore wrote 
 to beg him to come to London and dine with her on 
 the morrow and she would try to cheer him up after 
 the recent depressing event; and Miss Cara L'Esterre 
 wrote more briefly and slangily, bidding him come and 
 be cheered up at the Savoy on the following night. 
 One such letter was enough to dash the spirits of a 
 thoroughly domesticated man ; three should have been 
 crushing. But owing to the pressure of the ducal life 
 James Whitaker was less domesticated than he had 
 been; and cheered by the conviction that nothing 
 feebler than a traction engine could get him within 
 three hundred yards of any of the three ladies he ate 
 his breakfast with a very good appetite. 
 
 None the less, though by no means panic-stricken, 
 he was troubled by this simultaneous onslaught. It 
 grew clearer and clearer that, if he did not disappear, 
 there was only one way out of these entanglements 
 in which his predecessor had so thoughtlessly landed 
 him, and that was marriage with a fourth person. 
 
 Then out of this discomfort arose a desire, the de- 
 sire to get outside the whole situation and consider it 
 from a distance. He thought that he could not do 
 better than retire to his shop at Hammersmith and con-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 261 
 
 sider it from there. He was used to considering things 
 there, for during the last ten years he had done most 
 of his thinking in the house in Watergate Street. 
 
 Moreover, it would be killing two birds with one 
 stone. He was resolved to free himself for good 
 from the old cramped life; and he was eager to give 
 Millicent the pleasure of feeling that she was quite 
 free from him, free to lead her own simple cultured 
 life, untroubled by any demands from him for house- 
 keeping or affection. Again, a few days in the house 
 in Watergate Street would make it clear whether he 
 would be able, after the pleasant full life he was lead- 
 ing at the Abbey, to endure at all life on the old terms. 
 He had the strongest suspicion that he would not. He 
 was quite sure that he could not endure it apart from 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 He went to his sitting-room, and using a pencil, 
 since it was easier to imitate his predecessor's hand- 
 writing in pencil than in ink, he wrote the three needful 
 telegrams. He told Lady Cubbington that he was 
 going to London on the morning of the morrow ; and 
 he told Lady Middlemore and Miss Cara L'Esterre 
 that it was impossible to accept their invitations. He 
 sent the telegrams to the village post-office, and pres- 
 ently betook himself to meet Elizabeth. When he told 
 her that he was going to London they were both de- 
 pressed by the thought of their coming separation, 
 though it was only for three days. 
 
 On the following afternoon he motored to London, 
 as he had learned had been the habit of his predeces- 
 sor, and left the portmanteau, which Tomkins had
 
 262 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 packed so full of clothes for him, at the Ritz. He 
 told the clerk that he was uncertain whether he would 
 be back to sleep, and took the tube to Hammersmith. 
 
 When he came out of the tube into the Broadway, 
 he was at once afflicted with an uneasiness little short 
 of nausea. He felt plunged once more into the old 
 life, the wearisome, ugly, stifling life of pointless 
 struggle and miserable aims, the life of dirty shirts, 
 poor food badly cooked, and tiresome, cultured, sandy 
 Millicent. He was smitten with some compunction 
 that he should think so unkindly of her. He would 
 never have allowed himself to think so of her before 
 his holiday. But the freedom in which he had been 
 living was engendering in him a new frankness with 
 himself : she was sandy, she was cultured, and she did 
 weary him; he would not be ashamed of himself. He 
 did, however, excuse himself somewhat by assuring 
 himself that she regarded him with an even greater 
 aversion than he regarded her. 
 
 He walked slowly down to Watergate Street, de- 
 testing Hammersmith more and more. He met two 
 acquaintances, formerly Tigers, coming out of a saloon 
 bar, and greeted them glumly. He was pleased to 
 perceive that they plainly did not observe anything 
 unusual in his appearance. He had been careful to 
 dress in a dark tweed suit and a cap of the same stuff; 
 and they naturally lacked the knowledge to perceive 
 how well the clothes were cut. 
 
 When he came to Watergate Street he found that it 
 had, to his eyes, shrunk and grown more squalid ; and 
 when he came into the shop he found that it smelled
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 263 
 
 vilely. Glue that had gone bad, the old stuffing of 
 second-hand couches which he had been restuffmg, 
 rotting leather, filled it with the stalest smell. He sup- 
 posed that when, as a boy, he first came to the shop 
 he had observed the smell ; but he had lived in it, un- 
 aware, for years. The air of Lanchester had purified 
 his nostrils. 
 
 He walked through the shop and found Millicent 
 sitting reading in the stuffy little parlor behind it. He 
 thought that she looked sandier than ever. She rose 
 quickly, nervously, at the sight of him; and he saw 
 plainly the effort she made to look pleased at his return. 
 It was not very successful. He felt her shrink as he 
 kissed her cheek. He had long known that any con- 
 tact, physical contact, with him was unpleasant to her, 
 and he had long thought that such a sexless, anemic 
 creature as she should never have married. He felt 
 that not merely he, but any husband, would have be- 
 come repugnant to her. Well, it was all the better: 
 he need be under no compunction whatever at leaving 
 her ; she would be glad to be rid of him. He observed 
 that the stuffy little parlor reeked most abominably 
 of cockroaches and pickles. 
 
 They talked for a while about his stay in the coun- 
 try ; and he told her that he had taken service with a 
 firm engaged in buying old furniture all over England 
 and exporting it to New York. She seemed very little 
 interested in the matter till he said that he had ar- 
 ranged to go to New York for two or three years to 
 take a post in the American branch of the firm. 
 
 Her pale eyes brightened at the thought of being
 
 264 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 rid of him for so long. Then her face fell again; and 
 she said quickly: 
 
 "I'm sure I shouldn't like New York. It wouldn't 
 agree with me." 
 
 "I'm afraid I shouldn't be able to take you with 
 me. Living is so expensive there; and my salary 
 wouldn't run to two of us," he said. 
 
 Her pale eyes shone again with relief; and she said 
 eagerly : "And you'll be gone two years ?" 
 
 "At least," he said, and heard her sigh of pleasure. 
 
 She rang for Amy and told her to go and get some 
 chops for his supper. The old woman, her eyes full of 
 her perpetual dull hostility to him (she was the parti- 
 san of Millicent and had, moreover, always resented 
 his promotion from the kitchen to the parlor), grum- 
 bled at not having been informed early in the day that 
 he was returning. He observed that she added an- 
 other unpleasant scent to the stale-smelling room. 
 
 He had no desire to taste ever again a chop of 
 Amy's cooking; and he gave her five dollars and bade 
 her buy a roast chicken and a tongue. When she had 
 gone, he discussed Millicent's future. His suggestion 
 was that she should sell the Hammersmith house (the 
 shop and business must of course be sold, since he 
 would not be there to manage them) and buy a cot- 
 tage in the country at Sarratt, or Flaunden, or Chip- 
 perfield, but at any rate somewhere on that plateau 
 because she had stayed at Sarratt and found that it 
 suited her. The money from the sale of the house 
 and shop would pay for the cottage; and he would
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 265 
 
 allow her five dollars a week out of his salary. On that 
 she could live in luxury with Amy as her servant. 
 
 Naturally she was startled at the thought of this 
 uprooting from the life she knew. But the idea of a 
 cottage in the country attracted her. He was resolved 
 to cover up his tracks; and he convinced her that it 
 was impossible for her to continue to live in the Ham- 
 mersmith house on two hundred and fifty dollars a 
 year. Then he told her that he would be sailing to 
 New York in less than a week, and that he would have 
 to set things in train before his departure. He did not 
 wish her to linger on in Hammersmith, for in spite of 
 his assurance that Mr. Brinkman was well on the way 
 to lick the hand that beat him, accident might give him 
 a clue to the Hammersmith shop; and he wished it 
 swept away with the least possible delay. 
 
