the dead having been buried, and the will read, and the business arranged by mr. barras, with the assistance of clarice, things settled down into the usual quiet jog-trot of existence. the reward offered for the apprehension of alfred osip remained unclaimed, as neither sims, nor his fellow-detectives, could discover the whereabouts of the assassin. he had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up, and gradually all interest in the case died away. even in crumel, people almost forgot, and, indeed, horran had been merely a name to the townspeople for so long, that he was not missed, as a more prominent man would have been.

ferdy returned to london and to his studies under dr. jerce on the day after the funeral, leaving clarice to manage affairs. the doctor himself never reappeared again at crumel for some time, and never even sent a message through ferdy when the boy wrote. nevertheless, clarice could not help thinking that in some way jerce was not inactive, and that he would yet make trouble. she had attempted to see mr. clarke and his daughter, after ferdy had taken his departure; but found, to her surprise--for the parson was a notable stay-at-home--that they had gone to brighton for a few weeks. a locum tenens occupied the pulpit of the ancient church, and his sermons pleased the congregation much more than the discourses of mr. clarke. prudence had left a note for clarice, saying that her father was ill, and had to take a rest, and also asking her to do nothing about the thousand pound loan until the vicar returned. but clarice noted that the girl gave no address where letters might be sent to, and on making enquiries at the vicarage, found that the same reticence had been observed there. mr. clarke's letters, therefore, accumulated until his return--in three weeks. clarice heard the news, when she was conversing with anthony.

captain ackworth came over nearly every day, and had long conversations with clarice. he urged her--now that she was her own mistress--to marry him forthwith, and be happy, but this she resolutely declined to do. on this very occasion, three weeks after the burial of henry horran, the young man was still urging, and clarice was still refusing.

"dear," she said to her lover, "i have my duty to perform towards ferdy."

anthony, who was walking up and down the long drawing-room, uttered an angry growl. "why should you make yourself miserable over that silly boy?" he demanded, crossly.

"just because he is a silly boy and my brother. wait until he is married to prudence, and then i'll become your wife, whenever you like, my dear. i'm sure," added clarice, with a sigh, "i would give anything to marry you now, and be happy."

"that rests with yourself," said anthony, coming to the sofa and putting his arm round her waist. "clarice, you suffer too much from a very aggressive conscience."

"all the better for our married life," said the girl, gaily, "think how anxious i shall be to please my fireside tyrant."

"i am afraid you will be the tyrant, dearest. see how unable i am to make you do what i want."

"because it would not be right, anthony. i wish to settle all things connected with the past before i begin a new life with you."

"i fancied--according to your own way of putting it--that the new epoch had begun," joked ackworth.

"it has, and it has not. my new epoch begins with my marriage to you, darling, and the old epoch ended with uncle henry's death. this is a kind of interregnum--"

"which will end--?"

"when ferdy is married."

"and when will that be?"

"as soon as i can arrange. anthony, what is the use of talking more about the matter? i have told you how necessary it is, that ferdy should have someone to guide him. while he is unmarried i must be his guide, but when prudence becomes his wife, i have every hope that she will be able to keep him in order."

"well, then, i wish you would marry the young scamp as soon as you can," said ackworth, rather wounded. "it seems to me, clarice, that you love him more than you do me."

"my dearest, the weakest always require the most love. you are strong, anthony; you can walk alone. but poor weak ferdy--"

"selfish, greedy ferdy," contradicted ackworth. "i should like to give him a good thrashing."

"well," said clarice, musingly; "i don't think that would hurt him."

"it would," said ackworth, grimly, "if i administered it."

"what nonsense! don't frown"--she smoothed away a wrinkle or two on his forehead, and then kissed him as he was about to speak. "i do not wish to argue any more, my dear, obstinate, darling sweetheart. i may as well tell you that the clarkes return to-morrow, as i heard this morning. i'll see them in the afternoon, and arrange as soon as possible about ferdy's marriage. then--and not till then--we,----"

"all right," interrupted anthony, and stole a kiss in his turn, "but will ferdy give up that dancing girl?"

"why, i told you that he had done so. zara went away immediately after the funeral, and her mother accompanied her to stop in town for a week or so. ferdy has forgotten all about zara by this time. it is just as well," sighed clarice, "as i had to pay those awful bills. two thousand pounds, anthony. think of it."

"oh, i always knew that ferdy could get through no end of cash," said ackworth, coolly, "especially when butterfly had him in tow. but now that he has escaped her, i dare say he'll marry miss clarke."

"he is willing enough to do so," said clarice, "and i think that he really loves her, as much as his weak nature will allow him to love anyone but himself. the opposition--so i gathered from ferdy--is on the part of mr. clarke."

