.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42519
   :PG.Title: Blackthorn Farm
   :PG.Released: 2013-04-12
   :PG.Reposted: 2015-05-30 - text corrections
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Arthur Applin
   :DC.Title: Blackthorn Farm
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1915
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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BLACKTHORN FARM
===============

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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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   .. _`"The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers."  (Chapter XIX.)`:

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      :alt: "The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers."  (Chapter XIX.)

      "The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers."  (Chapter `XIX`_.)

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      BLACKTHORN
      FARM

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      BY

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      ARTHUR APPLIN

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      *Author of "Her Sacrifice," "Love Conquers All Things,"
      "The Chorus Girl," "The Pearl Necklace," etc., etc.*

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      WARD, LOCK& CO., LIMITED
      LONDON. MELBOURNE AND TORONTO

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      First published in 1915.

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   CONTENTS.

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   CHAPTER

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   I.—`RUINED!`_
   II.—`FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS`_
   III.—`SALVATION`_
   IV.—`RADIUM`_
   V.—`THE ACCUSATION`_
   VI.—`FORGERY`_
   VII.—`THE VISITORS`_
   VIII.—`ARRESTED`_
   IX.—`A PROPOSAL`_
   X.—`IN SUSPENSE`_
   XI.—`THE TRIAL`_
   XII.—`MARRIAGE IS IMPOSSIBLE`_
   XIII.—`THE IRONY OF FATE`_
   XIV.—`THE PARTING OF THE WAYS`_
   XV.—`ESCAPE`_
   XVI.—`"YOU'VE KILLED HIM"`_
   XVII.—`AT POST BRIDGE HALL`_
   XVIII.—`ALARMED`_
   XIX.—`"YOU MUST GO BACK"`_
   XX.—`PLANS FOR ESCAPE`_
   XXI.—`READY FOR FLIGHT`_
   XXII.—`JIM STARTS OFF`_
   XXIII.—`SUCCESS`_
   XXIV.—`RUBY'S DECLARATION`_
   XXV.—`AN EXCITING TIME`_
   XXVI.—`AN ARGUMENT`_
   XXVII.—`RUBY'S HEROISM`_
   XXVIII.—`FINIS`_

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.. _`RUINED!`:

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   BLACKTHORN FARM.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   RUINED!

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Rupert Dale sat at the writing-table before
the open windows of his sitting-room in
Clanton Street, Westminster.  It was a
glorious summer morning.  The sun had torn
aside the grey mantle from the face of London.
The roofs and spires of the city shone.  The trees
rustled their leaves in the warm breeze.  The
roar of traffic echoed in his ears.

Rupert stretched himself, sighed, and leant
back in his chair.  His table was littered with
papers.  There were letters, bills,
advertisements—principally from tipsters and bookmakers—and
the examination papers which had been set him
at his third attempt to pass the final examination
of the School of Mining Engineers.

The result was due to-day, and Rupert had
intended going down to the hall to find out whether
he had passed or not.

But he was afraid.  He had failed twice already.
He could not afford to fail a third time.  If he
failed ruin faced him, and disgrace.  His father
had warned him that the money he had saved for
his education had come to an end.  Ruin for his
father and his little sister!

He had no idea how deeply Rupert was in debt.
Rupert himself had only just realised it.  And
in desperation he had gambled to save himself.

He had backed a horse on the big race to be run
that day for more money than he possessed.  He
had staked honour and love on a horse he had never
even seen.  If it won he was saved.  He could
face his father, pay his debts, and, supposing he
had failed, go up yet once again for his final examination.

If it lost——?

On the table a letter lay from his father in Devonshire
enclosing a cheque—the last he would be able
to send him.

There was also a letter from Ruby Strode,
reminding him that he had promised to take her to
see the big race that day.

Rupert picked up his father's letter and looked
at the cheque.  For five pounds only.  It was
drawn by Reginald Crichton, of Post Bridge Hall,
made payable to John Allen Dale.  His father
had endorsed it.

Rupert smiled and fingered the cheque
thoughtfully.  Five pounds!  Quite a lot of money—to
his father; probably he did not spend as much
in a month.  And Rupert's conscience pricked him.

He set his teeth and swept aside the
accumulation of unanswered letters and bills.

Ruin!  An ugly word.  He repeated it aloud—and
laughed.  It savoured of the melodramatic.
Yet here was ruin facing him.  He looked up and
saw it blotting out the sunshine.

It had come upon him stealthily, like a thief
in the night.  And at the same time Love had
come, too!

Again Rupert laughed.

He had only known Miss Strode seven months,
but six weeks after their meeting outside the
stage-door of the Ingenue Theatre they had been engaged
to be married.  As Miss Strode's income—including
two matinees—was exactly the same as Rupert's,
marriage was out of the question.  Being young
and lighthearted and having no idea of the value of
time, money or life, they had taken all the gods
offered them, living for the day, careless of the
morrow.

But the to-morrow and the day of reckoning
had unexpectedly arrived.  For himself Rupert
did not care.  He could face poverty, failure, even
disgrace.  But it was of his father he was thinking,
and of his sister Marjorie.  His father, the old
yeoman farmer who had pinched and scraped for
seven years now, denying himself and even his
daughter the ordinary necessities of life that he
might give this only son a good education and
make a man and a gentleman of him.

As he stood before the dressing-table in his
bedroom and commenced to shave it was not the
reflection of his own face he saw in the mirror.  A
vision rose before his eyes of Blackthorn Farm,
his humble home in the middle of the wild
moorlands, of his father, aged and worn with toil and
poverty; of his sister, a girl on the eve of beautiful
womanhood.

For centuries the Dales had lived at Blackthorn
Farm, and when with the passage of time the
homestead decayed and threatened to crumble to dust
and disappear, so, in the same way, the family of
Dales dwindled and decayed, too.

For there was no money in Blackthorn Farm.
It was difficult enough to grow pasture to feed the
few cattle.  And so John Allen Dale had
determined to make a gentleman of his only son.  He
had been studying now for over three years in
London—ever since he had left Taunton Grammar
School.  It was two years since John Dale had
even seen his first-born, and his heart thrilled with
pride and expectation when he thought of the
homecoming.  It would make up for all the years
of grinding and scraping.  He had been even forced
to mortgage a small part of the unproductive land
in which an old tin mine was situated, unworked
for many years now and valueless—though once
it had promised to retrieve the fortunes of the Dales.

It had hurt his pride at the time, and he had
not told Rupert.  For the mortgagee was Sir
Reginald Crichton, of Post Bridge Hall, who had
gradually bought up all the land lying in the valley;
a rich man and influential, yet a stranger to
Dartmoor and therefore unwelcome.

But John Dale consoled himself with the thought
that when his son was a gentleman he would have
no use for the old homestead of Blackthorn.  It
would just sink into oblivion and disappear, and
there would be nothing left but memory—and
the everlasting morass and moorlands.  But the
grand old name of Dale would rise phoenix-like
from the ashes and be handed down to future
generations by his son.

Just as Rupert finished dressing there was a
knock at the outer door and Ruby Strode burst
into the sitting-room bringing with her the sunshine
and the breath of summer.  The vision that had
been conjured before Rupert's eyes disappeared:
he was glad enough to dismiss the thoughts and
memories that it had brought.

Ruin!  He looked at Ruby, and advanced to
meet her with open arms.

"Be careful, you mustn't crush me," she laughed.
"What do you think of my new frock?—and
isn't this a duck of a hat, straight from Paris?"

Rupert stepped back and gazed at her.  "By
Jove, how beautiful you are," he whispered.  "You
look simply——"  He searched for an adjective
in vain.

Ruby gave a satisfied smile.  She was really
in love with Rupert, and she valued his opinion
as much or more than she would have valued the
opinion of a woman friend—or enemy.

Remarkably good-looking, of a type of beauty
rather unusual, she had found the stage an
excellent matrimonial market.  But life had taught
her that love was to be given, not sold.
Unfortunately, she had given it to a penniless young
man whose heritage was as unstable as the bog
on which his house was built.  But he was
strong, he was clean, he was young.  And he had
won her.

"We shall have to hurry up or we shall miss the
train," she cried.  "I wish we could motor down,
but I suppose that's impossible."

Rupert laughed light-heartedly and emptied the
contents of his pockets on to the table.

"Every penny I possess in the world is on
Paulus.  I've backed it at 'sevens' already, you
know.  It'll cost a couple of pounds to get on to
the stand.  We shall have to train it, my dear, and
walk down the course."

Ruby glanced ruefully at her long narrow shoes
and silk stockings.  "Right ho!  I believe I'd
walk through your Devonshire bogs if you asked
me.  But I say, Rupert, suppose Paulus doesn't
win?  What on earth are we going to do?"

Rupert shrugged his shoulders.  "Sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof.  If I pass my
final—well, I suppose I shall get a job somewhere and
the old man will be so pleased that he'll forgive
me....  I'll manage somehow.  Find tin in an old
disused mine we've got on our property, and float
a company."

He spoke lightly, but a shadow crossed his face.
He looked at Ruby again and found himself
wondering how much her clothes had cost, how much
money they had managed to waste together during
the happy months they had known one another.
And then, again, he saw the queer eerie little
farmhouse lying tucked between the granite tors: on
one side of it the Dart purred to the sea; stretching
away to the left a few fields surrounded by stone
walls and the cattle standing in the green grass.
And beyond, the vast peat bogs with the rushes
flinging their white seed to the wind, and creeping
up the hills the purple heather with patches of
wild gorse; and little Marjorie milking the cows,
scalding the cream, and making the butter.

If he had failed in his final examination?  His
body grew suddenly cold, he shuddered.  He could
not face his father then.

"What's the matter?"  Ruby stepped forward
and took Rupert's hand.

"I was wondering, if Paulus didn't win?" he
stammered.  "But, of course it will.  Come along,
or we shall miss the train!"

Rupert slung his race-glasses over his shoulder,
put on his hat, and together they ran downstairs.
At the front door the landlady of the lodgings
met him.  She drew Rupert aside and reminded
him that his bill was three weeks overdue.

"You said you would let me have something
to-day, sir.  I'm sorry to trouble you, but——"

"Of course, I forgot.  I'll pay you to-night
without fail," he cried cheerfully.

Then, slamming the front door behind him,
he slipped his arm through Ruby's.  Hailing a
passing taxi-cab they drove to Waterloo Station.

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Epsom Downs looked like a vast ant-hill.  The
very air seemed to shake and quiver with the cries
of the multitude.  The great race of the day was
due to start.  Paulus was a hot favourite.  It
was difficult to get bookmakers to lay two to one
against it.

"By gad, it can't lose," Rupert kept on saying.
"I shall win enough, Ruby, to pay my debts, with
a little to spare."

Ruby slipped her hand into his.  She looked
into his face a trifle uneasily: "You mean if it
were to win?  Would it be very serious for you
if Paulus were to lose?"

Rupert forced a laugh.  Again, at this moment of
tense excitement, he realised what it would mean
if the horse lost.

Ruin!  Not just for himself, that was nothing.
But disgrace!  That was something his father
would never face.  The blasting of the old man's
hopes.  All that he had lived for and dreamed of.
Unsteadily Rupert counted out five sovereigns.

"I'd better stick this on the brute as well, it's all
or nothing," he said, forcing a smile.  And he
began to fight his way to the rails where the
bookmakers shouted the odds.