 He was so pleased with the progress he had made 
 with her that he ate his supper of cold chicken and 
 tongue with relish, and enjoyed the jug of beer from 
 the Prince of Wales public-house. He found his bed- 
 room cramped and dingy, but less of an offense to his 
 nostrils than the rest of the house. The middle shelf 
 of the bookcase which stood against the wall opposite 
 the bed, on which were ranged his well-thumbed fa- 
 vorite friends and comforters, was the first thing in 
 the house on which his eyes rested with pleasure. He 
 decided that he would take away with him the books 
 on that shelf, those and the few poor relics of his un- 
 fortunate father. 
 
 He slept well, but did not immediately on waking
 
 266 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 recognize his surroundings. When he did, it strucK 
 him that there was not any real need for him to spend 
 another night in the house. To Millicent he could al- 
 ways make the excuse that business prevented him 
 from coming back; and with regard to the expense, 
 he had brought with him one hundred and fifty dollars 
 of the duke's money from the secret drawer in the 
 bureau, in addition to his own money won at baccarat. 
 He would stay at the Ritz, as his predecessor had been 
 used to do ; and naturally the Lanchester money paid 
 the expenses of the Duke of Lanchester. 
 
 There was no bathroom in the house ; and he missed 
 his bath. The tea, the stale bread, the margarine, the 
 bloaters of old Amy's grubby cooking seemed to him 
 detestable. He rose from breakfast resolved never to 
 eat or sleep in the house again. Before he went out 
 he erased his name from the fly-leaves of the books 
 he proposed to take with him, and packed them in a 
 parcel, which he addressed to the Duke of Lanchester 
 at the Ritz. He posted it at the post-office in the 
 Broadway, and then betook himself to Lloyds' bank. 
 He had always banked at the Home Counties Bank, 
 as William Ward had done. But his account had been 
 of such nature that his sudden production of ten thou- 
 sand dollars would excite surprise. It took him no 
 long time to arrange with the manager the prepara- 
 tion of the settlement, of which the bank should act 
 as trustee, of six thousand dollars on Millicent, to be 
 invested so as to bring her in at least five dollars a 
 week, and to be paid to her weekly. Considering her
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 267 
 
 fecklessness, especially in matters of business, he 
 thought that arrangement the best for her. 
 
 That done he betook himself to a house-agent and 
 arranged with him to sell the house and such of the 
 furniture as Millicent would not want for her cot- 
 tage in the country. As the bonds which bound him 
 to it loosened, Hammersmith lost some of its sordid 
 and repellent air; but its smell still offended Jiis 
 nostrils. 
 
 He went back to the shop and found Millicent read- 
 ing in the stuffy parlor. He told her what he had done ; 
 and she was surprised and disturbed to find herself 
 confronted by so sudden an uprooting. She had re- 
 garded it vaguely as something to happen some time 
 in the future; and left to herself, would have played 
 feebly with the idea for months. This sudden call 
 to action was most disturbing; and old Amy was in- 
 dignant indeed. James Whitaker said that he must 
 go to London on business, and left them, lamenting 
 and indignant, to talk their discomfort off. 
 
 He found that he had a small suite of rooms at 
 the hotel, sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom. He 
 had a bath and changed into clothes to which the odor 
 of Hammersmith did not cling. He lunched in the 
 grill-room with an appreciation of the cooking the 
 stronger for his brief return to the cooking of Amy. 
 
 After lunch he thought that it would be wise to go 
 to one of the duke's clubs for a while, and be seen 
 there. Moreover, he was a little curious to see what 
 club life was like. He betook himself to the Para-
 
 268 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 gon, therefore, since he had gathered from the talk 
 of Sir Richard Starton that that was the club his prede- 
 cessor had frequented; and there he found two men 
 who had been at his baccarat party. He was annoyed 
 to find that he had forgotten their names, but presently 
 in the course of their talk, he learned them again. They 
 asked him to come to the card-room to play auction, 
 and gave him the opportunity he desired of talking 
 about his loss of memory since he had been struck by 
 lightning. He did not find their talk of any interest 
 to him ; and after half an hour of it he left the club. 
 
 He walked down Piccadilly slowly, trying to get 
 the proper pleasure from his new outlook on it from 
 his ducal elevation. But it was slowly borne in upon 
 him that he did not, even in these circumstances, 
 greatly like it ; he believed that the sweet air and beau- 
 tiful country around the Abbey had spoiled London 
 for him. He wished that he had kept the motor-car 
 in town ; he would have driven out to Richmond Park. 
 
 He had just passed the bottom of Bond Street when 
 an electric coupe ran up to the curb, stopped, and a 
 charming excited voice cried : 
 
 "John! John!" 
 
 He remembered, just in time, that his name was 
 John, and turned to see Lady Middlemore's face 
 framed in the window of the coupe. She was flushed ; 
 and her eyes were shining with delight at the sight of 
 him. 
 
 He was taken aback at the sight of her, but not 
 quite unpleasantly. Her flushed face was charming; 
 and she was truly the type naturally attractive to him,
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 269 
 
 though Elizabeth left little room in his heart for any 
 one else at the moment. When she threw open the 
 door of the coupe and bade him get in, he had not 
 the heart to dash the joy in her shining eyes. 
 
 "So you've come to town after all !" she cried. 
 
 "Yes, I had to business," he growled. 
 
 "Oh, yes : I know that business," she said jealously. 
 
 He gathered from her tone that she was suggesting 
 that some other woman had brought him to London; 
 and he said nothing. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" she said. 
 
 "Let's go to Richmond Park and get some clean 
 air," he said. "This place is simply poisonous." 
 
 "Don't say that that wretched lightning-stroke has 
 set you against London," she said. 
 
 "I don't know whether it was the lightning-stroke 
 or not; but London seems to me to have such a vile 
 smell. I want to get back to the Abbey," he growlel. 
 
 "You have changed," she said. "But perhaps 
 perhaps there's a woman at the Abbey." 
 
 James Whitaker felt himself blushing guiltily; and 
 he growled quickly: "You seem to think of nothing 
 but women." 
 
 "And you?" she said. 
 
 He did not answer; and she told her chauffeur to 
 drive to Richmond Park. 
 
 Then, smiling happily, she nestled closer to him; 
 and he perceived that she expected him to hold her 
 there. He did not like to disappoint her; and since, 
 moreover, her waist was naturally of the type which 
 attracted his arm, he put it round it without any great
 
 270 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 reluctance, though he would have very much preferred 
 it to be the waist of Elizabeth. 
 
 She seemed satisfied with his indulging her to this 
 point, and talked to him lightly and brightly, after 
 some inquiries in the proper mournful tone concerning 
 the end of Lord Edward Beddard, about his life at the 
 Abbey, and his neighbors, chiefly about those of them 
 with whom he had played baccarat. She amused him ; 
 she seemed of the same bright, alert spirit as Eliza- 
 beth. She did not spare Lady Cubbington; but the 
 shafts which she let fly at her, if they were winged 
 with malice, were tipped with wit. 
 
 When they came into the park her words came 
 more slowly and grew fewer. He reflected on the 
 monstrous unfairness of the distribution of women: 
 as James Whitaker he would have been happy and 
 content with Elizabeth, or Lady Middlemore, or Lady 
 Cubbington, and none of them had come his way; 
 as Duke of Lanchester all three of them were thrust 
 upon him to say nothing of Miss Cara L'Esterre. 
 
 In the more wooded part of the park, descending 
 from the coupe, they strolled for an hour under the 
 trees ; and he found it a very pleasant way of whiling 
 away some of his enforced stay in London, away from 
 Elizabeth.^ Truly no squalid sight or noxious smell 
 offended him here. They went to the Star and Gar- 
 ter and had their tea in a room from which they 
 had the famous view up the winding Thames, and 
 they lingered over it. He was finding it more and 
 more pleasant to be with her. She was a charming
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 271 
 
 stimulant; he was talking almost as freely with her 
 as he did with Elizabeth. 
 
 When they came out of the hotel, they drove round 
 the park once more; and its soothing greenery and 
 clean air weakened a little his unpleasant memories 
 of his return to Hammersmith. It was half past seven 
 before they reached Piccadilly; and he needed no 
 pressing to accept her invitation to dine at her flat and 
 go with her to the Russian ballet at Covent Garden. 
 She left him at the Ritz; he dressed, and went to 
 Mount Street. 
 
