why it is to be the twenty-seventh, and what the

connexion was between janet’s being frightened

and toby’s joining the great majority

they all met at tea on the next afternoon, and for the gods who were watching the whole affair from the sacred heights of olympus, it must have been a highly amusing sight.

mrs. lawrence was the only person who might really be said to be “right out of it,” and she had, beyond question, “her suspicions”; she had seen things, she had noticed. she had always, from her childhood, been observant, and anyone could see, and so on, and so on; but nevertheless, she was really outside it all and was the only genuine spectator, as far as mere mortals went.

for the rest, things revolved round sir richard; it being everyone’s hidden intention, for reasons strictly individual and peculiar, to keep everything from him for as long a period as possible. but everybody was convinced that he saw further into the matter than anyone else, and was equally determined to disguise his own peculiar cleverness from the rest of the company.

tony was there, rather quiet and subdued. that was a fact remarked on by everybody. something, of course, had happened last night; and here was the mystery, vague, indefinite, only to be blindly guessed at, although maradick knew.

the fine shades of everybody’s feelings about it all, the special individual way that it affected special individual persons, had to be temporarily put aside for the good of the general cause, namely, the hoodwinking and blinding of the suspicions of sir richard; such a business! conversation, therefore, was concerned with aeroplanes, about which no one present had any knowledge at all, aeroplanes being very much in their infancy; but they did manage to cover a good deal of ground during the discussion, and everyone was so extraordinarily and feverishly interested that it would have been quite easy for an intelligent and unprejudiced observer to discover that no one was really interested at all.

lady gale was pouring out tea, and her composure was really admirable; when one considers all that she had to cover it was almost superhuman; but the central fact that was buzzing beyond all others whatever in her brain, whilst she smiled at mrs. lester and agreed that “it would be rather a nuisance one’s acquaintances being able to fly over and see one so quickly from absolutely anywhere,” was that her husband had, as yet, said nothing whatever to tony about his last night’s absence. that was so ominous that she simply could not face it at all; it meant, it meant, well, it meant the tumble, the ruin, the absolute débacle of the house; a “house of cards,” if you like, but nevertheless a house that her admirable tact, her careful management, her years of active and unceasing diplomacy, had supported. what it had all been, what it had all meant to her since tony had been anything of a boy, only she could know. she had realised, when he had been, perhaps, about ten years old, two things, suddenly and sharply. she had seen in the first place that tony was to be, for her, the centre of her life, of her very existence, and that, secondly, tony’s way through life would, in every respect, be opposed to his father’s.

it would, she saw, be a question of choice, and from the instant of that clear vision her life was spent in the search for compromise, something that would enable her to be loyal to tony and to all that his life must mean to him, and something that should veil that life from his father. she was, with all her might, “keeping the house together,” and it was no easy business; but it was not until the present crisis that it seemed an impossible one.

she had always known that the moment when love came would be the moment of most extreme danger.

she had vowed to her gods, when she saw what her own marriage had made of her life, that her son should absolutely have his way; he should choose, and she would be the very last person in the world to stop him. she had hoped, she had even prayed, that the woman whom he should choose would be some one whom her husband would admit as possible. then the strength of the house would be inviolate and the terrible moment would be averted. that was, perhaps, the reason that she had so readily and enthusiastically welcomed alice du cane. the girl would “do” from sir richard’s point of view, and lady gale herself liked her, almost loved her. if tony cared, why then . . . and at first tony had seemed to care.

but even while she had tried to convince herself, she knew that it was not, for him at any rate, the “real thing.” one did not receive it like that, with that calmness, and even familiar jocularity, when the “real thing” came. but she had persuaded herself eagerly, because it would, in nearly every way, be so suitable.

and then suddenly the “real thing” had come, come with its shining eyes and beautiful colour; tony had found it. she had no hesitation after that. tony must go on with it, must go through with it, and she must prevent sir richard from seeing anything until it was all over. as to that, she had done her best, heaven knew, she had done her best. but circumstances had been too strong for her; she saw it, with frightened eyes and trembling hands, slipping from her grasp. why had tony been so foolish? why had he stayed out again like that and missed dinner? why was he so disturbed now? it was all threatening to fall about her ears; she saw the quarrel; she saw tony, arrogant, indignant, furious. he had left them, never to return. she saw herself sitting with her husband, old, ill, lonely, by some desolate fireside in an empty house, and tony would never return.

but she continued to discuss aeroplanes; she knew another thing about her husband. she knew that if tony was once married sir richard might storm and rage but would eventually make the best of it. the house must be carried on, that was one of his fixed principles of life; tony single, and every nerve should be strained to make his marriage a fitting one, but tony married! why then, curse the young fool, what did he do it for? . . . but let us nevertheless have a boy, and quick about it!