Ruby laid her hand on his arm.  "Give it to me,
I'll do it.  You always say I'm lucky to you—and
I may get better odds."

Rupert nodded and made a passage for her.
"All right.  If you smile at the beggar like that
he'll lay you fives, I should think."

The crowd swallowed her up.  She forced her
way to the rails at Tattersall's Ring.  Rupert saw
the long black plume of her French hat nodding
in the breeze.  He saw her hand the money to a
bookmaker and receive a ticket in exchange.

Then a cry like a great chorus rent the air.
"They're off!"

Rupert leapt to his position on the stand and
putting up his glass watched the race.

A good start, though one horse was left.  It was
not Paulus, so he did not care.  One horse out of
the way!

He watched the horses climb the hill, the colours
of the jockeys made brilliant blots against the blue
sky.  The great human ant-hill was still now,
silent, too.  The whole thing looked like a
cinematograph picture; the horses like clockwork
animals.

They neared Tattenham Corner.  Rupert held
his breath.  The vast crowd began to murmur
now.  A strange sound as if emanating from the
lips of one man.  The sound rose and fell like
distant thunder.

Presently he heard the thunder of the horses'
hoofs.  They had rounded the corner and were
coming down the straight.  He took a deep breath,
and for a moment the scene was blotted from his
eyes.  And again he saw the black Devon moorlands,
neither purple heather nor golden gorse now,
just granite tors and bogland; and an old man
standing at the entrance of a thatched-roofed little
farmhouse staring out over the grey hills—as if
waiting for one who never came.

"Nimbo wins!  A monkey to a pea-nut on Nimbo!"

The storm broke now.  First the name of one
horse was shouted, then another.  The field had
strung out, but there were half a dozen horses
locked together.

"Paulus wins!  I'll back Paulus!"

Rupert took a deep breath, and for the moment
put down his glasses.  Then he heard his own voice
shrieking hysterically, "Paulus!  Paulus!"

A sudden silence fell, more terrifying than the
thunder of ten thousand voices.  The leading
bunch of horses was within a hundred yards of the
winning post now.  Paulus led, then fell back
suddenly challenged by a rank outsider, Ambuscade.
Neck and neck they ran, first one, then the other,
getting the advantage.  Rupert was conscious of
Ruby clinging to his arm.  He was conscious of
the great crowd on the hill, of the crowd surrounding
him, swaying to and fro; of the perfume of the
girl's hair—the girl he loved; the colours of the
jockeys as they lay almost flat on the horses' backs.

The race was over now.  The winning-post was
reached.  Thunder-clap after thunder-clap of human
voices.

"Paulus wins! ... Paulus!  Paulus!  Paulus!"

Rupert was shouting at the top of his voice as
he was carried by the crowd he knew not whither,
Ruby clinging to his arm.  He waved his hat in
the air and he laughed as he shouted.  He was
saved, and for a moment he forgot all he had learned.
He could not control himself, he just shouted with
the crowd, his crowd.

Still the excitement was not over.  There were
a few moments more of tension until the numbers
went up and they saw on the telegraph board that
Paulus had won by a short head.

Rupert found himself standing alone at the bottom
of the enclosure.  He wiped the perspiration from
his face.  Ruby had disappeared—yet a moment
ago she had been hanging on his arm.  He heard
the "All right" called and he realised she had
gone to draw the money from the bookmaker.
After a while he saw her hemmed in by the crowd
near the rails.  He fought his way to her and in
answer to his queries she showed him her purse.

"Come along, let's go back," he whispered.
"There's nothing else to wait for now."

Once clear of the crowd they walked up the
hill to the railway station, caught the first train
returning to London, and drove straight to Rupert's
rooms.

A telegram was waiting for him on the table.  He
picked it up and gave it to Ruby.

"Open it, you always bring me luck," he laughed.
"It's the result of the exam.  I told one of my
pals to wire me.  Still, I don't care twopence
now——"

He broke off as Ruby tore open the little buff
envelope and looked at the message.  The next
moment she had dropped it and taken him in her
arms, heedless now of the damage to her French
toilet.  Her black, sweetly-scented hair brushed
his face, her soft cheek was pressed against his own.
She mothered him as if he were her child instead
of her lover.

He had failed.

"What does it matter?" he cried with bravado.
"I'm rich now.  I can pay my bills; we can have a
jolly good time before I go home."

"But your father, Rupert?" she whispered.
"Don't you remember—all you told me about
him, his dreams, his ambitions for you?  Oh! don't
think I'm a prig, but he'll be disappointed,
so disappointed.  I think I'd rather you had passed
your exam, and lost your money——"

He broke away from her angrily.  "You don't
know what you're saying.  If Paulus hadn't won!"

The raucous cries of a newsboy from the street
interrupted him.  They both listened, then Rupert
smiled.

"Forgive me, it's ripping of you to think of
father and all that.  I know it'll knock the old
man sideways: he'll be awfully sick about it.  But
I've got one more chance, and now I can afford to
take it.  If I hadn't won this money I couldn't
have.  I should have had to go home and stop
there, shut up in that crumbling hole in the midst
of those beastly moors.  But I'll try again and,
by gad! I'll win.  I swear I'll pass next 'go.'  It
was the worry of thinking of the beastly money
which upset me this time."

Another newsboy ran shrieking down the street.

"Result of the great race.  Sensational result!
All the winners—Sensation——"

Rupert moved towards the door.  "Let's get
a paper and see the starting price."

Ruby followed him.  "Wait a moment, Rupert.
Tell me honestly, how much you would have owed
if Paulus hadn't won?"

"Oh, I don't know.  What does it matter now?"
he cried carelessly.  "A hundred or two, I think.
What does it matter now?  I can go on working
until I pass.  And I'll send the guv'nor that last
fiver he posted me, old Crichton's cheque.  Those
brutes at Post Bridge Hall are absolutely rolling
in money, but, by gad! they shall see we've got
some, too.  Come on, let's get a paper."

Smiling at his excitement Ruby followed him
out of the room.  From the doorstep they beckoned
to a passing newsboy, who thrust a paper into
Rupert's hands.  Chucking him sixpence Rupert
made his way upstairs again.  He opened the
paper in the sitting-room, and Ruby bent over his
shoulder.

"Well?" she said.

Then she heard Rupert catch his breath, she saw
his face change colour, grow deadly white.  The
paper began to shiver and tremble between his
hands.  She looked at the stop press news.  She
saw the result:

Paulus first, Ambuscade second—then in huge
black type underneath: OBJECTION!

"The stewards objected to the winner for bumping
and not keeping a straight course.  An enquiry
was held and Paulus was disqualified.  The
outsider, Ambuscade, is therefore the winner.  The
starting price is a hundred to one."

Rupert crunched the paper in his hands, and
staggering forward fell into the chair in front of
the writing-table.  He stretched his arms out,
sweeping off the litter of papers, and his head fell
forward between his hands.

Ruby bent over him and tried to raise him.
"Rupert—perhaps it's not true.  Rupert!"

She lifted him up, but he fell back into the chair
half fainting.  Putting her arms around him she
dragged him into the bedroom, and laying him on
the bed loosened his collar.  She found some brandy
and forced a little between his lips.  Then she sat
beside him, holding his hand tightly.  Presently
the colour returned to his cheeks, his eyes opened.
He lay quite still, staring at the ceiling.

"It'll be all right," she whispered.  "It'll all
come right, Rupert.  I—I love you, dear, I'll
help you.  It'll all come right."

The muscles of his face twitched convulsively.
"Leave me," he whispered.  "For pity's sake
leave me for a little while."

Drawing down the blind, she crept out of the
room and shut the door behind her.  She heard
someone coming up the stairs—the landlady bringing
tea.  Stooping down she commenced to pick up
the papers scattered on the floor.  Among them
she found the cheque Rupert had received that
morning from his father, the cheque drawn by
Reginald Crichton.  She looked at it curiously,
a sudden instinct telling her how much that little
sum meant to the old father who had sent it.

Five pounds!  Scarcely the value of the hat she
wore.  Folding it up she slipped it into her gloved
hand, then sat down at the writing-table waiting
until the landlady left the room.  She had a few
pounds in her purse which she had drawn over
Paulus before the objection was made.  A few
pounds in the Post Office Savings-bank.  Between
them they might collect twenty or thirty pounds:
and Rupert confessed to owing a hundred or two.
That might mean five hundred—the price of his
father's honour and happiness, his little sister, the
house, everything.

And she loved Rupert Dale.  Now that ruin
faced him she knew how much she loved him.  She
would give her life to save him.

She poured herself out a cup of tea and drank
it.  The little sitting-room felt hot and stuffy,
her brain felt numb, she wanted air.  She crept
downstairs and commenced to walk to and fro up
and down the pavement trying to think what she
would do.  Twelve pounds in her purse and a cheque
for five pounds in her gloved hand.  How lightly
Rupert had thrown aside that cheque a few hours
ago.  Probably he did not know what he had done
with it; would think he had lost it.

Scarcely thinking what she was doing she took
it out and looked at it closely.  And she remembered
Reginald Crichton's name.  She had heard men
at the theatre speak of him in connection with
mining investments.

The clock struck the hour—six—and she made her
way back to the lodging-house, and very quietly
opened the door of the sitting-room.  Then she
stopped short, frozen with terror.  Rupert was
standing at the writing-table.  The blinds were
drawn down.  In his hand he held a revolver.  She
saw him slowly turn it until the muzzle was pointing
at his breast.





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.. _`FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.

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"Rupert!"  Ruby's voice scarcely rose above
a whisper.

Slowly Rupert turned the revolver from
his breast.  Very slowly his arm dropped until it
hung limply by his side.  His grip relaxed and
the revolver fell to the floor.  Ruby crossed to his
side, and, stooping down, picked it up.

Extricating the cartridges, she put the revolver
away in a drawer of the writing-table and locked
it up.  Then she drew a chair forward and sat down,
facing the man whose life she had just saved, the
man she loved.

It was a long time before either of them spoke.
Rupert Dale had meant to kill himself.  Ruby
had arrived at the critical moment.  Thirty seconds
more and she would have been too late.  The crisis
had passed now, but the shock had left the woman
unnerved and weak.

Rupert merely felt vaguely surprised that he was
still alive.  The idea of suicide was horrible to
him because normally he was a healthy, sane young
man, but the news of his failure for the third time
in his final examination, coming upon the victory
and subsequent disqualification of Paulus, had
made him see the hopelessness of his position.
It was a lightning flash; illuminating the horizon
of Hope.  The instant's flash had shown him himself,
his career ruined before it had started, and his
father beggared—not merely of his home and his
money, but of his dreams: of all that was left him.

Ruby watching him, holding his cold hand in
hers, saw what was passing, and what had passed,
in his mind.  Of a sudden she felt her responsibility.

She had never considered the word before in her
life.  She understood it now because she loved.

Rupert was the first to speak.  "It's no use,
old girl; it's the only way out—the only way."

She shook her head.  "A coward's way."

Rupert gave a dry laugh.  "I'm not afraid to
live, not afraid to face the music; not afraid to
take off my coat and work in the gutters, if need
be.  But I've ruined and disgraced my father.
The shame will fall on him.  I'm his only son, and
he was going to turn me into a gentleman.  Well,
when a gentleman has done a shameful thing, a
thing that prevents him from meeting his friends, his
relatives, he just goes out ... as I'm going....
They'll get on better without me, father and
Marjorie."