 Hers was a charming flat, admirably decorated to 
 match her dark beauty ; the dinner was excellent ; and 
 she was even more stimulating than she had been in 
 the afternoon. The shop at Hammersmith was with- 
 drawing farther into the distance. He felt that he 
 was in his proper element: he was entertained and 
 amused (the appeal was all the while to his intelli- 
 gence), and he was pleased to find that he could hold 
 his own. He did not shine, indeed (he knew that he 
 would never shine), but he held his own; and greatly 
 it pleased him. All the while she kept Elizabeth vividly 
 in his mind. Elizabeth was not so amusing or enter- 
 taining, indeed, but she saw the world with the same 
 keen clear vision. In another five or six years, when 
 she had reached Lady Middlemore's age and seen as 
 much of it, she might have an even firmer grasp of 
 the facts of it; and always she was more beautiful 
 than Lady Middlemore. 
 
 He was sorry to leave the pleasant flat for the
 
 272 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 Russian ballet. He had never seen the Russian 
 dancers. In the old days, when they were at their 
 keenest in the pursuit of culture, he and Millicent had 
 been wont to come to the gallery to hear and see 
 operas of Wagner; and their enjoyment of them had 
 been much increased by the sense that they were per- 
 forming a serious duty. He found it more pleasant, 
 though less thrilling, to watch the dancers from a 
 comfortable box. Between the ballets three men came 
 to it; and all of them knew him. Also they had heard 
 that he had lost his memory. 
 
 One of them, Lord Orrington, when he found that 
 James Whitaker did not recognize him, said that it 
 must be very pleasant, as well as useful, to lose one's 
 memory. 
 
 "Not a bit of it !" growled James Whitaker quickly. 
 "Look at all the pleasant things one has forgotten." 
 
 "You haven't forgotten one pleasant thing, at any 
 rate," said Lord Orrington, looking at Lady Middle- 
 more. 
 
 "But he had to be reminded!" cried Lady Middle- 
 more. 
 
 "Oh, no: I didn't really it was only just for a 
 moment," growled James Whitaker. 
 
 They debated till the curtain rose whether the pleas- 
 ant things one would forget with regret would out- 
 weigh the unpleasant things one would forget so gladly. 
 
 James Whitaker perceived that it would be as safe 
 for him to move among his predecessor's friends in 
 London as it had been to move among those in the 
 country. Truly, now that he had hushed Mr. Brink-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 273 
 
 man, there seemed to be no one to dispute his posses- 
 sion of the dukedom so long as he did not aban- 
 don it. 
 
 He drove back with Lady Middlemore to her flat, 
 and drank a brandy and soda and smoked a cigarette 
 while she talked about the evening. Then she fell 
 silent; and he was about to rise and go, when she 
 sighed and said : 
 
 "Poor Harry!" 
 
 "Why, what's happened to him?" he said quickly. 
 
 "Nothing yet. But now that it's no use, he's certain 
 to go and get eaten by a lion," she said sadly. 
 
 He felt that the least he could do was to comfort 
 her with kisses. 
 
 Ten minutes later he took his leave. But before he 
 went she had learned that he would be staying in Lon- 
 don over the morrow, and insisted on his dining with 
 her again and going afterward to a musical comedy. 
 He and Millicent had been used to having souls above 
 musical comedy ; but he accepted the invitation readily 
 enough, since he would get through the business in 
 hand during the day, and would be at a loose end 
 during the evening. 
 
 The next morning he caught the eleven o'clock train 
 at Euston and went to King's Langley. It was so fine 
 a day that he resolved to go hunting a cottage for 
 Millicent on foot. As he walked across the fields 
 to Chipperfield he thought of his walk from Bowdes- 
 well to Lanchester. It seemed hardly possible that 
 he had walked it less than a month ago; so many 
 things had happened.
 
 274 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 At Chipperfield and at Flaunden there was no cot- 
 tage to let or be sold. But at Bovingdon he found 
 the kind of cottage he was seeking, with six rooms, 
 a thatched roof, white-washed walls, standing in a 
 little garden easily to be cultivated by Millicent and 
 old Amy. He had come to terms with the landlord 
 in little more than half an hour, paid him a quarter's 
 rent in advance, and arranged with him to receive 
 Millicent's furniture when it came and have it set in 
 the cottage for her, and to send in a woman to have 
 the cottage clean and ready for her when she came 
 down to it. He took the names of the village grocer 
 and butcher, walked to Boxmoor station, and reached 
 London at a few minutes past five. He went straight 
 to the Ritz, had tea there, and sat in the lounge, rest- 
 ing pleasantly after his walk, till it was time to dress 
 for dinner. 
 
 Lady Middlemore again welcomed him warmly, and 
 she was wearing a gown in which he found that she 
 looked more charming even than the night before. Also 
 he found her no less stimulating; indeed, as he grew 
 more at home with her and understood her better, he 
 found her even more stimulating. Owing to the ex- 
 cellent dinner he had had, or to the charming compan- 
 ion with whom he was seeing it, he found the musical 
 comedy sufficiently entertaining. He felt that he 
 ought to be displeased at this, as being a sign that the 
 ducal life was not only impairing his natural domesti- 
 catedness, but also the strenuousness of soul which 
 had been one of his and Millicent's cultured ideals.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 275 
 
 But he found that he could not be displeased; he was 
 in far too good a temper with the world. 
 
 After the theater they supped very pleasantly at the 
 Ritz. He was assured that in the more stimulating 
 air of the ducal life his nature was expanding; life 
 was fuller of meaning, and he was quicker to grasp it. 
 But he gathered that he was expanding -beyond his 
 predecessor. More than once Lady Middlemore said 
 that being struck by lightning had changed him, in a 
 tone of pleased surprise, which assured him of that. 
 
 He escorted her to her flat, and came into it to 
 smoke a last cigarette. He told her that he was re- 
 turning to the Abbey on the morrow. 
 
 She sighed and said : "I wish you weren't." 
 
 "Well, these improvements I'm making it's really 
 necessary to be on the spot," he said. 
 
 "It's really necessary to get back to her," she said, 
 mimicking his tone. Then she looked at him with 
 very earnest eyes and said : "I know now that it is 
 another woman for certain. You've let it out again 
 and again though it isn't Lady Cubbington. But all 
 the same she won't last forever not with you." 
 
 "I suppose not," said James Whitaker soberly. 
 
 She left it at that. 
 
 His leave-taking was duly affectionate. 
 
 He awoke next morning in the highest spirits at 
 the thought that he would be with Elizabeth before 
 night. He was at Hammersmith before eleven, went 
 to the house-agent, and found that he had already had 
 bills printed advertising the sale of the house in Water-
 
 276 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 gate Street. The sale would take place within a fort- 
 night. 
 
 He went briskly to the house in Watergate Street; 
 and when he drew near it he saw a small group of 
 women on the other side of the road looking at it. 
 Then he fancied that they looked at him oddly. His 
 heart began to beat more quickly: he felt that some- 
 thing was wrong. Could Brinkman have got on his 
 track by some accident? He knocked at the door 
 sharply, impatiently. 
 
 Amy opened it, red-eyed, her cheeks stained with 
 two inconceivably grimy tracks of tears. 
 
 "Whatever's the matter?" he cried. 
 
 The old woman's face was contorted with a grimace 
 of misery, and she moaned : "It's the missis she's 
 she's dead." 
 
 "She's what?" cried James Whitaker; and he 
 stepped over the threshold and shut the door heavily. 
 
 "She's dead; an' she's been dead since the night 
 before last," she said. Then her eyes began to gleam, 
 and she said with a tremulous fierceness: "An' it's 
 your fault. It was you as upset her trying to drag 
 'er away from 'er 'ome where she'd lived all 'er life, 
 of a sudden, wivout any warning. She didn't know 
 whether she was standin' on 'er 'ead or 'er 'eels, pore 
 lamb. An' 'oo would, tyken suddenlike like that? 
 Natchrally she wouldn't notice 'ow much of that nasty 
 stuff she was tyking." 
 