provided the girl were possible—the girl must be possible; but she had maradick’s word for that. he had told alice that she was “splendid!” yes, let the marriage only take place and things might be all right, but sir richard must not know.

and so she continued to discuss aeroplanes. “yes, there was that clever man the other day. he flew all round the crystal palace; what was his name? porkins or dawkins or walker; she knew it was something like walker because she remembered at the time wondering whether he had anything to do with the walkers of coming bridge—yes, such nice people—she used to be a miss temple—yes, the daily mail had offered a prize.”

at the same time, tony’s face terrified her. he was standing by the window talking to alice. she had never seen him look like that before, so white and grave and stern—years older. what had he been doing last night?

she gave mrs. lawrence her third cup of tea. “yes, but they are such tiny cups—oh! there’s nothing. no, i’ve never been up in a balloon—not yet—yes, i’m too old, i think; it doesn’t do, you know, for me at my age.”

supposing it were all “off.” perhaps it might be better; but she knew that she would be disappointed, that she would be sorry. one didn’t get the “real thing” so often in life that one could afford to miss it. no, he mustn’t miss it—oh, he mustn’t miss it. the older she grew, the whiter her hair, the stiffer her stupid bones, the more eagerly, enthusiastically, she longed that every young thing—not only tony, although he, of course, mattered most—should make the most of its time. they didn’t know, dear people, how quickly the years and the stiffness and the thinning of the blood would come upon them. she wanted them all, all the world under thirty, to romp and live and laugh and even be wicked if they liked! but, only, they must not miss it, they must not miss the wonderful years!

sir richard was perfectly silent. he never said more than a word or two, but his immobility seemed to freeze the room. his hands, his head, his eyes never moved; his gaze was fixed on tony. he was sitting back in his chair, his body inert, limp, but his head raised; it reminded the terrified mrs. lawrence of a snake ready to strike.

mrs. lawrence found the situation beyond her. she found a good many situations beyond her, because she was the kind of person whom people continually found it convenient to leave out.

her attempts to force a way in—her weapons were unresting and tangled volubility—always ended in failure; but she was never discouraged, she was not clever enough to see that she had failed.

she was sitting next to sir richard, and leant across him to talk to lady gale. mrs. maradick and mrs. lester were sitting on the other side of the table, maradick talking spasmodically to lester in the background; alice and tony were together at the window.

maradick had not spoken to mrs. lester since their parting on the day before. he was waiting now until her eyes should meet his; he would know then whether he were forgiven. he had spent the morning on the beach with his girls. he had come up to lunch feeling as he usually did after a few hours spent in their company, that they didn’t belong to him at all, that they were somebody else’s; they were polite to him, courteous and stiffly deferential, as they would be to any stranger about whom their mother had spoken to them. oh! the dreariness of it!

but it amused him, when he thought of it, that they, too, poor innocent creatures, should be playing their unconscious part in the whole game. they were playing it because they helped so decisively to fill in the epsom atmosphere, or rather the way that he himself was thinking of epsom—the particular greyness and sordidness and shabbiness of the place and the girls.

he had come up to lunch, therefore, washing his hands of the family. he had other things to think of. the immediate affair, of course, was tony, but he had had as yet no talk with the boy. there wasn’t very much to say. it had been precisely as he, maradick, had expected.

morelli had refused to hear of it and tony had probably imagined the rest. in the calm light of day things that had looked fantastic and ominous in the dark were clear and straightforward.

after all, tony was very young and over-confident. maradick must see the man himself. and so that matter, too, was put aside.

“yes,” lester was saying, “we are obviously pushing back to greek simplicity, and, if it isn’t too bold a thing to say, greek morals. the more complicated and material modern life becomes the more surely will all thinking men and lovers of beauty return to that marvellous simplicity. and then the rest will have to follow, you know, one day.”

“oh yes,” said maradick absently. his eyes were fixed on the opposite wall, but, out of the corners of them, he was watching for the moment when mrs. lester should look up. now he could regard yesterday afternoon with perfect equanimity; it was only an inevitable move in the situation. he wondered at himself now for having been so agitated about it; all that mattered was how she took it. the dogged, almost stupid mood had returned. his eyes were heavy, his great shoulders drooped a little as he bent to listen to lester. there was no kindness nor charity in his face as he looked across the floor. he was waiting; in a moment she would look up. then he would know; afterwards he would see morelli.

“and so, you see,” said lester, “plato still has the last word in the matter.”