Ruby's hands tightened their grip.  She had
aged in an hour; changed.  The little, light actress
had become merged, as it were, in the woman.
Mother instinct had taken the place of the lover
instinct.

She was fighting for the life of some other woman's
son, and for the moment he was her son.

"You can't do it!"

"My mind is made up."

Ruby closed her eyes for a moment.  He spoke
quietly and calmly.  She knew it had not been a
sudden resolve, but that his mind had been made up.

There was a long silence between them.  Outside
the newsboys still shouted the sensational result.

At last Ruby rose.  She crossed the room and
stood with her back to Rupert for a little while.
When she turned she was smiling, and she looked
more like her old self—as if she had not a care in
the world.

"Rupert," she whispered, and her voice, though
a little unsteady, had a glad ring in it.

He picked up a letter lying on the table.  The
ink was scarcely dry on it.  It was lying on a sheet
of clean white blotting-paper.  It was to his
father—saying good-bye.

"The old man sent me a cheque," he mumbled.
"I can't find it anywhere.  Must have lost it this
afternoon.  I suppose some beggar will cash it.
Don't much matter now, but it would have been
useful to the old man: five pounds——"  Again he
laughed.

"Rupert!"

He turned then and looked at her.  Perhaps
something in her voice attracted him.

"You remember giving me five pounds to put on
Paulus?  Well, I didn't do it."

He shook his head to and fro.  "It doesn't
make any difference.  I owe hundreds."

"I put it on Ambuscade."

He turned right round now staring at her,
frowning.  He did not understand.

"Ambuscade started at a hundred to one."  Ruby
was laughing now.  She moved toward him
unsteadily.

"Don't play the fool," he said unsteadily.  "It's
no use trying to—hoodwink me."

"I put the five pounds on Ambuscade at a hundred
to one.  I didn't dare tell you, dear—in fact, when
the news of the objection came I couldn't realise
it.  I've—I've got the ticket in my purse."

The frown on Rupert's face deepened.  "I saw
you draw some money—you had it in your purse."

"I put a couple of my own sovereigns on Paulus.
I backed Ambuscade with Barrett.  They have an
office in Piccadilly, London.  If I go down
to-morrow morning they'll pay me five hundred pounds."

Rupert rose and tottered towards her.  His legs
gave way at the knees like a drunken man.

"Five hundred pounds!"

He kept muttering to himself over and over
again.  "Five hundred pounds!"  He poured
himself out a glass of water from the sideboard and
tossed it down his throat.  Then he seized Ruby
roughly by the shoulders.

"You're not fooling me.  You swear it.  If it
was with Barrett they'll pay up all right.  They're
a big firm, they'll pay up to-morrow."

She managed to assure him she was speaking the truth.

He began to laugh, then checked himself with an
effort.  "Why the devil didn't you tell me before?"
he cried savagely.  "I might have——"

He seized his hat and put it on.  "I must get
out of this.  I must think it over.  I want air.  I
can't realise it....  My God, five hundred pounds!
I'm saved."  He opened the door.  "Wait until
I come back.  I shan't be long.  Wait there until
I come back."

She listened to his footsteps descending the
staircase.  She heard the front door bang.  She stood
at the window and watched him walk down the
street.  He held himself erect, his face turned to
the sky now.

Ruby closed the window and drew down the
blind.  Then she sat down at the writing-table,
and taking off her gloves picked up a pen.

The cheque drawn by Reginald Crichton lay
just inside one of the long white gloves.  Picking
it up she unfolded it and laid it on the white sheet
of blotting paper.

Five hundred pounds!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SALVATION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium

   SALVATION.

.. vspace:: 2

There was a ring at the front door bell followed
by a loud double knock.  But Ruby Strode
did not hear.  She was still seated at the
writing-table bending over the large pad of white
blotting-paper, in the fingers of one hand a pen.
She sat very still, scarcely seeming to breathe.  It
looked as though she were writing: not a sound
disturbed the silence of the little room.  The blinds
were still drawn down.

Presently, outside, footsteps could be heard
ascending the staircase.  Somebody knocked on the
door, which was instantly opened, and the landlady
put her head into the room.

"A gentleman to see you, sir."

She stopped abruptly, as, gazing round the room,
she saw only Ruby Strode bending over the writing-table.

"Beg pardon, I thought Mr. Dale was here.
There's a gentleman to see him."

Ruby started and jumped to her feet.  She laid
her pen down.  In her hand she held a slip of paper
which she had just blotted.  She folded it up with
unsteady fingers.

"Mr. Dale went out just now—for a few minutes—he
won't be long."

She spoke rapidly in jerks, and turning round
faced the door, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Oh, it doesn't matter!  I suppose I can wait."  And
the visitor entered the room.  "That sounds
like Miss Strode's voice."

Robert Despard crossed to Ruby's side and held
out his hand.  He was a dark, well-set-up man,
some years Ruby's senior.  He was faultlessly
dressed in a brown lounge suit, a light-coloured
bowler placed jauntily on the back of his head, a
pair of race glasses slung across his shoulders, and
he wore a pair of highly-polished tan boots.

"I thought I might find you here," he continued,
looking at Ruby with a familiar smile and giving a
nervous twirl to his black moustache when she
did not take his hand.  "I saw you both at the
races, but I couldn't get near you for the crowd.
Thought I would look in and see how Rupert had
done.  I bet he came a nasty cropper over that
disqualification.  Can't say you're looking exactly
jolly."

Ruby stepped back and forced a smile to her lips.

"Oh, we're all right!" she said unsteadily,
commencing to fold up the slip of paper she had
been holding in her hand behind her back.  "We won."

Despard raised his eyebrows and gave a dry
laugh.  "I don't think!  Rupert told me he
plunged, on Paulus.  As a matter of fact, I came
round to condole with him.  I knew he was pretty
hard hit and all that sort of thing."

"Well, you are wrong!  He doesn't want your
sympathy, as it happens."

Ruby spoke almost defiantly.  The colour had
returned to her cheeks now.  They were scarlet
and her eyes were bright.  There was defiance in
them, too.

Despard watched her closely, and the expression
on his face gradually changed.  A cynical smile
still played about his lips.

"You're a loyal little devil!" he said between
his teeth.  "By gad!  I admire you for it.  But
let me tell you that poor old Rupert Dale is ruined.
Broke to the world, and he's failed in his final, too.
I'm awfully sorry for him—and all that, but there
you are."

"Yes, you sound as if you were sorry," Ruby
replied sarcastically.  She commenced to pull on
one of her gloves, then slipped the strip of folded
paper underneath the glove into the palm of her
hand.  Despard was watching her with his small,
bright eyes.

"Is that your winnings you're hiding away?"
he sneered.

He threw his hat on to the table and seated
himself on the arm of a chair close to Ruby.

"I wanted to see you more than I did Rupert,"
he said, lowering his voice.  "Of course, it's all
over between you two now?  You wouldn't be
mad enough to marry a pauper, even if he were
cad enough to want you to.  So don't forget that
I'm just as keen on you as ever."  He stretched
out his arm and pulled Ruby towards him.  "I
knew my turn would come if I waited long
enough."

Quietly but firmly Ruby released her arm, and,
moving away, stood with her back to the window so
that her face was in shadow.  Though she despised
Robert Despard, she feared him.

"You call yourself Rupert's friend, and yet you
choose the very moment when you believe he is
ruined to make love to the woman to whom he
was engaged to be married, and under his own
roof, too."

"Dash it all, it's only a lodging house!" Despard
replied brutally.  "But, go on, I love you when
you get angry.  You look as if you were a
leading lady earning a hundred pounds a week
instead of a show girl walking on at a couple of
guineas."

"A show girl has a heart and a conscience, which
is more than you've got, anyway," Ruby replied
fiercely; "and Mr. Dale shall know the kind of
friend he's got in you."

Despard shrugged his shoulders and suppressed
a yawn.  "So that's all the thanks I get.  Dash
it all, isn't it proof that I love you, when, directly
I know your man has got the kick, I hurry down
to tell you I'll take his place—look after you, pay
your bills—make you my wife, anything you like
in the world!  I loved you long before he ever
met you.  I told you I didn't mean to give you up.
I told you no one else should take you from me.
Rupert is all right, of course; I am fond of him,
but he isn't the right man for you.  Now that he's
come a cropper and failed in his exam., he'll have
to go back to his Devonshire bog and leave me to
look after you."

Ruby tried to speak, but she could not trust
herself for some seconds.  Despard watched her
with an amused smile.  Suddenly she crossed the
room and opened the sitting-room door.

"I'll go out and find Rupert.  You had better
say to his face what you've just said to me," she cried.

She hurried downstairs out into the street.  She
saw Rupert coming slowly towards her and she ran
to meet him.

Meanwhile, Despard left alone in the sitting-room,
lit a cigarette, and rising from his chair glanced
casually at the evening newspaper lying on the
writing-table.  Ruby had left the letter Rupert
had written to his father lying on the white sheet
of blotting-paper.  Almost unconsciously, Despard
commenced to read it.  Then he picked it up and
glanced hurriedly towards the door; he read it
through from beginning to end.  He gave a long,
low whistle of astonishment, and carefully replaced
the letter.

He noticed the place where the first page had been
blotted on the new sheet of white blotting-paper.
And just below it his quick eyes saw one small
word, underneath it a couple of naughts.  There
was nothing particularly strange or remarkable
about this.  He would probably never have noticed
it if the blotting-paper had not been clean.  But,
gradually, as he stared at the one undecipherable
word with the two naughts he began to feel as if
there were significance about them.  They stood
out on the white sheet of blotting-paper.

There was a small mirror standing on the mantel-piece.
He took it up and held it over the blotting-pad.
And he read reflected the single word between
the two naughts.  It was "hundred."  A little
way beyond it he noticed a single letter "s."

Replacing the mirror he stood with his back
to the fireplace, his hands deep in his trousers
pockets, thinking.

"Hundred," "s," and two naughts.  He had
seen that the slip of paper which Ruby tucked
into her glove was a cheque.  He was quite sure
that neither she nor Rupert Dale had a hundred
pounds in the world.  Indeed, he knew the state of
the latter's finances better than the girl did.  For
only a few months ago, he had lent Rupert twenty-five
pounds.  He stroked his black moustache
thoughtfully.  Before he could solve the little
problem Dale himself entered the room, followed a
few minutes later by Ruby.

"I came to tell you how devilish sorry I was
that you had backed a loser and got plucked,"
Despard said; "but, hang it all, you look cheerful
enough!"

"So would you," Rupert cried, slapping him on
the back, "if you had had a fiver on Ambuscade
at a hundred to one."

The frown deepened on Robert Despard's forehead.

"Look here, is this a joke or what?"

"It's no joke," Rupert laughed hysterically.
"Ask Ruby, she did it for me!  I'll tell you what
we'll do.  We'll all go out and have a bit of dinner
together and break a bottle of wine on the strength
of it."

As Rupert spoke he caught sight of the letter
to his father lying on the writing-table.  Picking it
up quickly he tore it into a dozen fragments and
threw them into the waste-paper basket.

Despard watched him, and his frown deepened.
"You mean to say you backed Ambuscade at a
hundred to one and got paid!"