 "Chloral?" said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Verynul. An' there was no knowing where to find 
 you; and the inquest at 'arf past twelve."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 277 
 
 The suddenness of the catastrophe was, for the 
 while, almost dazing; he could scarcely follow the ex- 
 planation of Isabel Ward, Millicent's cousin, whom 
 Amy had summoned to the house ; and the inquest was 
 on him before he had quite recovered from the con- 
 fusion into which he had been thrown. Fortunately 
 it was very short. There was evidence and to spare 
 that Millicent had been an habitual taker of narcotics ; 
 and old Amy had actually been with her in her bed- 
 room when she had poured out the overdose. 
 
 When the inquest was over he set heavily about 
 making preparations for the funeral. Isabel Ward 
 helped him, writing the invitations ; he had but to in- 
 struct the undertaker. That done, he left her in charge 
 of the house, telling her that business called him into 
 town, and went back to the Ritz. He was feeling 
 shaken and miserable; he wanted to get away from 
 this new oppression; he wanted Elizabeth.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 'HEN he reached the Ritz, at a quarter to three 
 he found that Hibbert and the car had come to 
 take him back to the Abbey. He ate some sandwiches 
 paid his bill and started at a few minutes to three. 
 
 When at last they were free of London, and moving 
 at a pleasant pace among the meadows and woods his 
 oppression began to lift, the wretchedness, into which 
 the discovery and happenings of the morning had 
 plunged him, to subside. By the time they were thirty 
 miles out of London his spirit was almost serene- 
 Hammersmith and the dead Millicent were little more 
 than an ugly dream of the night before; the sight of 
 Elizabeth would banish the memory of them from his 
 mind for hours. They reached the Abbey at a few 
 minutes past five. 
 
 As he drew near it James Whitaker's heart beat high 
 at the thought that presently he would be near Eliza- 
 beth, and might even find her in the dell before dinner. 
 It swelled too within him with an extraordinary sense 
 of home-coming, and he realized that, since the mis- 
 Drtunes of his father had broken up the home of his 
 childhood, he had never till now enjoyed the genuine 
 home-feeling about any place in which he had lived. 
 
 The first sight of the Abbey, set among its shrub- 
 beries in the green park brightened by the shining 
 reaches of the Wyper, thrilled him. The thought that 
 
 278
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 279 
 
 it was his, his home, for at any rate as many days as 
 he chose to keep it, was very pleasant. He frowned at 
 the thought of the pang it would cost him, even though 
 Elizabeth went with him, to leave it. He wondered 
 if he would ever brace himself to the sacrifice. 
 
 It was pleasant also to be welcomed by Jenkinson 
 and two footmen, all smiling and clean in bright liv- 
 eries, so strong a contrast to the lowering, dingy, mal- 
 odorous Amy. He could not, indeed, understand why 
 they were so pleased to see him, since his absence 
 must mean more leisure and freedom for them. But 
 it was quite clear that his return did bring an unaf- 
 fected pleasure to their simple menial souls. 
 
 He found Tomkins in his bedroom, apparently no 
 less pleased to see him. His bath was ready for him 
 after his dusty journey, fresh underlinen and another 
 suit of clothes were set out ready for him to wear. 
 He felt that it was indeed homelike. The admirable 
 tea and fresh cream and his chef's cakes deepened 
 the feeling. He lighted a cigar and set out to find 
 Elizabeth, feeling extraordinarily refreshed and in a 
 fine exaltation of spirit. 
 
 His spirits were somewhat dashed to find that she 
 was not in the dell, and they sank still lower when 
 she did not come to it. He waited for her in the dell, 
 or on the path through the wood to the village, till 
 half past six. He returned to dinner in a gloomy 
 mood, which did not lighten till he had come to the 
 sweets, and the waxing hope that he would presently 
 see her cheered him. Then it occurred to him that 
 she might be ill.
 
 2 8o WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Has everything been going right in the village?" 
 he said to Jenkinson. 
 
 "Yes, your Grace," said Jenkinson. 
 
 "I thought Hibbert said that Mr. Carton was ill," 
 said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Oh, no, your Grace. I saw him walking through 
 the village with Miss Carton only this afternoon, and 
 he was looking quite all right." 
 
 James Whitaker breathed easily again ; but he won- 
 dered why she had not come to the dell before dinner. 
 She must have seen his car come through the village. 
 Perhaps, however, she had been out, paying a visit 
 to her friend, Cissie Wyse. 
 
 In his impatience he was in the dell at ten minutes 
 to nine. She was not there. After a long while the 
 church clock struck nine. At five minutes past his 
 heart began to sink, and it went on sinking. Then 
 suddenly at about the quarter past it leaped into his 
 mouth, and he thrilled to a faint rustle in the path. 
 
 In a few seconds Elizabeth stood in the entrance to 
 the glade, bright in the moonlight against the dark 
 tree-trunks which framed her. 
 
 He sprang forward, caught her off her feet and 
 hugged and kissed her. She was passive in his arms, 
 returning his kisses, for perhaps ten seconds. Then 
 she thrust herself out of them and cried indignantly : 
 
 "Why didn't you write to me?" 
 
 "I never thought of it," he said truthfully. 
 
 "You never thought of it?" she cried in amazement. 
 
 "No. I was only going to be away three days, you 
 know."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 281 
 
 "And didn't you think I should be wanting to hear 
 from you?" 
 
 "No; not in that little time." 
 
 "Well, you are the most extraordinary person!" 
 she cried, throwing out her hands in a gesture of help- 
 lessness. "There was I expecting a letter by every 
 post. And no letter came. And I ought to have had 
 a letter I had a right to a letter a love-letter." 
 
 "Of course you ought," he said in a tone of lively 
 contrition. 
 
 "I've never had a love-letter," she said plaintively. 
 
 "And I've never written one," he said. 
 
 "You've never written a love-letter!" she cried, in 
 a fresh amazement. "Well I give it up!" 
 
 She knew that he was speaking the truth; no one 
 could lie in that tone. 
 
 "It was a shame to disappoint you like that," he 
 said, putting his arm round her again. 
 
 He kissed her and drew her across the glade, sat 
 down on the bank in the shadow, drew her down on 
 to his knee and kissed her again. He was deeply an- 
 noyed with himself that he had disappointed her. 
 
 She nestled against him with a sigh of content, 
 and said in a yet more plaintive tone: "Everything 
 has gone wrong while you were away. It wasn't 
 only that you didn't write, but people have started to 
 talk about my meeting you; and Cissie Wyse tells 
 me that they're saying the most horrible things." 
 
 "Hang the slanderous brutes !" he growled savagely. 
 
 "And papa has forbidden me to meet you any more. 
 Not that I can obey him, of course; but it's perfectly
 
 282 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 beastly for him, having people warning him and 
 sneering, and all that." 
 
 He was very angry that they should be slandering 
 her, and he held her tighter to him while he consid- 
 ered the best means of stopping it. 
 
 "This has got to be stopped," he said. 
 
 "You can't stop the people about here gossiping," 
 said Elizabeth in a hopeless tone. 
 
 He was silent again, thinking hard. It was grow- 
 ing more and more unbearable that she should be 
 hurt by these malicious brutes. He had not expected 
 to be hurried in this way, but he was hardly sorry 
 to be hurried. 
 
 "There's one way of stopping them," he said. 
 
 "What's that?" she said, not hopefully. 
 
 "By being married." 
 
 "It wouldn't be any use my telling people we were 
 engaged. They simply wouldn't believe it. It isn't 
 as though you were merely a duke, but you have such 
 a bad character," she said. 
 
 "But if we actually were married, they'd have to be- 
 lieve it," he said firmly. 
 
 "I suppose they would," she said in a somewhat 
 spiritless tone. 
 
 "But don't you want to be married ?" he cried. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate ; then she said : "We're very 
 happy as we are." 
 
 "I'm not," he said quickly. "I don't see half enough 
 of you. I want to be able to see you and talk to you 
 all the time."
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 283 
 
 "But it's very nice meeting like this," she said. "I 
 like it somehow nobody knowing." 
 
 "But they do know," he said quickly. 
 