“yes,” said maradick.

mrs. lawrence was being entirely tiresome at the tea-table. the strain of the situation was telling upon her. she had said several things to sir richard and he had made no answer at all.

he continued to look with unflinching gaze upon tony. she saw from lady gale’s and mrs. lester’s curious artificiality of manner that they were extremely uneasy, and she was piqued at their keeping her, so resolutely, outside intimacy.

when she was ill at ease she had an irritating habit of eagerly repeating other people’s remarks with the words a little changed. she did this now, and lady gale felt that very shortly she’d be forced to scream.

“it will be such a nuisance,” said mrs. lester, still continuing the “flying” conversation, “about clothes. one will never know what to put on, because the temperature will always be so very different when one gets up.”

“yes,” said mrs. lawrence eagerly, “nobody will have the slightest idea what clothes to wear because it may be hot or cold. it all depends——”

“some one,” said lady gale, laughing, “will have to shout down and tell us.”

“yes,” said mrs. lawrence, “there’ll have to be a man who can call out and let us know.”

tony felt his father’s eyes upon him. he had wondered why he had said nothing to him about his last night’s absence, but it had not really made him uneasy. after all, that was very unimportant, what his father or any of the rest of them did or thought, compared with what morelli was doing. he was curiously tired, tired in body and tired in mind, and he couldn’t think very clearly about anything. but he saw morelli continually before him. morelli coming round the table towards him, smiling—morelli . . . what was he doing to janet?

he wanted to speak to maradick, but it was so hard to get to him when there were all these other people in the room. the gaiety had gone out of his eyes, the laughter from his lips. maradick was everything now; it all depended on maradick.

“you’re looking tired,” alice said. she had been watching him, and she knew at once that he was in trouble. of course anyone could see that he wasn’t himself, but she, who had known him all his life, could see that there was more in it than that. indeed, she could never remember to have seen him like that before. oh! if he would only let her help him!

she had not been having a particularly good time herself just lately, but she meant there to be nothing selfish about her unhappiness. there are certain people who are proud of unrequited affection and pass those whom they love with heads raised and a kind of “see what i’m suffering for you!” air. they are incomparable nuisances!

alice had been rather inclined at first to treat tony in the same sort of way, but now the one thought that she had was to help him if only he would let her! perhaps, after all, it was nothing. probably he’d had a row with the girl last night, or he was worried, perhaps, by sir richard.

“tony,” she said, putting her hand for a moment on his arm, “we are pals, aren’t we?”

“why, of course,” pulling himself suddenly away from janet and her possible danger and trying to realise the girl at his side.

“because,” she went on, looking out of the window, “i’ve been a bit of a nuisance lately—not much of a companion, i’m afraid—out of sorts and grumpy. but now i want you to let me help if there’s anything i can do. there might be something, perhaps. you know”—she stopped a moment—“that i saw her down on the beach the other day. if there was anything——”

she stopped awkwardly.

“look here,” he began eagerly; “if you’re trying to find out——” then he stopped. “no, i know, of course you’re not. i trust you all right, old girl. but if you only knew what a devil of a lot of things are happening——” he looked at her doubtfully. then he smiled. “you’re a good sort, alice,” he said, “i know you are. i’m damned grateful. yes, i’m not quite the thing. there are a whole lot of worries.” he hesitated again, then he went on: “i tell you what you can do—keep the family quiet, you know. keep them off it, especially the governor. they trust you, all of them, and you can just let them know it’s all right. will you do that?”

he looked at her eagerly.

she smiled back at him. “yes, old boy, of course. i think i can manage sir richard, for a little time at any rate. and in any case, it isn’t for very long, because we’re all going away in about a week; twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, i think lady gale said.”

tony started. “did she?” he said. “are you sure of that, alice? because it’s important.”

“yes. i heard lady gale discussing it with sir richard last night.”

“by jove. i’m glad to know that. well, anyhow, alice, i’ll never forget it if you help us. we want it, by jove.”

she noticed the “we.” “oh, that’s all right,” she said, smiling back at him. “count on me, tony.”

at that moment a general move was made. the meal, to everyone’s infinite relief, was over. mrs. lester got up slowly from her chair, she turned round towards maradick. for an instant her eyes met his; the corners of her mouth were raised ever so slightly—she smiled at him, then she turned back to his wife.

“mrs. maradick,” she said, “do come over and sit by the window. there’ll be a little air there. the sun’s turned the corner now.”

but mrs. maradick had seen the smile. suddenly, in a moment, all her suspicions were confirmed. she knew; there could be no doubt. mrs. lester, mrs. lester and her husband—her husband, james. dear, how funny! she could have laughed. it was quite a joke. at the same time, she couldn’t be well, because the room was turning round, things were swimming; that absurd carpet was rising and flapping at her.

she put her hand on the tea-table and steadied herself; then she smiled back at mrs. lester.