"We didn't know the result until we left the
course," Rupert replied lightly.  "Luckily, Ruby
kept the ticket.  We're going to draw the money
to-morrow.  By gad, she's saved my life!  I've
had a narrow squeak."

"Who did you do the bet with?" Despard asked.

"I forgot the man's name.  I've got the ticket
safely in my pocket.  We shall get the money all
right to-morrow."

Ruby spoke quickly.  She could not conceal her
nervousness and anxiety.  She, who had been so
calm a little while ago when Rupert, believing that
ruin had overtaken him, had been on the point
of committing suicide.

He noticed that she seemed flustered and ill at
ease, but he put it down to the sudden reaction.
For himself he had forgotten all his troubles.  They
no longer existed.  Death had stood at his elbow
less than an hour ago.  Now life was beckoning
him to join in her revels.  Curiously enough, he
did not seem to realise the debt he owed to Ruby
Strode: yet he would never have thought of backing
Ambuscade himself.

As a matter of fact, he was too excited to think
of anything.  He only knew that he could pay his
debts, go down to Devonshire for his holidays and
face his father with a light heart.  In due time he
would have another fling at the examination, pass
it, obtain an appointment somewhere, and then
he would be able to marry Ruby and they would
live happily ever after.

But for the moment he just wanted to enjoy his
good fortune; to dance, to sing, to feast, to love.

"Come on, if you're both ready to start!" he
cried excitedly.  "Where shall we dine?  Trocadero,
Café Royal, Savoy?  We'll make a night of it."

"The Savoy's good enough for me," Despard
laughed over his shoulder.  "Do you mind if I
wash my hands and make myself look a bit
presentable in your room, Rupert?"

Ruby waited until the bedroom door had closed
on Despard.  Then she put her arms around
Rupert's neck.  "Do you mind very much if I
don't come with you to-night?" she whispered.
"I'm feeling so tired.  I think the excitement
has been too much for me."

Rupert looked at her with amazement.  "Why,
it will be no fun without you.  I don't want
Despard!  Rather wish he hadn't come down to
see me.  You'll feel as fit as a fiddle when you've
had a glass of wine."

But she shook her head, and held him tightly.
He felt her arms trembling.  He saw tears
swimming in her eyes.

"My dear, my dear, what a selfish brute I've
been!" he cried with a sudden revulsion of feeling.
"Good heavens, you've saved my life—you've
done more than that—and I've not even thanked you."

Ruby stepped back and put her fingers over
his mouth.  "Not another word," she whispered.
"I'm so happy, really.  It's just nerves.  I want
to be quite alone.  I want to realise our good
fortune."

"Of course, if you would really not come," Rupert
said; "or shall I tell Despard we don't want him?
I know you're not keen on him."

Ruby longed to tell Rupert what had taken place
between them a few moments ago.  But fear of the
man she loved and wanted sealed her lips.  She
knew that the two men were friends.  She knew
that Despard had it in his power to injure her.  He
had some influence with the manager of the Ingenue
Theatre, and there were other reasons.  So she
said nothing.

Despard rejoined them and they all went out together.

"We'll drive you home first," Rupert said to Ruby.

"I would rather you dropped me at the Tube,"
she replied.  "I have nearly two hours before I
need go to the theatre.  I'm not on until the
second act."

Despard pretended to be bitterly disappointed
that Miss Strode was deserting them.  Ruby
surreptitiously handed Rupert the money she had in her
purse and whispered to him that she would get
their winnings in the morning and bring them round
to his rooms.  She had no reason for secrecy, and
so he asked her to give him the ticket she had
received from the bookmaker when she had backed
Ambuscade.

"I don't like the idea of your going round to the
bookmaker's offices.  It's possible they'll dispute
it, or make a fuss," he said.

Despard agreed and suggested that they should
meet at ten o'clock in the morning and all go round
in a body.  But Ruby was obstinate and refused
to give up the ticket.

"I backed the horse myself.  I am going to get
the money and bring it round to Rupert!"

She got quickly out of the cab as it stopped at
the Piccadilly Tube Station and, blowing a kiss to
Rupert, she disappeared in the crowd.

The two men drove to the grillroom of the Savoy.

"You are a lucky devil," Despard said, "if
there's no mistake, and Miss Strode really backed
Ambuscade."

"Why should there be a mistake?" Rupert asked curtly.

"Oh, I don't know!"—Despard shrugged his
shoulders—"but she seemed rather mysterious
about it.  Perhaps that's a woman's way.  They
are queer cattle."

"Ruby is one in a thousand," Rupert said quietly.
"Look here, I'm off to Devonshire to-morrow
evening.  I don't want the old man to hear I've
been plucked.  I must tell him myself.  I shall
have to find some reason, too, for my sudden
wealth."

"One of the old-fashioned sort, eh?—don't
approve of betting or pretty girls.  Will you keep
Miss Strode dark, too?"

Rupert frowned.  He did not reply at once.
"I thought you knew we were engaged to be
married," he said at last.  "I shan't tell the guv'nor
until I've passed my final, so if you come down you
needn't mention her."

Rupert suddenly found himself regretting the
invitation he had given to Despard some time ago
to spend his holidays at Blackthorn Farm.  Too
late, instinct warned him that he was not quite the
sort of man he would like to introduce to his sister.

"So you're really coming?" he said.

"Rather!  I want to throw a fly for those trout
you've spoken about, and pot the rabbits.  I'm
a bit fed-up with town.  If it's quite convenient I'll
meet you at Paddington Station to-morrow afternoon."

Rupert nodded.  "The train leaves at eight-thirty.
I must wire in the morning and tell the
guv'nor we're coming.  I expect Marjorie will meet
us at Moreton with the trap."

"How old is she?" Despard asked.

Rupert did not reply, and the cab drew up outside
the Savoy.

Dawn was beginning to break over the City
before he returned to his rooms.  He switched on
the electric lights.  Curiously enough, he felt
wide-awake and not in the least tired.  Yet the day
had been a long and eventful one, every hour filled
with excitement.

Lighting a pipe, Rupert sat down at the writing-table,
and went through the bills and letters that
lay in a heap beneath the paper-weight.  Including
the money he had borrowed, he owed close on three
hundred pounds.  He felt a shudder run through
his body.  In the morning when he had gaily set
out to the races he had not known it was as bad as that.

But for the inspiration which had made Ruby
back Ambuscade where would he have been now?
And again a shiver passed through his body.

He saw himself sitting in that very chair holding
a revolver to his breast, his finger on the trigger.
How near he had been to disgrace and death!

A photograph of his father stood in a little silver
frame near a vase of flowers.  He picked it up and
looked at it, a mist rising before his eyes.

"He trusted you, he believed in you," his
conscience whispered.  "Trusted you to bear the
old name bravely and proudly; trusted you to
retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family.  How
nearly you failed him!"

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.  If
Ruby had made a mistake?  Supposing she had
only told him she had backed Ambuscade in order
to save him from taking his life?  Or, if she had
backed the horse, what guarantee had they that the
bookmaker would pay up?

He rose to his feet, and walking to the windows
opened them wide.  A cold breeze swept his face.
A peculiar light grey outlined the trees and houses.
The street lamps glittered dimly before the coming
dawn.  London was very still, and almost silent.
Rupert raised his eyes to the sky.  It was grey and
the stars had all disappeared; half unconsciously
he prayed as he had done when he was a boy.  And
he swore that if his prayer were answered and he
was able to discharge his debts, he would remember
his responsibilities in the future, and live his life
according to his father's wishes.

Switching off the lights he went to bed.

When he awoke the sun was high in the sky.  It
was past ten o'clock.  Hurriedly dressing and without
waiting for breakfast, he drove to the flat Ruby
shared in Baker Street with another girl.  But the
housekeeper told him that she had gone out nearly
an hour previously.  In spite of the late night,
Rupert felt strangely elated and excited.  The
sunshine of the new day made him optimistic.
He knew she had gone down to the bookmakers
to draw the money they had won.  He waited
a little while thinking she might return.  Then
he remembered she had told him that she would
bring him the money to his rooms.  He hurried
back to Westminster.

But she was not there, and he felt a thrill of
apprehension.  He rang for a cup of tea; when his
landlady brought it she again reminded him of
his bill.

"I'm just waiting for some money to come
from the bank," he said with exaggerated carelessness.
"I'm leaving town to-night for a week or
two, but I shall keep my rooms on.  I'll pay for
them in advance."

He swallowed his tea and smoked a cigarette.
He could not eat.  Ruby had had plenty of time
to draw the money and reach his rooms!  Perhaps
the bookmaker was away, or refused to settle until
Monday.

He heard Big Ben chime the hour—twelve o'clock.
He lit another cigarette and stood on the balcony
outside the window waiting.

At last he saw a taxi-cab draw up outside his front
door and Ruby Strode alight.  He ran down the
staircase to meet her.

"Is it all right, have you got it?" he cried.
His only thought was the money now.  The money
that meant salvation.

She did not reply, but brushed past him upstairs
and he followed her.  He heard her breath coming in
quick, hard gasps, and following her into the
sitting-room he locked the door.

"Tell me, is it all right, have you got it?"

Rupert stretched out his hands imploringly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RADIUM`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium

   RADIUM.

.. vspace:: 2

Ruby Stroke threw aside the heavy veil
she wore and placed her bag on the table.
Rupert heard the clink of coins.

"Of course, I've got it," she stammered.  "Look!
Five hundred pounds.  I've brought fifty in gold.
I thought, perhaps, it would be more useful
than—than notes."

He staggered to her side and looked at the two
little bags of gold she had placed on the table.
She showed him a roll of notes.  He pushed them
aside, and pouring the gold out on the table he
commenced to count it.  It fascinated him.  He could
not speak.

Presently he began to laugh hysterically.  "You
are sure there's no mistake?"

"Count it again."

Again he laughed.  "I didn't mean that—I
mean, it's all right—I can't believe it—that this is
ours—all ours."  He dropped on to his knees beside
her and put his arms around her waist.  "Oh,
my dear!" he cried, "my dear!"

Ruby smiled.  She sat staring at the money with
hard, dry eyes.  "It was rather stupid to bring
so much gold perhaps," she said in an unsteady
voice.  "But I thought you could pay some of your
bills with it.  And—you are so careless.  You might
lose notes just as you lost that cheque yesterday."

She picked up the crisp bundle of notes on the
table.  "I'm going to take charge of these, and
later on pay them into your bank.  So that when
you return from Devonshire, you'll find quite a nice
little nest-egg....  Now, give me a cup of tea, and
then I'll pack for you.  You've only got about
three hours."

It did not take Ruby long to pack.  Rupert
watched her and gave instructions as to what he
would take, but to which, woman like, she paid
no attention.

"I've got lots of old clothes at the farm," Rupert
said.  "We shall spend all our time fishing and
shooting.  Gad!  I'll take old Despard down our
tin-mine.  Probably, it's little better than
a swimming-bath now!"

Rupert was in high spirits.  Ruby encouraged
him to talk, and smiled as she listened.

"Is Mr. Despard going down with you?" she asked.

Rupert nodded.

"Then you won't mind if I don't see you off at
Paddington?"  She glanced at the watch on
her wrist.  "I've got an appointment at
half-past one, so it would be difficult anyway."

"You don't like Despard, do you?" Rupert said;
"yet he's very fond of you."