 "They don't know when and where ; and being mar- 
 ried is such a serious thing." 
 
 "But I thought you wanted to be married! That 
 you wanted to be a duchess !" he cried in some aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I do. I do really. Only only I've 
 grown rather afraid of you, you know," she said 
 slowly. 
 
 "Well, you haven't any need to be; you know you 
 haven't. It's I who am afraid of you really," he 
 said; and he crushed her to him. 
 
 "It feels like it," she said, laughing faintly. 
 
 "Oh, we must be married we must really say 
 we will," he said in a pleading tone. 
 
 This new reluctance in her was a goad to him. 
 
 She hesitated ; then he felt her quiver, and she said : 
 "Very well if we must, we must. And it's got to 
 be that, or not seeing each other at all after a while. 
 My father really would stop it in time. He is so 
 obstinate; and people have really frightened him 
 about me." 
 
 "That's all right," he said; and he kissed her. 
 
 "There's one good thing: we shall have to be mar- 
 ried quietly without any fuss, since your brother 
 died so lately. I do hate all that marriage fuss. And 
 I suppose we can't be married for at least three 
 months."
 
 284 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "Oh, can't we?" he said sharply. "What's the good 
 of being a duke if you can't marry when you want 
 to, because a brother who always disliked you happens 
 to die?" 
 
 "But surely three months is quite soon enough," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh, no; it isn't!" he cried. "With people talking 
 like this a fortnight's quite long enough to wait." 
 
 "A fortnight! But I haven't any clothes!" she 
 cried. 
 
 "Well, look here: we can get over that. Suppose 
 we spend our honeymoon at Tilcombe Grange. It's 
 a little place of mine on the coast of South Devon, 
 right on the cliff. I don't remember it, of course; 
 but there's a picture of it in the pink drawing-room, 
 and it looks very nice indeed. We might stay there 
 a fortnight, and then go to London for a fortnight. 
 You could get lots of clothes in a fortnight in London. 
 Then we could go on to Paris and Berlin and Vienna, 
 and on to Italy in the autumn." 
 
 "Oh, it would be splendid !" she cried. "With you, 
 too!" 
 
 "It certainly wouldn't be splendid without you'' 
 he said. "Then that's settled." 
 
 He heaved a great sigh of relief. 
 
 But when, later, they parted at the gate at the end 
 of the wood, he walked slowly back to the Abbey 
 somewhat troubled in spirit that he had so committed 
 himself. But he had not been able to endure that she 
 should be hurt by the slanders of their neighbors, and 
 her reluctance to consent to marry him had set him
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 285 
 
 fancying that she was cooling. He perceived now that 
 the fancy was unfounded, that her seeming coolness 
 was the result of their three days' separation, which 
 had, for the while, let a veil fall between them. But 
 there must be no more of these separations : the fancy 
 that her ardor was lessening had been too painful. They 
 must marry; and at once. There was nothing what- 
 ever to be gained by waiting. He was glad to be 
 acting once more on his own initiative. 
 
 How small a part had his will played in the matter 
 after that initial impulse, when he stood dazed beside 
 the stricken duke, to seize the chance the lightning 
 had given him of enjoying a real holiday for three 
 days, free from all care for the morrow. After that 
 impulse he had been a mere puppet in the hands of 
 the molder of events. He wondered whether that 
 initial impulse had been inspired into him by that 
 molder. 
 
 Presently the image of Elizabeth withdrew his mind 
 from these speculations. He was glad that he had 
 committed himself to marrying her. After all, it did 
 not commit him to remaining Duke of Lanchester; 
 they could always disappear together when the time 
 came to do so safely. He never doubted Elizabeth 
 for a moment; when that time came, she would go 
 with a brave spirit. 
 
 But when, next morning, he was awakened early 
 by the singing of the birds, and looked out over the 
 beautiful valley gleaming with the reaches of the 
 Wyper, golden in the rays of the low sun, he thrilled 
 with the sense that here was indeed his home; and
 
 286 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 he could not find it in his heart to chafe at the compul- 
 sion which kept him in it. 
 
 He sank back on to his pillow with a sigh of 
 pleasure ; and as he composed himself to sleep again, 
 he told himself drowsily that there must be plenty of 
 valuable social and political work he could do by way 
 of payment for his tenure of the dukedom, even as 
 he had earned his ducal holiday by improving the 
 villages on the estate and ridding the Dukes of Lan- 
 chester of their racing-stable. This work he could 
 do as no ordinary man could. It was true that he 
 would be hampered at first by his bad reputation; but 
 he was sure that it would not take a duke nearly so 
 long to live down a bad reputation as it would a com- 
 moner. 
 
 He had no intention, however, of getting to this 
 work forthwith ; he would take his holiday first, trav- 
 eling with Elizabeth, and rest himself thoroughly after 
 the years of sordid struggle in the malodorous Ham- 
 mersmith shop. He would come to this new valuable 
 work refreshed and eager, with a clear head. 
 
 He rose and breakfasted cheerfully. Elizabeth was 
 to do her best to escape to meet him in the dell at 
 eleven; and they were to discuss his interview with 
 her father. The thought of the interview did not 
 trouble him at all; as Duke of Lanchester he was 
 behaving in the most honorable fashion ; he took it 
 that Mr. Carton would be rejoiced that Elizabeth 
 should make so excellent a marriage. 
 
 After breakfast he took his way to the office to 
 ?earn whether any matter needed his personal atten-
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 28* 
 
 i 
 
 tion, wondering how his three days' absence had af- 
 fected his steward, whether he were again in the mood 
 to revolt. 
 
 It seemed not: at his entrance Mr. Brinkman rose 
 and washed his hands at him with his old, more than 
 amiable smile. He explained the matters on which he 
 desired definite instructions, with the most deferential 
 air. He even answered James Whitaker's questions 
 about the improvements in an amiable tone, quite free 
 from the contemptuous bitterness with which he had 
 at first spoken of them. James Whitaker, wearing 
 his usual office scowl, watched him closely. His words 
 and tones rang genuine enough; and it seemed that 
 he was truly coming to the temper of the dog that 
 licks the hand that beats it. James Whitaker felt quite 
 sure that as long as he remained Duke of Lanchester, 
 he had very little to fear from his steward. 
 
 He came away from the office therefore very well 
 content with him, and betook himself through a win- 
 dow of the blue drawing-room on to the terrace to 
 finish his cigar in the most pleasant surroundings. He 
 had not been there long when a footman came to in- 
 form him that Mr. Carton had called to see him, and 
 was in the pink drawing-room. 
 
 James Whitaker's first thought was that this inter- 
 view might make him late at his tryst with Elizabeth ; 
 and that was annoying since Millicent's funeral was 
 at two o'clock; and he must be there. Then he re- 
 flected that Elizabeth would probably know that her 
 father was coming to him; and he was glad that he 
 was going to have it over and done with. He had
 
 288 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 far too strong a sense of his ducal position to suppose 
 that the affair would not go the way he wished. 
 
 He had seen Mr. Carton once or twice, as he was 
 motoring through the village, and had waved a gra- 
 cious hand at him. But he had never spoken to him. 
 He merely knew him as a dark lanky figure, with 
 rather long black hair, moving with a long stride at 
 a pace which made his coat tails hang well out behind 
 him. Elizabeth had now and again spoken of him; 
 and he had gathered that he was an impulsive, obsti- 
 nate man, hard at times to manage. 
 
 As he came into the drawing-room he found him 
 standing at the end of it in the full light of the win- 
 'dows. He had an impression that at the sound of his 
 approaching footsteps he had gone to this center of 
 the stage and struck an impressive attitude. 
 
 He came down the room with a welcoming air, held 
 but his hand, and said : "How are you, Mr. Carton ?" 
 
 Mr. Carton shook it somewhat limply, and said in 
 a deep voice : "How do you do, your Grace ?" 
 
 James Whitaker saw that he had very fine large, 
 expressive, brown eyes, rather high up in a long face, 
 and long, full, sensitive lips. His long nose was some- 
 what roughly molded and the left eyebrow was higher 
 than the right. His narrow, pointed, receding chin 
 spoiled the lower part of his face and gave him, indeed, 
 the air of a man hard to manage. 
 