“yes, i’ll bring my work over,” she said.

the rest of the company seemed suddenly to have disappeared; maradick and tony had gone out together, lady gale and alice, followed by sir richard and lester, had vanished through another door; only mrs. lawrence remained, working rather dismally at a small square piece of silk that was on some distant occasion to be christened a table-centre.

mrs. maradick sometimes walked on her heels to increase her height; she did so now, but her knees were trembling and she had a curious feeling that the smile on her face was fixed there and that it would never come off, she would smile like that always.

as she came towards the table where mrs. lester was another strange sensation came to her. it was that she would like to strangle mrs. lester.

as she smiled at her across the table her hands were, in imagination, stretching with long twisting fingers and encircling mrs. lester’s neck. she saw the exact spot; she could see the little blue marks that her fingers would leave. she could see mrs. lester’s head twisted to one side and hanging in a stupid, silly way over her shoulder. she would draw her fingers very slowly away, because they would be reluctant to let go. of course it was a very stupid, primitive feeling, because ladies that lived in epsom didn’t strangle other ladies, and there were the girls to be thought of, and it wouldn’t really do at all. and so mrs. maradick sat down.

“it is quite cool,” she said as she brought out her work, “and after such a hot day, too.”

mrs. lester enjoyed the situation very much. she knew quite well that maradick had been watching her anxiously all the afternoon. she knew that he was waiting to see what she was going to do about yesterday. she had not been quite sure herself at first. in fact, directly after he had left her she had been furiously angry; and then she had been frightened and had gone to find fred, and then had cried in her bedroom for half an hour. and then she had dried her eyes and had put on her prettiest dress and had come down to dinner intending to be very stiff and stately towards him. but he had not been there; no one had known where he was. mrs. maradick had more or less conveyed that mrs. lester could say if she wanted to, but of course she wouldn’t.

however, she really didn’t know. the evening was stupid, tiresome, and very long. as the hours passed memories grew stronger. no one had ever held her like that before. she had never known such strength. she was crushed, gasping. there was a man! and after all, it didn’t matter; there was nothing wrong in that. of course he oughtn’t to have done it. it was very presumptuous and violent; but then that was just like the man.

it was the kind of thing that he did, the kind of thing, after all, that he was meant to do! in the middle ages, of course, would have been his time. she pictured him with some beautiful maiden swung across the crupper, and the husband, fist in air but impotent—that was the kind of man.

and so she had smiled at him, to show him that, after all, she wasn’t very angry. of course, she couldn’t be always having it; she didn’t even mean that she’d altogether forgiven him, but the whole situation was given an extra piquancy by the presence of mrs. maradick. she didn’t mean any harm to the poor little spectacle of a woman, but to carry him off from under her very nose! well! it was only human nature to enjoy it!

“you must come and see us, dear mrs. maradick, both of you, when you’re back in town. we shall so like to see more of you. fred has taken enormously to your husband, and it’s so seldom that he really makes a friend of anyone.”

“thank you so much,” said mrs. maradick, smiling, “we’ll be sure to look you up. and you must come out to epsom one day. people call it a suburb, but really, you know, it’s quite country. as i often say, it has all the advantages of the town and country with none of their disadvantages. a motor-van comes down from harrods’ every day.”

“that must be delightful,” said mrs. lester.

“and lord roseberry living so near makes it so pleasant. he’s often to be seen driving; he takes great interest in the school, you know—epsom college for doctors’ sons—and often watches their football!”

“oh yes,” said mrs. lester.

mrs. maradick paused and looked out of the window. what was she going to do? what was she going to do? the great black elms outside the window swept the blue sky like an arch. a corner of the lawn shone in the sun a brilliant green, and directly opposite a great bed of sweet-peas fluttered like a swarm of coloured butterflies with the little breeze. what was she to do?

she was feeling now, suddenly, for the first time in her selfish, self-centred life utterly at a loss. she had never been so alone before. there had always been somebody. at epsom there had been heaps of people; and, after all, if the worst came to the worst, there had always been james. she had never, in all these years, very actively realised that he was there, because she had never happened to want him; there had always been so many other people.

now suddenly all these people had gone. epsom was very, very far away, and, behold, james wasn’t there either!

she realised, too, that if it had been some one down in the town, a common woman as she had at first imagined it, it would not have hurt so horribly. but that some one like mrs. lester should care for james, should really think him worth while, seemed at one blow to disturb, indeed to destroy all the theories of life in general and of james in particular that had governed her last twenty years.

what could she see? what could any one of them see in him? she asked herself again and again.

meanwhile, of course, it must all be stopped somehow. they must go away at once. or perhaps it would be better to be quiet for a day or two and see. they would all be gone in a week or so. and then epsom again, and everything as it had been and none of this—she called it “intrigue.”