"Yes, I know he is.  I wish he wasn't."

But Rupert only pinched her cheek playfully.
He did not understand.  Ruby wanted to tell him
that Despard had made love to her, to put him on
his guard, but she was afraid to speak more clearly.
She did not want to make him jealous, and she was
afraid lest the two men should quarrel.  So no more
was said.  They bade one another good-bye in the
little sitting-room where so many happy hours had
been spent—and where such great events had
happened.

"I shall not be away more than a week or two,"
Rupert said as he kissed her.  "I suppose you
will be in town all the summer?"

"Probably," she answered evasively.  "Anyway,
I shall be here when you return.  Enjoy yourself
and don't worry."

She kissed him again and again, clinging tightly
to him, unable to tear herself away now that the
hour had come.

"Why, there are tears on your cheek!" Rupert
whispered, brushing them away.  "You mustn't
be sad: our future never looked so rosy.  Look
here, I shall tell my father I'm engaged to be married.
I didn't mean to do so until I'd passed my examination,
but it's only fair to you.  And we can afford
to get married now!  You've got those notes safely?"

She nodded, and smiled through her tears.  "I
can pay them into the bank to-morrow."

And then, giving him a final embrace, she hurried
away.  Rupert stood at the front door and watched
her out of sight.  He wondered why she did not
turn round and wave him farewell again as she
always had when they parted.

A few hours later as he was borne rapidly in the
direction of Devonshire with his friend, Robert
Despard, he had temporarily forgotten Ruby Strode.
When the train on the branch line from Newton
Abbott stopped at Moreton he saw his sister waiting
for him on the platform.  A wave of boyish pride
swept over him as he introduced Marjorie to Robert
Despard.  Two years had changed her considerably.
She was a woman now, and beautiful.  At the same
time he was conscious of the humble dress she wore,
the thick cotton stockings, and rather ungainly
boots.  Conscience pricked him again, and he felt
a touch of remorse.

The money she should have spent in pretty
clothes he had been wasting in London!  He felt he
wanted to apologise, too, for the old-fashioned
dog-cart waiting outside and the sturdy,
rough-haired Dartmoor pony harnessed to the shafts.
But Despard had no eyes for anything but Marjorie
Dale's beauty.  He was unable to take his eyes off
her, and Rupert noticed the colour rushing to her
cheeks as they drove along.

Despard had a certain way with women.  He
treated them with a queer mixture of deference
and gallantry.  He knew how to pay a compliment
with subtlety.  For the first time Rupert realised
there were two distinct sides to his character.  And
before the long drive across the moorland was
over—still blazing with yellow gorse and bloom—he again
wished he had not asked Despard to stay with them.

Old John Allen Dale was waiting at the door of
the queer, tumble-down, thatched-roofed building
which had been the home of the Dales for generations.
He took Rupert in his arms and held him
closely, then, with an apology, turned to greet
Robert Despard.  His manner had all the
old-world courtesy of the yeoman farmer.

"By Jove, you live off the map, and no mistake!"
Despard cried looking round him.

He gazed at the strange, almost forbidding-looking
farmhouse, at the great tors surrounding it on all
sides.  He listened to the river Dart as it sang its
wild way to the sea, the only song among those
rugged hills.

"Don't you feel jolly lonely sometimes?" he
said to Marjorie.

She shook her head.  "I haven't time.  And
I've known nothing better."

She took his kit-bag from the dog-cart, and before
he could stop her she had carried it upstairs to his
room.

"There is nothing better," John Dale said
dreamily.  And he linked his arm affectionately
through Rupert's.  "Well, my boy, you needn't
say anything, I see by your face that you've passed
your examination.  The world is at your feet now
to conquer.  You're going to do great things, eh?"

Rupert gave a quick glance at Despard.  But
the latter merely winked, then, turning on his heel,
entered the farm.  Rupert heard him mount the
stairs in search of Marjorie.

Rupert squared his shoulders and looked his
father full in the face.  "I'm sorry, guv'nor, but
you must have the truth.  I've failed again."

John Allen Dale winced as if some one had struck
him a blow.  The strong, determined jaws met
tightly, but he said nothing.

"I'm going up again in November," Rupert
continued.  "And I know I shall pass.  It's not
an idle boast, guv'nor.  I can, and I will."

The old man laid his hands on the young man's
shoulders.  He spoke bravely and proudly, yet there
was a tremor in his voice:

"Rupert, lad, I know you've done your best, and
I'm not blaming you.  It's a severe blow because—well,
you'd better know now—the money's come
to an end!  I've pinched and screwed, gladly; but
the savings of the last fifty years have all gone.
They were little enough.  The farm doesn't raise
enough to keep us in food and clothes.  I've even
had to raise money and mortgage the old place.
I couldn't pay your fees for the examination again,
much less your board and lodging in London."

"I know," Rupert replied gently, though he had
not dreamed it was as bad as that.  And once again
remorse seized him.  Once again he wondered
what he would have done if it had not been for
Ruby Strode.

He would have died a coward's death and left
his father and sister to suffer shame and dishonour.

It was some little time before he could find his
voice and tell his father that he need not worry
about the money.

"I don't want you to question me, guv'nor, but
I've had a bit of luck and made enough to keep
myself for another year or two in London.  I can
let you have plenty to go on with, too."

"Not borrowed money, not made by gambling?"
John Dale asked.  "But I needn't ask you, Rupert.
It was money honestly earned, I know."

Rupert dared not confess how he had obtained it.
"It came through a friend," he said unsteadily.
"I can't tell you more now, father, but I will one
day.  I only want you to know that you needn't
worry.  I shan't fail you.  I promise."

Dale took his son's hand in his great, horny fist
and pressed it tightly.  "I know that, I know that,
my boy."

The first thing Rupert did with the money Ruby
had given him was to repay Despard the twenty-five
pounds he owed him.  The second was to hand
Marjorie fifteen pounds—ten for housekeeping
expenses, and five for herself.  She was overwhelmed,
and at first refused to take it.  To her it seemed
like a fortune.

"You needn't tell the guv'nor," Rupert said,
"though he knows I've made a bit.  But if he's
in want of anything just buy it for him—say it's
a present from me.  Get yourself a nice frock and
some pretty shoes."

Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble
life at Blackthorn Farm would bore or disgust
his friend, but he soon found that he was wrong.
Despard settled down to the new mode of life as
if he had been thoroughly used to it.  He was up
soon after daybreak helping Marjorie to milk the
cows; watching her scald the cream and make
the butter, and he insisted on being taught how to
do these things himself.  He made himself useful
about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale's
heart.  He proved himself nearly as good a shot at
the rabbits as Rupert, though he quite failed to catch
the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly
admitted that it bored him to throw a fly.

"I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours,"
he announced one day; and he asked Dale for
particulars about it, as to how long it had been worked,
why it had failed, and the state it was now in.

"It has failed because there wasn't enough tin
to make it worth while working," Dale told him.
"We thought we were going to make a fortune out
of it, but it turned out the other way."

Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache
thoughtfully.  "I know something about the
Cornish mines, and I've got a bit of money in one
or two of them.  As you know, they restarted
working a year or two ago, and they're doing well
now.  There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale."

"You're welcome to all you can find," the old
man laughed.

Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of
one afternoon exploring the mine.  The examination
was not made without danger and difficulty.  To
Rupert's surprise very little water had penetrated
the main shaft, and Despard pointed out that the
river and the surrounding bog-land probably acted
as drainage.  It was easy to find traces of tin
in the tunnel right up to where the working had ceased.

"It ought to have paid to follow this up,"
Despard said thoughtfully.  "A case of too much
capital or too little.  Or else the engineer was a
duffer."

"You don't think it would pay to erect a new
plant and start operations again, do you?" Rupert
said eagerly.

Despard shrugged his shoulders.  "The risk
would be too great.  If it were a gold mine, now,
people would fall over one another to put money
into it.  Or the magic word, radium!"

Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light
he carried glanced into Rupert's face.  He had
been scraping and poking about in the bed of the
tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like
instrument he had commandeered from the farm.

He held out a small piece of black substance
having something of the colour and consistency of
tar.  He told Rupert to examine it closely.  The
latter did so.

"Well?" Despard cried sharply.  There was a
trace of nervous excitement in his voice which
Rupert had never heard before.

"Well?" the latter said.

"Good Lord! no wonder you've been plucked
three times!" Despard cried.  "Don't you know
what this stuff is?"

Rupert examined it again.  "Rather like pitch-blende."

"Yes—something," Despard sneered.

A sharp cry escaped Rupert's lips.  He bent
down and examined the black, sticky substance
more carefully.

"It is pitch-blende!"

"Extinguish the light," Despard said sharply.

Rupert obeyed.  A long time they stood in the
darkness.  Presently Despard commenced to dig
and scrape the surface and sides of the tunnel.
After a little while he struck a match and re-lit
the lantern.

"That was expecting rather too much," he whispered.

They collected the pitch-blende they had found,
and putting it into his handkerchief Despard dropped
it into his pocket.

"I'll examine this and test it to-night.  But
don't say anything about it, not even to your
father.  Just because we've found pitch-blende it
doesn't mean there's radium.  But—they have
found traces in some of the Cornish mines, you know."

Marjorie was waiting for them at the surface of
the mine.  She gave a shriek as she saw them,
for their clothes were torn and discoloured, and
they were wet through.

"Well, how much tin did you find?" she asked
jokingly.  "Are you going to make our fortunes?"

Despard looked at her.  "Supposing I were
to make a fortune for you, what reward should
I get?"

"Oh, fifty per cent. of the profits," she laughed,
lowering her eyes.

"I shouldn't ask that," he whispered.  "I
should want something money couldn't buy."

When they reached the farmhouse supper was
waiting.  It was growing dark, and work was over
for the day.  John Dale had not returned home.

"We had better wait," Marjorie suggested,
"He's never late.  Probably he has gone up to
Post Bridge Hall to see Sir Reginald Crichton on
business."

The mention of Reginald Crichton's name
reminded Rupert of what his father had told him
about having to mortgage the property.  Supposing
there was anything in their discovery that afternoon
the mortgage would have to be paid off before
anything else was done.  He went up to Despard's
room and suggested that while they were waiting
for supper they should examine the sample of
pitch-blende they had taken from the mine.

Despard locked the door and laid the mass of
putty-like substance on the table.  "To get a proper
test we ought to take or send it up to town," he
said.  "But there's one simple method——"

He was interrupted by Marjorie calling to Rupert.
"You're wanted at Post Bridge Hall at once,"
she told him.  "Father is there, and they've sent
a servant over to ask you to go up."

Rupert swore under his breath.  "What on earth
can the matter be?  You don't think anything
has happened to—the old man?"

Marjorie shook her head.  "I don't think so.
The message is simply that you're wanted."

Rupert put on his hat and hurried down the
path which led to the main road.  Crossing Post
Bridge he turned to the right and soon found
himself in the avenue that led to the Hall.  It was
situated fairly high up under the shadow of the
tors and surrounded by trees.  Lights shone
cheerfully from all the windows.  Before he could ring
the front-door bell Sir Reginald Crichton stepped
out and met him.

"Sorry to trouble you," he said curtly; "but the
matter is rather important.  Do you mind coming
up to my study?"

Rupert followed, wondering what had happened.
To his relief he saw his father standing with his
back to the fireplace.