 He gazed at James Whitaker with his head high, 
 even thrown a little back, and with a very earnest, 
 stern eye. James Whitaker met his gaze without 
 flinching and waited for him to speak.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 289 
 
 "I have come on an unpleasant errand, your Grace," 
 he said in deep reproving tones, and paused. 
 
 James Whitaker said nothing, but looked at him 
 with an air of mild inquiry. 
 
 In a higher, less impressive tone Mr. Carton contin- 
 ued : "I have learned that your Grace has been meet- 
 ing my daughter Elizabeth clandestinely, and I am 
 very deeply annoyed about it." 
 
 "It wasn't particularly clandestinely," said James 
 Whitaker mildly. 
 
 "If secret meetings in the heart of a wood are 
 not clandestine, I should like to know what are!" cried 
 Mr. Carton with some heat. 
 
 "Oh, but we didn't meet only in the wood. We've 
 fished together in the park (at least, Elizabeth fished 
 and I looked on) for hours quite openly and she 
 has been here to tea quite openly. There was nothing 
 secret about our meetings; we just met in the most 
 convenient way. In fact it was the only way to meet, 
 since we don't seem to move in the same society," 
 said James Whitaker in his most matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "Elizabeth has been here to tea?" cried Mr. Car- 
 ton. "Then she has been more indiscreet far more 
 indiscreet than I had supposed. It makes the matter 
 worse much worse. Your Grace has compromised her 
 more seriously than I had supposed. And I will tell 
 you frankly that deliberately to have compromised a 
 young and inexperienced girl like Elizabeth is dis- 
 graceful most disgraceful." 
 
 "But really I don't see what else I was to do. You 
 couldn't expect me to marry a girl without knowing
 
 290 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 anything about her. Of course I might have come 
 to you and asked your permission to pay my addresses 
 to her. But nobody does that nowadays, I think," said 
 James Whitaker amiably. 
 
 "Marrying her? Am I to understand that you are 
 really seriously proposing to marry her?" cried Mr. 
 Carton in a tone of great surprise. 
 
 "Of course I am. We are definitely engaged." 
 
 "Well of course this puts a different complexion 
 on the matter," said Mr. Carton more gently. "Evi- 
 dently you did not intend to compromise her. But 
 marriage marriage with you is quite out of the ques- 
 tion, your Grace." 
 
 "Why ?" said James Whitaker, surprised in his turn. 
 
 "A man of your Grace's reputation is not fit to 
 marry a young girl," said Mr. Carton very sternly. 
 
 "Oh, hang my reputation!" said James Whitaker 
 impatiently. "I'm not responsible for my reputation. 
 It's just the result of a lot of idle and malicious gos- 
 sip." 
 
 "I fear not I fear that it's founded on a great 
 deal more than that. To give only two instances, 
 there are Lady Cubbington and Lady Middlemore. 
 Your relations with them are not by any means merely 
 a matter of idle and malicious gossip not by any 
 means," said Mr. Carton very sternly. 
 
 It seemed to James Whitaker that he was working 
 himself into the part of an accusing angel and en- 
 joying it. 
 
 "I can't help what people say about it; but I give 
 yov my word of honor that there are not and never
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 291 
 
 have been any serious relations between those ladies 
 and myself," said James Whitaker with perfect truth- 
 fulness. 
 
 Mr. Carton shook his head, and said : "As a man 
 of honor your Grace feels bound to say that. But 
 your denial has no weight with me for that very 
 reason. I would sooner see Elizabeth in her shroud 
 than married to a man of your character." 
 
 He rolled out the phrase grandly, in a most im- 
 pressive tone, and paused for the outburst of fury. 
 
 It did not come. James Whitaker's eyes sparkled 
 in sudden aggravation. To his simple nature theatri- 
 cality off the stage was in the highest degree abhor- 
 rent. His fingers itched to smack Mr. Carton. For 
 the moment he felt that it was almost a duty to try 
 to cure such a theatrical person of his staginess. But 
 the thought that he was Elizabeth's father checked 
 him; he would not take the smacking as Brinkman 
 had taken it; and he had no desire to have a serious 
 quarrel with him. Besides, Elizabeth herself would 
 be very angry indeed. She was used to her father; 
 possibly she did not even perceive his theatricality ; she 
 only knew that he was hard to manage. 
 
 He gulped down his irritation and said in a pacific 
 tone : "Well, if you feel like that, you feel like that, 
 and there is no more to be said about it. But, of 
 course, it's for Elizabeth to settle." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind, your Grace! What does a 
 child like that understand about human depravity?" 
 cried Mr. Carton. "Why, she probably knows noth- 
 ing at all about you and these these ladies"
 
 292 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "She knows all there is to know. I'm quite sure 
 of that," said James Whitaker calmly. "I've told you 
 there isn't anything in it; she's talked to me about 
 those ladies, and I think she's satisfied about it." 
 
 "It was no subject for her to discuss ; but of course 
 you would spare her the truth. Indeed, if she knew 
 it, she would shrink from you with a pure woman's 
 loathing," said Mr. Carton, again rolling out the 
 phrase with a splendid air. 
 
 James Whitaker ground his teeth softly; then he 
 said: "Well, there's not much use going on discuss- 
 ing the matter. Elizabeth has got to settle it." 
 
 "Indeed she has not. For the next three months, 
 at any rate, she can not marry without my consent; 
 and always always she will be guided by me in the 
 serious and important matter of the choice of a hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Well, well: we'll let it go at that," said James 
 Whitaker in an indulgent tone. "I'm only pointing 
 out that it's a waste of time for us to discuss it." 
 
 Mr. Carton looked at him with a somewhat balked 
 air. The interview had not been so satisfying as he 
 had expected. He had come prepared with some 
 fine denunciations of the duke's conduct in compro- 
 mising Elizabeth by clandestine meetings and had 
 found them unneeded since the duke proposed to 
 marry her. He had expected the duke to fly into a 
 fine fury when he found himself balked and rebuked 
 by an unbending scathing moralist. James Whitaker's 
 amiable indulgence had prevented him making nearly
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 293 
 
 as much, emotionally, as might have been made of the 
 interview; and he was annoyed with him. 
 
 "Well, since you Grace quite understands my posi- 
 tion in the matter, and, furthermore, that there is no 
 chance whatever of my being stirred from it, there 
 is no point in our continuing the interview," he said 
 stiffly, moving toward the door. 
 
 "Quite so quite so," said James Whitaker amiably ; 
 and he opened it. 
 
 He walked across the hall with him to the front 
 door, shook his stiff hand with friendly warmth, and 
 bade him good-by. Mr. Carton walked down the 
 steps slowly and stiffly, his head well in the air. He 
 still felt himself, and even more strongly now that he 
 was free of James Whitaker's unperturbed amiability, 
 the scathing moralist. 
 
 James Whitaker was indeed unperturbed : he felt 
 that Elizabeth and himself were far too deeply in 
 love to be greatly affected by anything any third 
 person, even her father, might say or do. But as he 
 took his way to the dell his natural stubbornness began 
 to stir at the opposition, which, considering his rank, 
 he felt to be most unreasonable. At the moment he 
 felt very strongly that a duke had almost a natural 
 right to another, less exacting, moral standard than 
 common men.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE interview with Mr. Carton had made him 
 a few minutes late; and he found Elizabeth 
 awaiting him in the dell. In her pleasure at his return 
 to her from London she was radiant; she had for- 
 gotten his neglect to write to her. 
 
 He sat down beside her and greeted her with the 
 warmth her beauty demanded. Then he said : 
 
 "I've just had an interview with your father." 
 
 "Have you? What did he say?" she said quickly 
 and a little anxiously. 
 
 "Well, he wasn't very complimentary to me. He 
 insisted that I was a scoundrel; and there was no 
 persuading him that I wasn't." 
 
 "No. When papa does get an idea into his head, 
 there's no getting it out of it," said Elizabeth in the 
 tone of one who has suffered. 
 