“i’m so glad,” said mrs. lester, smiling, “that tony gale has taken so strong a liking to your husband. it’s so good for a boy of that age to have some one older. . . . he’s a charming boy, of course, but they always need some one at that age just to prevent them from doing anything foolish.”

this was fishing, mrs. maradick at once felt. she couldn’t see exactly what mrs. lester wanted, but she did want something, and she wasn’t going to get it. she had a sudden desire to prove to mrs. lester that she was a great deal more to her husband than appeared on the surface. a great deal more, of course, than any of the others were. for the first time in their married life she spoke of him with enthusiasm.

“ah! james,” she said, “is splendid with young men. only i could really tell the world what he has been to some of them. they take to him like anything. there’s something so strong and manly about him—and yet he’s sympathetic. oh! i could tell you——” she nodded her head sagaciously.

“yes,” said mrs. lester; “i can’t tell you how i admire him, how we all do, in fact. he must be very popular in epsom.”

“well, as a matter of fact he rather keeps himself to himself there. they all like him enormously, of course; but he doesn’t want anything really except just the family—myself and the girls, you know. he’s a very domestic man, he always has been.”

“yes, one can see that,” said mrs. lester, smiling. “it’s delightful when one sees that nowadays. it so seldom happens, i am afraid. you must be very proud of him.”

“i am,” said mrs. maradick.

the impulse to lean over and take mrs. lester’s head and slowly bend it back until the bones cracked was almost too strong to be resisted.

mrs. maradick pricked her finger and stopped the blood with her handkerchief. both ladies were silent. the last rays of the sun as it left the corner of the lawn fell in a golden shower upon the sweet-peas.

mrs. lawrence could be heard counting her stitches.

meanwhile mrs. lester’s smile had had its effect upon maradick. he had waited, tortured, for the smile to come, but now it was all right. they were still friends. he could not see it any farther than that. after all, why should he trouble to look at it any more deeply? they were friends. he would be able to talk to her again; he would see her smile again. if she did not want him to behave like that, if she did not want him to hold her hand, he was ready to obey in anything. but they were still friends. she was not angry with him.

his depression took wings and fled. he put his arm on tony’s shoulder as they went down the stairs. “well, old chap,” he said, “i’m off to see morelli now. you can bet that it will be all right. things looked a bit funny last night. they always do when one’s tired and it’s dark. last night, you see, you imagined things.”

but tony looked up at him quietly with grave eyes.

“no,” he said, “there was nothing to imagine. it was just as i told you. nothing happened. but i know now that there’s something in what the chaps in the town said. i believe in devils now. but my god, maradick”—he clutched the other’s arm—“janet’s down there. it isn’t for myself i care. he can do what he likes to me. but it’s her, we must get her away or there’s no knowing. . . . i didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking what he might be doing to her. he may carry her away somewhere, where one can’t get at her; or he may do—god knows. but that’s what he said last night, just that! that she wasn’t for me or for anyone, that she was never for anyone—that he would keep her.” tony broke off.

“i’m silly with it all, i think,” he said, “it’s swung me off my balance a bit. one can’t think; but it would be the most enormous help if you’d go and see. it’s the uncertainty that’s so awful. if i could just know that it’s all right . . . and meanwhile i’m thinking out plans. it’s all got to happen jolly soon now. i’ll talk when you come back. it’s most awfully decent of you. . . .”

maradick left him pacing the paths with his head down and his hands clenched behind his back.

he found morelli sitting quietly with janet and miss minns in the garden. they had had tea out there, and the tea-things glittered and sparkled in the sun. it would have been difficult to imagine anything more peaceful. the high dark red brick of the garden walls gave soft velvet shadows to the lawn; the huge tree in the corner flung a vast shade over the beds and paths; rooks swung slowly above their heads through the blue spacious silence of the summer evening; the air was heavy with the scent of the flowers.

morelli came forward and greeted maradick almost eagerly. “what! have you had tea? sure! we can easily have some more made, you know. come and sit down. have a cigar—a pipe? right. i wondered when you were going to honour us again. but we had young gale in yesterday evening for quite a long time.”

janet, with a smile of apology, went indoors. miss minns was knitting at a distance. this was obviously the right moment to begin, but the words would not come. it all seemed so absurd in this delicious garden with the silence and the peace, and, for want of a better word, the sanity of it all; all the things that maradick had been thinking, tony’s story and the fantastic scene in the market-place last night, that and the ideas that had sprung from it, were all so out of line now. people weren’t melodramatic like that, only one had at times a kind of mood that induced one to think things, absurd things.