Sir Reginald shut the door, then sitting down
an old oak bureau motioned Rupert to a seat.
But the latter remained standing.

"Perhaps you will explain," said Sir Reginald,
looking at John Dale.

Rupert looked from one man to the other, and
he noticed that his father's face was pale, the features
drawn.  Before speaking Dale cleared his throat
nervously.

"It's about that cheque I sent you eight days
ago.  Just before you left London.  A cheque
for five pounds which Sir Reginald drew and made
payable to me.  It wasn't crossed, so I endorsed it
and sent it to you."

Rupert nodded.  "Yes, I received it."

"And cashed it?" Sir Reginald spoke.

Rupert started.  "No, I——"  Again he looked
from one man to the other.  He felt suddenly
guilty.  "As a matter of fact, I'm sorry to say I
lost it."

"Lost it?  You never told me."  Dale spoke.
"Of course you wrote to the bank?"

Rupert bit his lip.  "I forgot all about it—in
the excitement of packing up and coming home."

John Dale was about to speak, but Crichton
held up his hand.  "Did the loss of five pounds
mean so little to you, then?" he asked Rupert.

The latter moistened his lips.  His sense of
guilt increased, though he had only been guilty of
gross carelessness.  Yet, how could he explain the
situation?

"I was fearfully rushed and worried at the
time," he said, fumbling for words.  "As a matter
of fact, the morning I received it I went to the
races, and I only discovered the loss when I got
back.  I must have pulled it out of my bag with
some letters and papers.  I hope—nothing is wrong?"

Sir Reginald leant forward and stretched out
his hand.  "Look at this, sir."

Rupert took the slip of paper he held out.  It
was a cheque.  He saw written across the back
of it his father's name.  He looked at the face of
the cheque.

"*Pay John Allen Dale or bearer the sum of five
hundred pounds.*"  Then underneath in figures
"*£500 0s. 0d.*"

"Exactly," Crichton said.  Rising to his feet he
stood in front of Rupert and looked at him
searchingly.  "Your father sent you a cheque for five
pounds.  Since it left your possession the pounds
have been changed to five hundred.  That sum
was paid out by my bankers.  Naturally, I want
an explanation.  Your father sent it to you.  You
admit having received it, and say you lost it.  I'm
afraid that explanation doesn't satisfy me."

"You don't mean to say you think——"

Rupert flared up, then stopped.

Five hundred pounds!  The significance of the
amount suddenly struck him.  The amount Ruby
Strode had won for him over Ambuscade.  Once
again he saw himself sitting in his rooms in
Westminster facing ruin; he saw himself take his revolver
from the drawer and hold it to his breast.  Then he
felt the arms of the woman he loved round him;
he heard her voice telling him it was a coward's
way.  And when he told her it was the only way,
she confessed that she had secretly backed the
outsider and won him five hundred pounds.

He began to tremble.  His body became wet
with perspiration.  He heard his father's voice
raised apprehensively.

"Rupert, my boy.  Speak, for God's sake, speak!
Say you know nothing about it."

Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his
father.  He did not see him; he only saw the face
of the woman he loved.  She had confessed she
loved him better than life itself.

"Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising.  "Speak!"

"Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed.  "Confess
that you are either guilty—or not guilty."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ACCUSATION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium

   THE ACCUSATION.

.. vspace:: 2

Rupert pulled himself together and looked
at Sir Reginald.  "I have nothing to say, sir."

"Nothing to say!"  Clenching his fists Dale
strode towards his son as if intending to strike him.

With a gesture Sir Reginald stopped the old
man and waved him back.  "Gently, gently!
You must keep calm, Mr. Dale.  I am sure, on
consideration, your son will see the advisability
of making a clean breast of this affair."

Old John Dale controlled himself and stood quite
still, folding his arms across his chest.  Until now
he had scarcely taken his eyes off his son's face.
He was afraid to look any longer lest instead of
the boy he had loved and for whom he had worked
and made so many sacrifices—he saw a thief, a
criminal.

There followed a silence.  To each man present
it seemed interminably long, but neither father nor
son dared break it.  They were standing almost
opposite one another.  The younger man held
himself very erect, his head thrown back; he was
looking straight at Sir Reginald Crichton, resentment
in his eyes.  Sir Reginald, seated at his bureau,
was obviously embarrassed and ill at ease.  Judging
from appearances their positions should have been
reversed.

"Come, won't you speak?" the latter said in
a more kindly voice.  "For your father's sake,
Mr. Rupert, and your sister's—as well as for your own."

"I have told you I have nothing more to say.
I know nothing about it."

Sir Reginald raised his eyebrows, and picking up
a pencil commenced to tap it thoughtfully on the
edge of the bureau.

There was another long silence.  Twice Dale tried
to speak and failed.  His great frame was shaken.
He took a couple of steps towards his son and laid
a hand on his shoulder.

"I know you didn't do it, my boy," he said in a
voice that was no longer under control.  "Maybe,
you're ashamed of yourself for having lost it; or,
more like, you had it stolen, and perhaps you have
a feeling you might be able to point out the thief,
only you don't like to speak for fear of making
a mistake....  Unjust accusation...."  His
voice faltered.  "I know you're innocent, Rupert,
thank God, I know that."

Rupert turned his head and looked at his father
for one moment.  For the first time in his life he
saw tears in the old man's eyes.  He turned his
back on him as the blood rushed to his face.  It
was almost more than he could bear.

Of course, he was innocent, and it was impossible
to conceive anyone, least of all his father, believing
him guilty of such a mean and dastardly trick.  A
crime worse than theft or robbery.

He experienced a revulsion of feeling.  He knew
if he had spoken out at once and confessed exactly
what had happened the morning he had received
the cheque, both Sir Reginald and his father would
have believed him.  But, in spite of the brave words
old Dale had just spoken, and in spite of Sir
Reginald's patience, Rupert knew that already
they mistrusted him.  At the back of the heart of
one was suspicion amounting perhaps to certainty.
At the back of the heart of the other was fear.

"Do you believe I altered the amount on the
cheque?" he asked Sir Reginald.

"I have asked you what you know about it.
Until you give me a direct reply I must naturally
suspend judgment.  I should certainly find it very
hard to believe you guilty of such a crime."

"It was I who sent for you," Dale whispered,
"directly Sir Reginald told me what had happened
and showed me the cheque."

Rupert looked from one man to the other.  There
was fear in his heart, too.  A nameless fear.  He
had only to say outright what he knew about the
matter, tell them exactly what had occurred the
day he received his father's letter containing the
cheque, and they would believe him.

They would believe him, but their suspicions
would naturally be shifted to another quarter.
He would have to confess that he had been in
debt, that he had gone to the races, that he had
won a large sum of money, exactly five hundred
pounds—exactly the amount to which the cheque
he had just seen had been altered.

Sir Reginald was still drumming with the end
of his pencil on the edge of the bureau.  "I'm sure
you'll answer me a few questions, Mr. Rupert.
They'll be brief and to the point, and I hope your
answers will be the same."

Rupert nodded.  "I've already told you I've
nothing to say.  If you believe me to be innocent
why do you want to question me?"

Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders.  Drawing
forward a sheet of paper he picked up a pen and
dipped it in the ink.

"On what date did you receive this cheque?"

Rupert told him.  He answered sharply in a
high-pitched tone of voice.  He felt he was on the
defensive, and he resented the feeling.

"I presume you looked at it?"  Rupert nodded.
"You saw the amount for which it was drawn?
What was the amount?"

"Five pounds."

"What did you do with it?"

"I can't remember.  I think I left it on the table
with my father's letter."

"What were your movements that morning?"

"I don't see what these questions have got to
do with——"

Again he felt his father's hand on his shoulder
gripping it tightly.  "Answer Sir Reginald, my
boy, no matter what he asks you.  You can have
nothing to hide from him.  Tell him frankly
everything you did that day, no matter what it was....
We are men, we were young once; we shall understand."

Rupert stared across the dimly-lit room.  The
curtains had not been drawn across the windows,
and outside he could see a cluster of fir-trees
silhouetted against the sky, a glimpse of the white
road bounded on either side by stone walls, and,
beyond, the line of moorlands.  The twilight had
almost gone, and the stars were shining in the sky.
He was conscious of a great silence surrounding
the house, the silence which always brooded over
the hills.

Not so many hours ago the roar of London had
echoed in his ears, and he had sat in the windows
of the lodging-house in Westminster and watched
the river of life rushing torrent-like at his feet.  Like
a swimmer eager to test his strength, he had flung
himself into it and been swept away.

"We are waiting," Sir Reginald Crichton said.

"I don't know that I did anything in particular,"
Rupert replied.  "I was awaiting the result of my
examination.  I was out most of the day: it was
when I came back that I missed the cheque."

"I suppose you had plenty of money to pay the
bill at your lodgings and fare down here, or you
would have cashed it immediately?" Sir Reginald
suggested.

"In the last letter you wrote me, Rupert, you
told me you were rather hard up.  That's why I
sent you the whole of Sir Reginald's cheque, though
I was rather pressed for money myself."

Dale spoke under his breath, almost in a whisper.
He knew he was not helping his son by what he said,
but the truth was dearer to him than anything else.
And only by truth could his son be cleared and
the mystery surrounding the cheque solved.

"I had been lucky," Rupert stammered.  "I
had made a little bit—at racing."

Sir Reginald dropped his pen and moved his chair
back.  "Oh, so you go in for racing!  Forgive
me for being interfering, but I shouldn't have
thought you could have afforded that.  You must
be aware that some time ago your father was forced
to mortgage most of the land surrounding his farm,
and that I am the mortgagee?"

"I told you I had been lucky."

"And that's the reason you treated the cheque
your father sent you so carelessly—for, you knew in
sending it that he and your sister were depriving
themselves of many of the necessities of life."

Rupert lost his temper.  Sir Reginald was making
him feel a cur, making suggestions which he had no
right to make; poisoning his father's mind against him.

"If you want to know everything, it was the day
the cheque arrived that I made a bit," he blurted
out.  "I'd got a few pounds in my pocket, money
I'd borrowed from my friend Despard.  He's
staying with us now.  If you want corroborative
evidence.  I went down to the races and backed
the winner.  I suppose in the excitement of the
moment I must have pulled the cheque out of my
pocket and lost it on the racecourse."

Sir Reginald sighed.  It might have been a sigh
of satisfaction or of doubt.  "Why couldn't you
have told us this before?  If, as seems very probable,
you lost it at the races, it is easy to conceive
that some one picked it up, saw his opportunity,
and very cleverly altering the figures took it to the
bank next morning."  He rose to his feet.  "Of
course, I shall have to go up to London and put
it into the hands of the police.  I'm afraid I shall
need your help.  They are sure to want from you
the time you travelled to the racecourse and back,
the enclosure you patronised, and so forth.  I
can rely on your giving me all the help in your
power, I am sure."

"I have told you I know nothing," Rupert cried,
turning on his heel.  "I can only tell the police the
same thing."  He picked up his hat.  "Have
you finished your examination?"

Sir Reginald bowed.  "I'm sorry if it has been
unpleasant.  But I could not help myself.  And
it would hardly have been fair to you or your
father if I had made enquiries behind your back."

Rupert nodded, and crossing the room unsteadily
opened the door.  "Are you coming, father?"
he asked the old man, without looking at him.