"but why, seeing that mr. clarke is in your debt, and should be glad that his daughter should make a rich marriage?"

"i can't explain, anthony. mr. clarke certainly seemed to be pleased when the marriage was announced--that is, the engagement. why he should have changed his mind, i can't say. but i'll know to-morrow."

"well, then, when this is settled we can look after our own happiness?" said the captain.

"yes. you know, i want to have you, all to myself."

"i know, i know. i am of the same way of thinking. also my father and mother are most anxious to meet you again. they are old, and want a sweet daughter in the house. i am an only child, you know, clarice, so when i marry you i'll chuck the army, and we can live near the old people."

"i should not like you to leave the army," said clarice, thoughtfully; "you must have something to do in life."

"i'll make love to you, dear. however, i'll obey your slightest command. indeed, clarice, i often wish that you would allow me to help you now."

"in what way. i have arranged all business affairs with mr. barras. the search for osip is in the hands of the detectives. i am arranging about ferdy's future as i tell you, and--and--well, everything is going smoothly. there's nothing to be done."

"have you found out where that forty thousand pounds went?"

"not a trace of it. uncle henry received it in gold, but we have searched the room and the house and even the garden, without coming upon any buried treasure. chalks declares that he never heard uncle henry say anything about money, and never saw him with any save a few sovereigns."

"could mr. horran have hidden the gold without chalks knowing anything about the hiding?"

"oh, yes. chalks was not always with uncle henry. he was frequently away for hours, and rarely sat up with him a night, unless by the doctors' orders. uncle henry received the gold in small sums, so could easily hide it if he wished."

"or spend it in london," said ackworth, significantly.

"ah, you mean that uncle henry went secretly to london," said clarice, recalling the story anthony had told about the shah's rooms.

"well, i saw him there with osip, you know."

"are you sure that his companion was osip?"

"yes. i did not know at the time. but when jerce described that criss-cross scar and the thin, lean figure of the man, i am sure it was osip. and mr. horran also. i knew him well enough," ended ackworth, with emphasis, "and even in the glimpse i caught of him, i was certain."

"but i can't see how uncle henry, ill as he was, could have travelled to town," objected clarice.

"my dear, we argued all this before, and i stated then, as i state now, that a quick motor-car could easily take mr. horran from here to london. and now, clarice, this large sum of money which is missing, points to the fact that mr. horran must have secretly led a gay life, and that his illness was merely an excuse to hide his real existence."

"no, no!" said clarice, with horror, "i can't think uncle henry was so wicked; and remember, the doctors found out what he suffered from, and that it was a real disease."

"humph! perhaps," said ackworth, grudgingly; "but the money?"

"i can't say anything about that."

"if mr. horran had forty thousand paid to him in gold," said anthony, firmly, "he must either have spent it by secretly going to town, and to places like the shah's rooms, where i saw him; or he must have concealed the money somewhere. now you can't find the money and the lawyer can't account for it in a business way. it only remains, from a common-sense point of view, that horran really was a profligate, and used his illness as a mask."

"but the doctors--both dr. jerce and dr. wentworth--say that the post-mortem examination showed that uncle henry really was ill," persisted clarice, much distressed. "the thing in the brain, whatever they called it, quite accounted for the symptoms which so puzzled them."

"then i give it up," said anthony.

"so do i," replied clarice, promptly. "i am not going to trouble any more about that missing money, or about the capture of osip, or about anything else. i must settle ferdy's future, and then we can marry."

this speech was quite agreeable to ackworth, who had long wished to bring her to this point. while they were talking about more pleasant subjects connected with their marriage, jane limped in at the open window, and immediately went to anthony. the dog was fond of the young man, and showed her pleasure by rubbing her head against his knee, and looking up at him with faithful eyes.

"jane loves you as much as she hates dr. jerce," said clarice, patting the dog's shaggy coat.

"why should she hate jerce?"

"i don't know, especially as he was kind to her. he found her in whitechapel, starving and wet, and took her home. but she hated him so much that he had to get rid of her. he intended to have her poisoned, but i asked him to give her to me. dear jane, she is so faithful. all the same, she should like dr. jerce for his kindness."

"i am glad she doesn't," said anthony. "i don't like dr. jerce."

"why not? everyone does."

"clarice, how can you ask me that when you know that he had the cheek to propose to you? i don't like jerce. oh, he's clever enough, and very philanthropic, and all that. all the same, it was impertinent of an old man to propose to you."

"a famous man," teased clarice; "remember he is now sir daniel jerce, and more famous than ever. you need not be jealous of him, anthony. he has never come here since the day he proposed, and i refused."

"well, i hope we'll never set eyes on him again."

"i hope jane won't," laughed the girl, "she will certainly bite him if she does."