but morelli seemed to be waiting for maradick to speak. he sat gravely back in his chair watching him. it was almost, maradick thought, as though he knew what he had come there for. it was natural enough that morelli should expect him, but he had not imagined precisely that kind of quiet waiting for him. he had to clear all the other ideas that he had had, all the kind of picture that he had come with, out of his head. it was a different kind of thing, this sheltered, softly coloured garden with its deep shadows and high reds and browns against the blue of the sky. it was not, most emphatically it was not, melodrama.

the uncomfortable thought that the quiet eyes and grave mouth had guessed all this precipitated maradick suddenly into speech. the peace and silence of the garden seemed to mark his words with a kind of indecency. he hurried and stumbled over his sentences.

“yes, you know,” he said. “i thought i’d just come in and see you—well, about young gale. he told me—i met him—he gave me to understand—that he was here last night.” maradick felt almost ashamed.

“yes,” said morelli, smiling a little, “we had some considerable talk.”

“well, he told me, that he had said something to you about your daughter. you must forgive me if you think that i’m intrusive at all.”

morelli waved a deprecating hand.

“but of course i’m a friend of the boy’s, very fond of him. he tells me that he spoke about your daughter. he loves miss morelli.”

maradick stopped abruptly.

“yes,” said morelli gently, “he did speak to me about janet. but of course you must look on it as i do; two such children. mind you, i like the boy, i liked him from the first. he’s the sort of young englishman that we can’t have too much of, you know. my girl wouldn’t be likely to find a better, and i think she likes him. but of course they’re too young, both of them. you must feel as i do.”

could this be the mysterious terror who had frightened tony out of his wits? this gentle, smiling, brown-faced little man lying back there so placidly in his chair with his eyes half closed? it was impossible on the face of it. absurd! and perhaps, after all, who knew whether it wouldn’t be better to wait? if morelli really felt like that about it and was prepared eventually to encourage the idea; and then after all janet might be introduced gradually to the family. they would see, even sir richard must see at last, what a really fine girl she was, fine in every way. he saw her as she had stood up to meet him as he stepped across the lawn, slim, straight, her throat rising like a white stem of some splendid flower, her clear dark eyes pools of light.

oh! they must see if you gave them time. and, after all, this was rather carrying the matter with a high hand, this eloping and the rest!

the garden had a soothing, restful effect upon him, so that he began to be sleepy. the high red walls rose about him on every side, the great tree flung its shadow like a cloud across, and the pleasant little man smiled at him with gentle eyes.

“oh yes, of course, they are very young.”

“and then there’s another thing,” went on morelli. “i don’t know, of course, but i should say that young gale’s parents have something else in view for him in the way of marriage. they’re not likely to take some one of whom they really know nothing at all. . . . they’ll want, naturally enough, i admit, something more.” he paused for a moment, then he smiled. “but perhaps you could tell me,” he said.

maradick had again the sensation that the man knew perfectly well about the whole affair, about the gales and alice and tony, and even perhaps about himself. he also felt that whatever he could say would be of no use at all; that morelli was merely playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse.

meanwhile he had nothing to say.

“well, you see,” he began awkwardly, “as a matter of fact, they haven’t had the opportunity—the chance, so to speak, of knowing—of meeting miss morelli yet. when they do——”

“they’ve been here,” broke in morelli quietly, “some weeks now. lady gale could have called, i suppose, if she had been interested. but i gather that gale hasn’t told her; hasn’t, indeed, told any of them. you see,” he added almost apologetically, “she is my only child; she has no mother; and i must, in a way, see to these things.”

maradick agreed. there was really nothing to be said. it was perfectly true that the gales didn’t want janet, wouldn’t, in fact, hear of her. the whole affair seemed to lose a great deal of its immediate urgency in this quiet and restful place, and the fact that morelli was himself so quiet and restful was another motive for waiting. the girl was in no danger; and, strangely enough, maradick seemed to have lost for the first time since he had known morelli the sense of uneasy distrust that he had had for the man; he was even rather ashamed of himself for having had it at all.

“well,” he said slowly, “you don’t object to things being as they are for a time. i’m sure tony will see it sensibly, and perhaps miss morelli might meet lady gale. it would be a pity, don’t you think, to put a stop altogether to the acquaintance?”