"You can go on, Rupert, I'll follow presently,"
Dale replied.

Once outside Rupert walked quickly down the
drive, past the dark, great clump of fir-trees and
along the rough granite-made road until he turned
into the main Princetown road and reached Post
Bridge.  A little way up the hill the lights of the
inn twinkled through the darkness.  The waters
of the East Dart purled beneath him.  As they
rushed over the rocks the foam glittered in the
starshine.  A bat swept past his face, its wings
humming faintly.  He leant his arms on the stone
parapet of the bridge and gazed down into the
crooning waters.

He was innocent, but he knew that up at Post
Bridge Hall there was one man who believed him
guilty of a despicable crime, and that one man his
own father, who, not knowing what to believe,
doubted him.  His own father, himself the soul of
honour, as proud of his good name as was perhaps
the greatest man in the land.

His father, a man of the soil, whose greatest
ambition had been to turn his son into a man of
the world, a gentleman, to give him a profession,
a start in life, an independence.  For that he had
made many and great sacrifices, even to the
mortgaging of the land he owned and which his
forefathers had loved and cultivated.  And his only other
child being a daughter he had expected her to make
many, and perhaps as great, sacrifices also.

Was this to be the end?  Rupert asked himself.
The family name and honour dragged through
the mire, their affairs the gossip of the newspapers
of the Devon towns and villages, to find himself
accused and perhaps forced to defend himself.

Of course, he could prove his innocence—he heard
himself laugh.  For a moment it all seemed so
absurd.  He felt he had been behaving like a coward
and a fool in not frankly confessing that he had
gone the way of nearly all young men in London,
got into debt, gambled, fallen in love, and saved
himself by one of those strange tricks of fortune
which happen once and again in a lifetime.  He
drew himself up and looked at the sky blazing with
stars now, the million eyes of the night.

He had held his peace because he loved.  Because
if he spoke he would have to drag the name of
the woman he loved into the affair.  She would
be sent for, questioned, and bullied; the police
would examine her.  They would find out that she
had gone to the races with him and put the sum
of exactly five pounds on Ambuscade at a hundred
to one, winning the fatal amount for which the
cheque had been altered—five hundred pounds.

Fortune had smiled on him, but it had kissed
the one cheek only to smite the other.  Of course,
Ruby knew nothing about the missing cheque,
and could not help him in any way.  It would
be contemptible to drag her name into it.

Even if it came to a question—his honour or
hers.  And his honour meant his father's and
sister's.

Presently he heard footsteps approaching, and
he moved farther along the bridge down the side
of the hill to the water's edge.  Every one for miles
around knew him, and it was not the moment he
wanted to be recognised or asked futile questions
about his life in London—how he had enjoyed
himself, or whether he had passed his examination.

The people crossed the bridge, walking very
slowly.  Now and then their voices rose above the
sound of the river.  He looked over his shoulder;
a man and a woman, and as they passed he
recognised his sister Marjorie and young Lieutenant
James Crichton, Sir Reginald's only son, who was
spending his leave at home.  They were walking
close together, arm in arm, and in Crichton's right
hand his sister's left hand was firmly clasped.

He saw their faces for a moment in the starlight,
and in that moment he knew they were lovers.
He waited until they were out of sight, then he
hurried back to the farm.

Sir Reginald Crichton's son was in love with his
sister Marjorie.  Here was a fresh complication
which at first seemed to add to the tragedy which
threatened him.  "Jim" and he had been old
friends as boys.  Crichton was his senior, and when
he left Woolwich and was eventually attached to
the Royal Flying Corps, they lost sight of one
another.  Presently, Rupert's discovery suggested
a loophole of escape—if matters turned out badly
for him.  If Jim Crichton and Marjorie were
engaged to be married Sir Reginald might be persuaded
not to push enquiries concerning the altered cheque too far!

There was something not quite pleasant in the
thought, and he dismissed it.  But before he had
reached his home it had returned again.  He
entered the parlour; the lamp was burning on the
table, the peat fire glowed in the grate.

Despard sat in the arm-chair before it, his feet
stretched on to the mantelshelf, a pipe between
his lips.  An old-fashioned photograph album was
on his knees.  Rupert walked to his side and bent
over his shoulders.

"What on earth are you looking at?" he asked
with exaggerated carelessness.

Despard pointed to an amateur photograph of
Marjorie.  She was seated on a stool in one of the
fields milking a cow.

"Rather good, isn't it?" Rupert said.  "The
local parson took it last year."

Despard nodded.  "It would make a very fine
picture.  It's the sort of thing which, if properly
done, would create a sensation in our Academy."  He
knocked his pipe out into the grate.  "Do you
know your sister's a jolly sight too pretty and too
intelligent to be shut up in a wild, God-forsaken
place like this?  It's criminal, old man.  When
you go back to London, you ought to take her
with you; give her a chance of mixing with
decent people and seeing life, eh?"

"She's happy enough here," Rupert said uneasily.

Despard smiled and closed the book.  "She
would be happier in London.  See if you really
can't take her back with you, Rupert....  Perhaps
I'd better confess at once that I've fallen in love
with her!  It's sudden, I know, and, of course, I
shouldn't dream of breathing a word to her yet.
But—one good turn deserves another, and if you
get a chance put in a word for me, will you?"





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.. _`FORGERY`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   FORGERY.

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Before leaving London, Rupert, at Despard's
suggestion, had applied for an order to go
over the convict prisons at Princetown.  It
arrived the morning following the interview with
Sir Reginald Crichton.

Perhaps because he had lived under the shadow
of the prisons all his life, the idea of visiting them
(as strangers and tourists from the cities often
did) never occurred to him.  The great granite
building standing on the top of the hill above the
West Dart, ugly, ominous, a blot on nature, man's
menace to mankind, had never interested him or
caused him to think for a moment of the unfortunate
beings who were incarcerated there.  It was just a
landmark, almost part of the life of the moorlands.
He knew that originally, in the days long past,
French prisoners of war had been kept there, the
men against whom his ancestors had fought.  It
was some time after the war was over and peace
declared that it had been rebuilt and turned into
a penal establishment.

Despard wanted to go over it for reasons Rupert
could not understand; but he agreed to take him
with just the same tolerance with which Despard
himself might have shown the Tower of London
or Madame Tussaud's to his sister Marjorie.

As a matter of fact, now that the order had
come and Despard was anxious to make use of it at
once, Rupert felt grateful.  It served as an excuse
to spend the day away from the farm—and the
Crichton family.  They made him feel, if not exactly
guilty, at least ashamed of himself.  He had passed
a sleepless night, and during the long, silent hours
he had examined his conscience and not found
it as clean as it had been the last time he slept
in that little room overlooking the valley of the Dart.

Life in London was complex: by his own actions
he had made it more complicated, and by his
ignorance of men and women and the ways of the
world.  It seemed as if he had never had time in the
city to examine himself or to consider his actions,
scarcely time to think.

The only rest for the worker in London is
excitement.  Down here on the moorlands it was good
to be alone—if one had eyes to see, ears to hear, and
a soul to understand nature.

In London loneliness was a terrible thing: loneliness
of streets that had no end, of walls that could
not be scaled, of windows through which one might
gaze and find no perspective.

A lonely man in London was very like a convict
in Dartmoor prison.  For so many hours of the day
he was let out to work; for the remainder he could
eat or sleep or gaze at the great walls of his prison
and listen to the footsteps of those who passed
along the apparently unending corridors—the streets
of his city.

Rupert had at first found relaxation in seeing
London from the top of a penny omnibus, in
attending football matches, and occasionally visiting
the pits of theatres.  And then, as he made friends
music halls and card parties became the attraction,
with occasionally a race meeting near London,
followed, perhaps, by a "burst" at a "night club."

And the harder he studied to pass his examination
the more insistently did his brain demand rest,
and, failing rest, excitement.  Without pausing
to think he had fed it, pandered to desires
sometimes unnatural, always unhealthy, and generally
expensive.

The meeting with Ruby Strode had come too
late.  At first she appeared in the guise of another
form of excitement.  But slowly, as he realised
her worth and his own stupidity, and discovered
that he loved her, he put on the brake.

But debts had accumulated; though he gave
up card parties and wine parties he found that
friendship with an actress of the Ingenue Theatre
was an expensive luxury.  Falling in love made
him reckless; and when he knew that it really was
love, pride prevented him from telling Ruby the
position of his affairs.  He left her to find out for
herself.

There was one advantage in this.  It had proved
the sincerity of her affection.  She had not realised
the seriousness of the situation until the fatal day
when Rupert took her down to the races, and
laughingly told her that his future life and happiness
depended on the favourite winning the big race of
the day.

That it meant her future life and happiness, too,
perhaps had not occurred to him.  Men are inclined
to overlook the women's point of view in these
matters.  He did not think, and not until the
race was over and he was back in his lodgings in
Westminster did he realise the havoc he had wrought
on other lives—his father's, his sister's, and the life
of the woman he loved.

Then the miracle happened.  He burnt his boats
behind him and left London with a light heart,
quite certain he would never make a fool of himself
again.

And now Sir Reginald Crichton made him realise
that his folly might pursue him for some little
time.  Rupert had made the mistake of thinking
that by repentance he could wipe out the past.

The start was made for Princetown shortly
after breakfast—for which meal Rupert put in
a late appearance.  He was afraid to face his
father.  At the same time a feeling of resentment
had grown in his heart, quite unreasonably
he knew.

He had hurt the old man, as sometimes he
affectionately called him.  He had disappointed him.
Not one word of blame had escaped John Dale's
lips.  As yet he had not questioned Rupert as
to the manner of his life in London or asked the
reasons which had made him run into debt.  But
Rupert knew what he felt.  It was written on the
wrinkled, care-worn face.  He had aged in the past
twelve hours.

Rupert did his best to dismiss Ruby from his
thoughts.  If his father discovered that he was
engaged to be married there would be further
complications, and the barrier which had so suddenly
risen between them would grow.

And there were other reasons why he did not
want to think of her; reasons he would not admit to
himself, and yet which continually intruded
themselves in his brain.

Absurd fears; doubts; unwarrantable suspicions.

"To look at you, my dear fellow, one would think
you were being hauled off to Princetown to do
seven years penal servitude.  For heaven's sake
buck up and say something."

Despard spoke; they were swinging along the
moorland road at a good pace, just dropping down
the hill to the valley through which the little Cherry
Brook rushes to join the Dart.

Marjorie laughed.  She was accompanying them
as far as the prison, and while they went over it
she was going on into the town to do some
marketing.  She was wearing a short, workman-like
little skirt and high lace boots.  She carried
her hat in her hand and the wind blew through
her hair; the sunshine made it gleam like dull gold.

"I believe Rupert's bored," she said, "and he's
already longing for the excitement and gaiety of
London.  You must find it awfully dull here,
Mr. Despard.  You don't look a bit like the type of
man who would enjoy roughing it—for that's
what I suppose you call living in a farmhouse on
Dartmoor."

"I'm having the time of my life," Despard
replied cheerfully.  "I was wondering last night
whether I could persuade you to take me as a
permanent paying guest."