 "That's what struck me," he said. "But the nui- 
 sance is that he refuses to let you marry me. He won't 
 hear of it." 
 
 "Bother!" said Elizabeth, frowning. 
 
 "Of course he can only stop you marrying for 
 the next three months. You'll be of age then. But 
 it's such a long time. I can't wait three months," he 
 said in a very plaintive tone. 
 
 294
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 295 
 
 Elizabeth nestled closer to him compassionately; 
 then she said: "But it isn't only that three months 
 is a long time ; but at the end of three months he'll be 
 quite as keen, or even keener, on my not marrying 
 you; and we shall be no better off." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you wouldn't marry me unless 
 your father consented?" he cried. 
 
 "No: I don't say that. But it would be nicer to 
 have his consent," she said. Then she continued 
 slowly and thoughtfully: "Besides, you don't know 
 papa. He's really awfully clever at getting his own 
 way; and if he's made up his mind to stop our be- 
 ing married and has three months to work at it, he 
 very likely will stop it." 
 
 "But how could he?" cried James Whitaker. 
 
 "Oh, he might find some way of making us quarrel. 
 He might set me against you somehow. You don't 
 know papa. He is so clever," she said in a despondent 
 tone. 
 
 "Do you mean to say he'd make you unhappy 
 just to get his own way?" said James Whitaker with 
 a touch of incredulity in his tone. 
 
 "Of course not. He'd make me unhappy just to 
 prevent you making me unhappy when I was married 
 to you." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said James Whitaker thoughtfully. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, he saw how to turn this 
 ingenuity of his father-in-law to his own advantage. 
 
 "Look here : we can't run a risk like this," he said 
 quickly and earnestly. "I can't have you made un- 
 happy; and I don't want to be made unhappy myself
 
 296 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 ' about you of all things. And the important thing 
 is that whatever your father thinks about me, you 
 trust me. Don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Elizabeth with decision. 
 
 "Well, then, let us be married right away. I know 
 that you can get a special marriage license which en- 
 ables you to be married anywhere and at once. I'll 
 go up to London this afternoon and get one; and to- 
 morrow we'll just elope." 
 
 "Elope? I thought that eloping was a thing of the 
 past," she said. 
 
 "Oh, no : not with motor-cars handy," he said. "And 
 when once your father is faced with the fact that 
 we're actually married, he'll probably calm down." 
 
 "Yes; you're right about that: he does," she said 
 quickly ; then she added in a slower, hesitating voice : 
 "It would be rather fun eloping." 
 
 The desire to make her safely his, immediately, had 
 already gripped James Whitaker ; and he said : 
 
 "It would be a great deal better than fun. It would 
 be a splendid thing to feel that we belonged absolutely 
 to each other and couldn't be separated ; and we really 
 ought to act quickly before your father gets to work. 
 And, besides all that, I do so want to have you always 
 with me." 
 
 His tone was urgent, compelling; and there was a 
 new masterfulness in his eyes. She found it hard 
 to meet them. 
 
 "Yes," she said, still hesitating. "But I haven't any 
 clothes." 
 
 "You can get them afterward in Paris if you like.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 297 
 
 You've plenty to be married very quietly in. I tell 
 you what: we could be married at Tilcombe Rectory, 
 and go on to the Grange. I'll get the special license 
 this afternoon; we'll motor down there and be mar- 
 ried to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow!" she cried. 
 
 "Yes. If we're going to do it quickly, let's do it 
 really quickly," he said with yet more earnest vehem- 
 ence. "I do so want to feel that you're safely mine. 
 Don't you want to feel that you're safe too?" 
 
 "Yes: I suppose I do," she said in a low voice. 
 
 "Then that settles it!" he cried triumphantly; and 
 he kissed her again and again. 
 
 When his transports had somewhat abated, they 
 discussed the method of her flight with him. She 
 must bring with her some clothes clothes for a week 
 at any rate; and they must start some hours before 
 Mr. Carton learned of the elopement. It seemed to 
 him that Cissie Wyse was the best person to help 
 them in this; and Elizabeth agreed with him. She 
 could take some of her clothes to Longmeadow Farm 
 that morning, some more in the afternoon, some more 
 in the evening and some more next morning. She 
 could indeed convey thither all the clothes she would 
 need; and Cissie would lend her a portmanteau. At 
 the end of half an hour's discussion they had their 
 way clearly mapped out; they would leave the final 
 arrangements till the evening, for if he had to get 
 to London and back by dinner-time, the sooner he 
 started the better. He bade her good-by and hurried 
 back to the Abbey.
 
 298 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 He ordered the car and wrote a telegram to Messrs. 
 Blenkinsop and Tudor, bidding them meet the train 
 at Paddington and take all steps to enable him to 
 obtain without delay a special marriage license. He 
 pocketed the telegram, for he thought that if he des- 
 patched it from Little Lanchester, Mr. Carton might 
 easily hear its contents within the hour. Then he took 
 five hundred dollars from the secret drawer of the 
 bureau, and going down to the hall, told Jenkinson 
 that he was motoring down to Tilcombe on the mor- 
 row, and bade him make all the arrangements to take 
 down the servants he usually took to the Grange, so 
 that they should be there ready to receive him on his 
 arrival late in the afternoon. 
 
 Hibbert drove him to Lanchester; and he had just 
 time to despatch his telegram and catch the London 
 express. On the platform at Paddington he was ac- 
 costed by Mr. Tudor himself, who told him that he 
 had sent on the managing clerk of the firm to inform 
 the officials that the Duke of Lanchester required a 
 special marriage license. They would be ready; and 
 he would obtain it as quickly as possible. James Whit- 
 aker, using his hoarse and husky voice, thanked him; 
 and they bustled into a taxicab. 
 
 On the way, James Whitaker learned that both 
 the contracting parties must be of age, or he would 
 not obtain the license. Accordingly when they came 
 to the office, he added four months to the age of Eliz- 
 abeth. He obtained the license forthwith, and paid 
 for it out of the money he had found in the bureau, 
 since he considered it to be distinctly a family affair.
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 299 
 
 When he came out of the office, he thanked Mr. 
 Tudor warmly for having helped him to despatch the 
 business so quickly; and bade him good-by. 
 
 As he was getting into a taxicab, the lawyer said : 
 "I hope your Grace hasn't forgotten the wedding- 
 ring." 
 
 That was what James Whitaker had forgotten ; but 
 a certain compunction held him from buying it on 
 his way to Millicent's funeral. In the expansion of his 
 nature induced by the ducal life, he had no compunc- 
 tion whatever about marrying Elizabeth the day after 
 that funeral, for it was so long since Millicent had 
 counted for anything in his life. She was merely a 
 part of the Hammersmith nightmare; and even in that 
 she counted for little more than old Amy. None the 
 less, he balked at buying the wedding-ring before her 
 funeral. 
 
 He took the tube to Hammersmith Broadway, and 
 reached the house in Watergate Street at a quarter 
 to two, to find Millicent's relations eating ham sand- 
 wiches and drinking sherry in the parlor behind the 
 shop. He went up-stairs, changed into his ill-fitting 
 Sunday frock coat and a pair of shiny black trousers 
 he had bought second-hand for William Ward's fu- 
 neral, and joined them. They were all very gloomy 
 and decorous; and the parlor was painfully stuffy. 
 He was once more plunged into the nightmare; and 
 the next two hours passed in a dismal wretchedness. 
 
 He did not come straight back to the house, but 
 made the changes in his business arrangements neces-
 
 300 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 sitated by Millicent's death, appointing Isabel Ward 
 his attorney to receive all moneys realized by the sale 
 of the house and business, provide for old Amy out 
 of it, and send the remainder to him in America when 
 he should write for it. Then he went back, changed 
 into his tweed suit, and came out of the house in a 
 sudden tingling exhilaration: he was done with the 
 old cramped, dirty life for good and all. 
 
 He had now to buy the wedding-ring; and he was 
 glad that he had brought five hundred dollars with 
 him. He had to buy not only a wedding-ring for 
 Elizabeth, but also an engagement ring. 
 