“ah yes,” said morelli, “certainly. we’ll say no more about it for the present. it was very pleasant as it was. as i told you, i like young gale; and who knows?—perhaps one day——”

maradick sat back in his chair and looked up lazily at the sky. it was all very pleasant and comfortable here in this delicious old garden; let the matter rest.

and then morelli proved himself a most delightful companion. he seemed to have been everywhere and to have seen everything. and it was not only knowledge. he put things so charmingly; he had a thousand ways of looking at things, a thousand ways of showing them off, so that you saw them from new points of view, and the world was an amusing, entertaining treasure-house of wonders.

the minutes slipped by; the sun went down the sky, the shadow of the tree spread farther and farther across the lawn, the pinks and roses lay in bunches of red and pink and yellow against the dark background of the wall.

maradick got up to go and morelli walked with him, his hat set back, his hands in his pockets. as they entered the house he said, “ah, by the way, there was that spanish sword that i promised to show you. it’s a fine thing and of some value; i’ll bring it down.”

he disappeared up the stairs.

suddenly janet was at maradick’s elbow. he had not seen her coming, but she looked round with quick, startled eyes. her white dress shone against the dark corners of the hall. he saw, too, that her face was very white and there were dark lines under her eyes; to his surprise she put her hand on his arm, she spoke in a whisper.

“mr. maradick, please,” she said, “i must speak to you. there is only a minute. please listen, it’s dreadfully important. tony says you want to help us. there isn’t anyone else;” she spoke in little gasps and her hand was at her throat as though she found it difficult to breathe. “i must get away somehow, at once, i don’t know what will happen if i don’t. you don’t know father, and i can’t explain now, but i’m terribly frightened; and he will suddenly—i can see it coming.” she was nearly hysterical; he could feel her whole body trembling. “tony said something yesterday that made father dreadfully angry. tony ought not to have come; anything might happen when father’s like that. if you can’t help me i will run away; but you must help.”

she grew calmer but still spoke very rapidly, still throwing frightened glances at the stairs. “listen; on the twenty-seventh—that’s thursday—father’s going away. he’s going to pendragon for the whole day; it was arranged long ago. he was to have taken me, but he has decided not to; i heard him tell miss minns—i——”

but suddenly she was gone again, as quietly as she had come. he saw now that there had been a door behind her leading to some room. he looked up and saw that morelli was coming downstairs carrying the sword. five minutes afterwards he had left the house.

it had all happened so suddenly, so fantastically, that it was some minutes before he could straighten it out. first he had the impression of her, very young, very frightened, very beautiful. but there was no question of the reality of her terror. all the feelings of danger that he had had with tony last night came crowding back now. it was true then? it hadn’t only been tony’s imagination. after all, janet must know. she hadn’t lived with her father all those years without knowing more about it than he, maradick, possibly could. she wouldn’t have been likely to have taken the risk of seeing him like that if there was nothing in it, if there was only the mere ordinary domestic quarrel in it. but above all, there was the terror in her eyes; that he had seen.

he could not, he must not, leave her then. there was danger threatening her somewhere. the whole business had entirely changed from his original conception of it. it had been, at first, merely the love affair of a boy and girl, and he, from a pleasant sense of romance and a comfortable conviction that it was all good for his middle-aged solidity, had had his share in it. but now it had become suddenly a serious and most urgent affair, perhaps even a matter of life and of death.

he turned, as he had turned before, to punch. there was no time to lose, and he was the man to see about it; he must find him at once.

the lights were coming out in the town as he passed through the streets; there were not many people about, and the twilight was lingering in the air so that all the colours of the sky and the houses and the white stretches of pavement had a faint pure light. the sky was the very tenderest blue, and the last gleam from the setting sun still lingered about the dark peaks and pinnacles of the houses.

he was soon on the outskirts of the town, and at last he trod the white high road. at the farther turn were punch’s lodgings. there was a full round globe of a moon, and below him he could hear the distant beating of the sea.

some one was walking rapidly behind him; he turned round, and to his astonishment saw, as the man came up to him, that it was the very person for whom he was looking.

“ah! that’s splendid, garrick,” he said, “i was just coming for you. i’m a bit worried and i want your advice.”

“i’m a bit worried too, sir, as a matter of fact,” said punch, “but if there’s anything i can do——”

maradick saw now that the man was very different from his usual cheerful self. he was looking anxious, and his eyes were staring down the road as though he were expecting to see something.

“what’s the matter?” said maradick.

“well, it’s the dog,” said punch, “toby, you know. he’s missing, been gone all the afternoon. not that there’s very much in that in the ordinary way. he often goes off by ’imself. ’e knows the neighbourhood as well as i do; besides, the people round ’ere know him and know his mind. but i’m uneasy this time. it’s foolish, perhaps, but when a man’s got only one thing in the world——” he stopped.

“but why should you be uneasy?” said maradick. the loss of a dog seemed a very small thing compared with his own affairs.