"h'm!" said ackworth, examining the dog's strong white teeth; "i can't say i'd like to get a bite from these jaws. but anyone could run away, seeing that jane is lame."

"i think jane is obstinate enough to follow until she can get her bite," said clarice, dryly. "i never knew so dogged a dog. there's a pun for you, anthony. why don't you laugh?"

to please her anthony did laugh, and was rebuked for the obvious effort he made. then clarice romped with jane, who barked and danced as well as her lameness permitted. the trio in short behaved like children, and their careless glee went far to dispel the gloomy atmosphere, which for weeks had pervaded the house. and clarice, by this time, was recovering from the effects of the tragedy, and was more like her old bright self. on this especial evening, anthony stopped to dinner, and, heedless of the necessity of a chaperon, they enjoyed themselves greatly. it was quite a foretaste of the time when they would be darby and joan by their own particular fireside.

however, after pleasure comes business, and next afternoon, miss baird set out for the vicarage. she had ascertained that the clarkes had returned in the morning, and called a few hours later, anxious to get ferdy's business settled, so that she could arrange her own life. often had the girl wondered why mr. clarke, who had seemed markedly pleased when the engagement was announced, should have placed any bar in the way of the marriage. she was resolved to come to a complete understanding; to learn the reason for this whim, and to use any power she possessed to bring about the desirable match. whatever objection mr. clarke could urge against ferdy, clarice was certain that prudence would remain true to her absent lover. prudence had always loved ferdy deeply, from the time they were boy and girl together.

mr. clarke proved to be in his study, and clarice found him unpacking some parcels. she was astonished to see how ill the man looked. he had never enjoyed the best of health, and was invariably badly dressed and absent-minded. but now he looked leaner than ever, and his eyes avoided her own, uneasily. clarice sat down in a perfect state of consternation.

"my dear mr. clarke," she said, as soon as she could get her breath, "what on earth is the matter?"

"nothing," said the vicar, with a weary sigh, and went on with his unpacking in a restless, disturbed manner.

"but you went away for your health," persisted miss baird, "and you have been breathing the sea-air for three weeks. it doesn't seem to have done you a particle of good.

"when the mind is ill at ease, clarice, there is no chance of the body regaining health."

"what's the matter now?" asked clarice, abruptly.

"my son frank is dead," said the vicar, with a sob.

"oh!" clarice was dreadfully shocked, and now quite understood the sick looks of the bereaved father. she knew that frank had been the apple of mr. clarke's eyes, notwithstanding that he had always behaved like the rascal, he inherently was.

"i am sorry," she said, rising; "perhaps you would like me to go away."

"no! no! stop, please, i'll send prudence to you, as i have to attend to some pastoral matters myself."

"but your poor son----"

"don't say anything more, clarice," interrupted the vicar, looking an untidy but pathetic figure. "my son is dead, and i never wish to hear his name mentioned again. as he has sown so has he reaped, and i hope that god will have mercy upon his soul."

"how did he die?"

"no! no! say no more," cried mr. clarke, and before clarice could apologise, he hurried from the room.

clarice was puzzled. frank was dead, and--strange to say--the vicar seemed glad that he was dead. frank, undoubtedly, was a prodigal son, but his father had always condoned his follies and rascalities. yet, apparently, at the eleventh hour frank had done something which even the lenient parent could not forgive. clarice did not wish to know what the deed was. she had quite enough troubles of her own, without thinking of those of other people. still, the attitude and wild words of mr. clarke astonished her not a little.

prudence came in, looking almost as ill as her father had done. the girl was tall, handsome, and dark, with a cool, confident manner, and with a considerable fund of common sense. but she appeared very sick and very ill at ease, and accepted the kiss of her old friend in a mechanical way, which provoked clarice into speech.

"you don't seem very pleased to see me, prudence?"

"i am," said prudence, in a dull, heavy voice; "if you had not come to me, i should have called at the laurels. i want help."

"you shall have it," said clarice, impetuously. "whatever is the matter? is it your brother's death?"

"yes--that is one thing. father is worried about that, but there is something else. if i explain myself to you, you must promise me never to speak of what i say to anyone."

"no, i won't," said clarice, struck by her earnestness, and wondering what fatal secret was about to be unfolded. "is it something that ferdy has done?"

"don't speak of ferdy--don't speak of him. my poor, darling boy. i'll never see him again--never--never--never."

a wild fear was in clarice's heart. "prudence!" she exclaimed, catching the girl's arm; "has ferdy been doing anything wrong?"

"no. ferdy is all that can be desired, but i can never marry him."

"why not?"

"because," said prudence, in a solemn manner, "if i marry ferdy, my father will be accused of murdering mr. horran."