 After paying for the special license he had more 
 than three hundred dollars left; and at a jeweler's in 
 Piccadilly he bought a sapphire and diamond ring for 
 three hundred dollars, which seemed to him of as 
 good a design as he could expect in a piece of modern 
 jewelry. He had not measured Elizabeth's finger; but 
 he knew that his signet ring fitted her third finger, for 
 one afternoon she had idly slipped it on to it ; and now 
 it served as a measure. Then he bought the wedding- 
 ring. That done he had tea at a Bond Street tea-shop 
 and caught the five-fifteen express at Paddington.. 
 Hibbert met him at Lanchester with the car; and he 
 was back at the Abbey before seven. 
 
 Elizabeth came to the dell that evening with an un- 
 certain mind. Cissie Wyse, a somewhat timid crea- 
 ture, had been frightened by her intention of eloping 
 with the duke, and had somewhat shaken her resolu- 
 tion. None the less Elizabeth had conveyed to Long- 
 meadow Farm the clothes she would need, and they
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 301 
 
 were already packed in the portmanteau Cissie had 
 lent her. 
 
 She might, however, have changed her mind about 
 eloping on the morrow, had not James Whitaker's 
 plain devotion to her hardened her resolution, and 
 driven away her doubts. When he slipped the ring on 
 to her finger, her last scruple vanished; she was as- 
 sured that she was doing the right thing. 
 
 They were late parting, or rather tearing them- 
 selves away from each other, that night, and James 
 Whitaker was some time getting to sleep after that. 
 He was harassed by a nervous dread lest even now 
 something might go wrong and rob him of Elizabeth. 
 It was quite clear to him now that it was Elizabeth 
 he wanted, not the home, or the pleasant life, or the 
 dukedom, but just Elizabeth. Had it not been for 
 her, he would before this have started for America 
 to attempt a new free life. He told himself that 
 with her in the place of Millicent, he could even 
 have returned to the Hammersmith shop and have 
 been happy. 
 
 However, he slept at last, and when he awoke to 
 find the bright sunlight streaming through his win- 
 dows, his fear had vanished. 
 
 As they had arranged, he was in the car at the end 
 of the garden of Longmeadow Farm at twelve o'clock, 
 and five minutes later Elizabeth and Cissie Wyse came 
 out of the gate, carrying between them the portman- 
 teau. Elizabeth was rather pale, Cissie flushed with 
 excitement. James Whitaker sprang from the car, 
 took the portmanteau from them and put it beside the
 
 302 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 astonished Hibbert. Then he shook hands with the 
 two girls, congratulating them in a cheerful tone on 
 their punctuality, and thanked Cissie Wyse for having 
 helped them. The two girls kissed, and bade each 
 other good-by, Cissie now tearful, and Elizabeth 
 stepped into the car. He shook hands with Cissie 
 and said : "It's a pity that you can't come with us. and 
 be bridesmaid," bade Hibbert get them to Marlbor- 
 ough in time for lunch, and sprang into the car. 
 
 It started, and when it came round a bend in the 
 road, Elizabeth turned and clung to him for a breath, 
 and their lips met in a long kiss. Then they sank 
 back ; she put on a pair of disguising goggles, and they 
 sat, very decorous, but holding hands under the rug. 
 
 The plunge taken, Elizabeth was presently herself, 
 keenly alert, enjoying the swift passage of the car 
 and the beautiful country through which it was run- 
 ning, talking to him in tones of a new tenderness. 
 Thrilling with tenderness and triumph, he watched 
 her glowing face, and for a long while could hardly, 
 in the turmoil of his emotion, talk to her coherently. 
 
 They reached Marlborough at half past one, and 
 the stopping of the car, the getting out of it and going 
 into the hotel, brought them down once more to the 
 plane of ordinary life. James Whitaker observed 
 that Hibbert was looking gloomy, and guessed his 
 suspicions. Therefore, instead of despatching himself 
 the telegram he had written to Mr. Appleton, the 
 rector of Tilcombe, requesting him to be ready to 
 marry them quietly between six and seven that eve- 
 ning, he gave it to Hibbert to despatch. When, after
 
 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 303 
 
 a delightful lunch, they started again, the clouds had 
 vanished from Hibbert's face. 
 
 They had tea at a little inn at Chard, and about an 
 hour later they had their first glimpse of the sea. At 
 the sight of it Elizabeth's clasp tightened on his hand. 
 
 "Oh, I do love the sea," she said. "I'm so glad 
 we've come to the sea." 
 
 "So am I. But any place with you would satisfy 
 me," he said. 
 
 They were not long reaching Tilcombe, and at the 
 rectory they found the rector, his wife and his daugh- 
 ters awaiting them in flushed excitement. The rector 
 suggested that they could, with perfect privacy, be 
 married in the church, and Elizabeth received the sug- 
 gestion with warm approval. Accordingly, they were 
 married in the church, the rector's excited daughters 
 supporting Elizabeth, who was far cooler than they, 
 Hibbert supporting James Whitaker. 
 
 Elizabeth came out of the church pale ; but the pale- 
 ness passed as Hibbert drove them through the village 
 and up the steep road to the Grange, which stood on 
 the cliff on the other side of it. At the sight of Eliza- 
 beth, Jenkinson lost for a moment his admirable calm ; 
 but he had recovered it before the footman had opened 
 the door of the car. 
 
 When they came up the steps into the hall, James 
 Whitaker said: "Hang it, I've forgotten this place 
 too ! I was hoping I should remember it. Well, you'll 
 have to show me my way about, Jenkinson." 
 
 "That's quite nice," said Elizabeth joyfully. "We 
 shall be able to learn it together."
 
 304 WHITAKER'S DUKEDOM 
 
 "And find some one who can act as maid to her 
 Grace for the time being," said James Whitaker. 
 
 "Yes, your Grace. There's Mrs. Whittick, your 
 Grace the head gardener's wife. She's had experi- 
 ence," said Jenkinson. 
 
 It was already a quarter past seven; there was no 
 time to explore the Grange before dinner and Mrs. 
 Whittick was summoned forthwith to wait on Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 At dinner they were at first somewhat constrained. 
 In the circumstances they found the presence of Jen- 
 kinson and two footmen oppressive; they endured it 
 as one of the penalties of their rank. But presently the 
 constraint wore off; they forgot their attendants and 
 were at their ease. The thoughtful Jenkinson ha'd 
 set a small table for them in the middle window of the 
 dining-room, from which they looked down on the 
 sea, golden in the setting sun. 
 
 After dinner they took their coffee on a little ter- 
 race at the end of the left wing, a terrace on the edge 
 of the cliff, hidden from the windows of the house 
 by a screen of tall shrubs. Talking softly, with many 
 silences, they saw the sun sink into the sea, the twi- 
 light fade and the stars come slowly out. 
 
 James Whitaker's mind was at ease: he did not 
 believe that any harm could come to Elizabeth from 
 his holding the dukedom till such a time as the danger 
 from Mr. Brinkman should have passed, even though 
 it might be years before he could safely disappear. 
 His conscience was clear : apart from his sudden whim,
 
 305 
 
 when he was unhinged by a lightning-stroke, to be a 
 duke for three days, he had not been a free agent; 
 he had been forced to stay duke ; and he believed that 
 he could, by good work, pay for the position as long 
 as he held it. 
 
 These were comforting thoughts, but really these 
 were not important things. The great and wonderful 
 thing was that he had Elizabeth. He drew her yet 
 closer to him; and they sat silent in a thrilling con- 
 tent. 
 
 It was dark now, save for the light of the stars and 
 a very faint brightness on the western edge of the 
 sea. Then a distant clock, chiming a half-hour, 
 roused them. He drew her to her feet and kissed her ; 
 and they walked through the dim scented garden to 
 the house. When they came on to the central lawn 
 before it, they found the whole front in darkness, 
 except the four windows of their rooms on the first 
 floor. 
 
 "Oh, it does look nice and lonely," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Yes, that's quite as it should be," he said. "You're 
 not afraid to be alone with me?" 
 
 "Certainly not. I'm a duchess now," said Elizabeth. 
 
 The Duke of Lanchester laughed gently. 
 
 THE END
 
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