“well, as a matter of fact, it’s morelli.” the lines of punch’s mouth grew hard. “’e’s owed me a grudge ever since i spoke to ’im plain about them animals. and ’e knows that i know a good bit, too. he passed me in the market-place two days back, and stopped for an instant and looked at the dog. to them that don’t know morelli that’s nothing; but for them that do—’e’d think nothing of having his bit of revenge. and it’s late now, and the dog’s not home.” the little man looked at maradick almost piteously, as though he wanted to be reassured.

“oh, i expect it’s all right,” said maradick. “anyhow, i’ll come along with you and we can talk as we go.”

in a few words he explained what had happened that afternoon.

punch stopped for a moment in the road and stared into maradick’s face.

“get ’er away, sir,” he said, “whatever you do, get ’er away. i know the girl; she wouldn’t have spoken to you like that unless there was something very much the matter. and i know the man; there’s nothing ’e’d stop at when ’e’s roused.”

“but why,” said maradick, “if he feels like this about it did he let them go about together? he helped them in every way. he seemed to love to have tony there. i can’t understand it.”

“ah, sir, if you take morelli as an ordinary man you won’t understand ’im. but ’e’s a kind of survival. ’e loves to be cruel, as they did in the beginning of things when they didn’t know any better. it’s true. i’ve seen it once or twice in my life. it’s a lust like any other lust, so that your body quivers with the pleasure of it. but there’s more in it than that. you see ’e wants to have young things about ’im. ’e’s always been like that; will play with kittens and birds and puppies, and then p’r’aps, on a sudden, kill them. that’s why he took to young gale, because of ’is youth. and ’e liked to watch them together; but now, when young gale comes and talks of marriage, why, that means that they both leave ’im and ’e can’t play with them any more, so ’e’ll kill them instead. take ’er away, sir, take ’er away.”

they were out now upon the moor that ran between the woods and the sea; the world was perfectly still save for the distant bleating of some sheep and the monotonous tramp of the waves on the shore far below them. there was no sign of any other human being; the moon flung a white unnatural light about the place.

punch walked with his eyes darting from side to side; every now and again he whistled, but there was no answering bark.

“it may seem a bit absurd to you, sir,” punch said almost apologetically, “to be fussing this way about a dog, but ’e’s more to me than i could ever explain. if i hadn’t got ’im to talk to and have about at nights and kind o’ smile at when you’re wanting company the world would be another kind of place.”

maradick tried to fix his mind on punch’s words, but the ghostliness of the place and the hour seemed to hang round him so that he could not think of anything, but only wanted to get back to lights and company. every now and again he turned round because he fancied that he heard steps. their feet sank into the soft soil and then stumbled over tufts of grass. faint mists swept up from the sea and shadowed the moon.

behind them the lights of the town twinkled like the watching eye of some mysterious enemy. a bird rose in front of them with shrill protesting cries, and whirled, screaming, into the skies.

punch seemed to be talking to himself. “toby, boy, where are you? toby, old dog. you know your master and you wouldn’t hide from your master. it’s time to be getting home, toby. time for bed, old boy. damn the dog, why don’t ’e come? toby, old boy!”

every few minutes he started as though he saw it, and he would run forward a few paces and then stop. and indeed, in the gathering and shifting mist that went and came and took form and shape, there might have been a thousand white dogs wandering, an army of dogs, passing silently, mysteriously across the moor.

“toby, old boy, it’s time to be getting back. ’e was that used to the place you couldn’t imagine ’is being lost anywhere round about. ’e was that cunning . . .”

but the army of dogs passed silently by, curving with their silent feet in and out of the mists. one new dog had joined their ranks. he fell in at the rear and went by with the others; but his master did not see them.

suddenly the mists broke and the moon shone out across the moor like a flame. the moon leapt into the light. a little to the right on a raised piece of ground lay something white.

the army of dogs had vanished. the woods, the moor, the sea, were bathed in white colour.

punch ran forward with a cry; he was down on his knees and his arms were round the dog’s body.

he bent down, and for a moment there was perfect silence, only, in a far distant field, some sheep was crying. then he looked up.

the tears were rolling down his face; he lifted his hand and brushed them back. “it’s toby. my dog! ’e’s been killed. something’s torn ’im. . . .”

he bent down and picked it up and held it in his arms. “toby, old dog, it’s time to go back. it’s all right; ’e hasn’t hurt you, old boy. it’s all right.” he broke off. “curse him,” he said, “curse him! ’e did it—i know his marks—i’ll kill ’im for it.” his hands fell down to his side. “toby, old dog! toby. . . .”

the moon crept back again behind the mist. in the shadow the man sat nursing the dog in his arms.

far below him sounded the sea.