"Like the people who stay at the post office and
the inn during the summer months?  Do you
know," she said, looking at him out of her beautiful
grey eyes, "I always feel so sorry for those people;
they look unhappy and never seem to have anything
to do but to drive about in brakes or motor-cars, or,
if the day's wet, wander about holding up an
umbrella.  If I had to choose between the two, I'd
rather be a convict in the prisons than a paying guest."

Despard shrugged his shoulders.  "Well, one
never knows one's luck.  What do you say, Rupert?"

Rupert started.  He had not been listening
to the conversation.  "I can't imagine what
pleasure you think you're going to get in looking
at a lot of poor brutes, half of whom will probably
never know freedom again: thieves, murderers,
robbers, and heaven knows what else.  The
Zoological Gardens in London are depressing enough,
heavens knows; this will be worse."

"Not a bit of it," Despard replied.  "I believe
they're awfully well looked after.  Sort of glorified
rest-cure.  As I said just now, one never knows one's
luck.  You and I might find ourselves en route to
Princetown one day, handcuffed between a couple
of warders.  I always like to be prepared for
eventualities.  I believe convicts are allowed to choose
the work for which they are best adapted or find
themselves suited, so keep your eyes open this
morning, Rupert, and pick out the softest job."

They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook
bridge, gazed into the pool on the left and watched
the trout sporting.  The waters sang as they
tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath
the bracken and heather which overhung the
peat banks.  In the distance a sheep bell tinkled.
Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies
neighed.  The air was sweet with the faint smell
of gorse.

Rupert sighed.  He almost wished he had never
left the moorlands.  His father had doubtless
sent him to London to make a gentleman of him
with the best intentions in the world.  But it was
a mistake.  They were moorland folk.  The land
belonged to them and they to the land.  He was
not suited to the city or the ways of the men who
dwelt in it.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie
looked at him and laid her hand on his.  "What's
the matter, Rupert?  You're not worried, are you, dear."

"Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned.
And he looked at Marjorie.  "I suppose you've
never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't
sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."

They watched the course of the Cherry Brook
as it wound in and out, to and fro, making a
complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally
disappearing behind the ridge of hill.  There was a
wistful look in Marjorie's eyes.

"I think I've always been in love—in love with
life.  I suppose that sounds stupid, or sentimental,
to you."

"Life will fall in love with you one day, and be
revenged."

She shook her head.  "For a woman life is love,
and love is life.  For a man I suppose it consists
of fighting....  She gives life, he takes it."

"Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed.

"But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered
gravely.  "If all one reads is true.  The greatest
nations are the most densely populated, where all
the men bear arms—and the women bear children
that the men who are killed may be replaced!
It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we shall
find something better to do."

"Let's get on," Despard suggested.  "You've
got a pretty stiff hill to tackle.  And I'm a
town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."

He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at
home so that he could have had a *tête-à-tête* with
Marjorie.

Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he
had given him the previous evening; possibly
he knew his reputation with women too well to
trust him.

To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her
beauty refreshing after the faded and painted
women he knew in London.  She was a strange
mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed
to him strongly.  The fact that he could not
understand her was an added attraction.  Not an easy
woman to make love to, and he knew she would be
a very difficult woman to win.

For the moment he only wanted to amuse
himself, but to do that with any measure of
safety or success he knew he would have to
superficially play the game.  That was why he
had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in love
with Marjorie.

They reached the prison gates just before
mid-day.  The town itself lay a little distance beyond,
with a couple of hotels and a little railway
station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops.
The two men agreed to meet Marjorie an hour
later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the
principal hotel.

They watched Marjorie out of sight.  Ringing
the bell outside the great gates, a porter appeared
from his lodge, examined the order, and admitted them.

They were kept waiting a little while in the
porter's lodge.  Eventually a warder appeared
and asked them to sign their names in a large book
which was kept there for the purpose.  They had
to fill in their places of residence, their professions,
and various other details.

"I almost feel as if I were signing my own
warrant," Despard chuckled.  He looked at the
warder.  "I suppose we shall be let out again?"

"We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir,"
the man replied without moving a muscle of his
clean-shaven, emotionless face.

Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the
chief warder led them across the great stone square
and put them in charge of a subordinate.

"For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really
think you've done time here.  That's exactly what
you look like."

"I can't see that there's anything to smile at.
Other people's misfortunes never amuse me."

"Think of your own, then," Despard replied,
"that will cheer you up.  By the way, have you
heard from Ruby since you left town?"

Rupert's cheeks flushed.  He was saved the
necessity of replying, by the warder halting them
outside another gate.  It was opened with much
jangling of keys.

Though the sun was shining outside it could
not penetrate here.  The building was almost
entirely of granite, cold and grey.  There was no
relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite
underfoot, overhead, and on all sides.  Rupert,
free man though he was, felt a strange sense of
repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those
granite walls, to try and break them down, to
escape.

The whole time he was in the building, anywhere
within the surrounding walls of the prison, he felt
as if he were a prisoner.  Now and then he heard
the warder explaining.  He found it difficult to
pay any attention to him.

Despard, on the other hand, was interested in
everything, asking innumerable questions, watching
convicts at work and inspecting their work.  Almost
every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within
the prison walls.  Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers,
basket-makers.  The men sat or stood in rows,
each one a certain distance apart from his fellows;
and in the middle and at the end of each row
was a warder.

Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an
imaginative person like Rupert could be felt, almost
seen.  It seemed to be part of the stone corridors,
the granite walls.  And granite appeared to be
beaten into the convicts' souls until the expression
of it was graven on their faces.  Like their walls
they were cold, grey, silent.  Here and there a few
retained traces of humanity; others suggested
primeval men of the stone age, though they wore
no hair on their faces and their heads had been
shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood
erect from the scalp.

Each man bent over his work as if he were
absorbed in it.  Rupert, watching closely, noticed
their eyes roved here and there, moving quickly,
sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal
ever on the watch.  Sometimes their lips moved,
too, though not a sound escaped them.

They passed into the kitchens—here there was
blessed warmth again and the smell of newly-baked
bread—through innumerable corridors and passages.

They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061.  "Just
room enough to die"—as Despard humorously
expressed it.

The cells in which the majority of prisoners
were confined were built in the middle of a square,
the floors rising one above the other, all securely
railed off, so that one warder on guard above,
could command a view of every cell in the
square.

Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached
the porter's lodge again.  They had to wait a moment
while a gang of convicts marched in through the
courtyard.  They were accompanied by warders
with loaded carbines.  They had been at work out
on the moorlands, quarrying and farming and
digging peat.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said,
when they found themselves walking along the road
towards Princetown.  "I felt a beast all the time.
I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and
go for us."

"Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said
carelessly.  "But, I confess it's good to be outside
again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad! it
has given me an appetite.  I hope the local hotel
can provide us with something to eat."

They met Marjorie just outside the market-place,
and though all she wanted was a little
bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard
insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a
bottle of champagne.

"We want something to take the taste of the
granite out of our mouths," he laughed.

Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk
back to Blackthorn Farm.  Marjorie found an
opportunity of telling him that she had bought
herself some material for a new dress, and made
several purchases for her wardrobe out of the money
he had given her.  Her pride and pleasure in having
money to spend made him realise how selfish he had
been, and he again made a solemn vow that when
he returned to London he would work day and
night and not spend a penny more than was
necessary.

Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and
he would no longer have any shame in appearing
before her in his true light.

He had been afraid that when she knew he was
a poor man he would lose her.  And but for her he
would now be ruined!

That evening after supper John Dale drew his
son aside.  Rupert realised that an interview was
inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that
the moment had come.  He expected some kind of
a lecture, a warning on the folly of gambling and
living beyond his means, and an appeal as to his
future conduct.  He knew his father would not be
angry, probably would not even blame him for
what he had done.  He almost wished he would.
It would be easier than kindness and the pain and
disappointment he saw in the old man's eyes
whenever he looked at him.

To his surprise Dale made no reference to the
past.  He simply told him that Sir Reginald had
received a letter that morning from his bankers,
and he outlined the contents.

The cheque which Rupert had lost and which
had since been altered from five to five hundred
pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger
boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.

On enquiry at the office from which the messenger
had been despatched, it had been ascertained that a
young man had handed the cheque in to the office
in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had
called later on for the money, which had been
handed him.

Rupert listened with a sense of relief.  "Have
they traced the man?" he asked.

Dale shook his head.  "Not yet.  But, of course,
now the affair is in the hands of the police.  The
manager of the district messenger office where
the message was handed in described him as a tall,
fair man with a slight moustache, well dressed, and,
as far as he remembered, wearing a tall silk hat, and
a light overcoat."  Dale laid his hand affectionately
on his son's shoulder.  "Last night, at one dreadful
moment, I had a feeling that Sir Reginald suspected
you, my boy, so this is a great relief to me."

Rupert laughed a little uneasily.  "I suppose
it did seem rather queer my losing the beastly
cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully
hard up for money.  But you see, father, it arrived
at a critical moment, just when I was awaiting the
result of my exam., knowing I was dreadfully in
debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything
by backing the favourite in the big race.  The
money I had in hand was borrowed money.  I
know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully
ashamed.  I promise you I shan't make a fool of
myself again.  I've—I've plenty of money to go
on with, and if you want any——"

Dale shook his head.  "I'm old-fashioned, I
daresay you'll laugh at me.  If I were a rich man
I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself
occasionally.  But we're poor, and perhaps that
makes me extra proud.  Keep your money, my
boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take
any.  I couldn't take money that you had won like
that.  You had no right to take the risk; therefore,
to me it almost seems as if you had no right
to the money.  But it's too late to go back now,
so use what's left, but use it carefully for your
own sake."

Rupert bowed his head.  He made up his mind to
make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father
about Ruby Strode and his love for her.  But
just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back
to town to-morrow morning.  Sir Reginald left
to-day and he said he was afraid it would be
necessary for you to go up.  It will only be for a couple
of days, I expect, and you'll come straight back
here, won't you?"

Rupert nodded.  "Of course—I'll go if necessary,
but I can't see why I should be wanted.  I've told
Sir Reginald all I know."

Dale cleared his throat uneasily.  "It's not Sir
Reginald, it's the officials at the bank and—Scotland
Yard has charge of the affair.  They want you to
give them an exact account of your movements,
what you did and where you went on the day you
received and lost the cheque.  It's the least you
can do under the circumstances, my boy.  You see,
if the money's not recovered, I shall have to make
it good."

Rupert nodded and said no more.  His heart
sank again.  Yes, unless the bank recovered the
money, whether his father was legally liable or
not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old
homestead and everything he possessed in the
world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.

After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.

Before going to bed that night he knocked at
the door of Marjorie's room, and he sat on the edge
of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do
in the old days when they were boy and girl together
with not a thought in the world to trouble them,
happy and contented in the life and work of the
moorlands.

At first they talked of little things, things which
had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went
to make up life for Marjorie.  Then she fell to
questioning him, asking him about his life in London,
and if he were happy.

"Somehow, you've changed," she confessed.
"You don't look as well or so jolly as you used
to.  There's nothing seriously wrong, is there,
old boy?"

He shook his head.  "I'm all right.  I've a secret
which I want to tell you soon, but it's one that
makes me happy, and I hope it will make you
happy, too....  Of course, now you'll guess, but
don't say anything.  While I'm away I don't want
you to be too much alone with Despard.  He's
all right, but he's a man's man—the sort of fellow
who makes love to every pretty woman he sees.
He can't help it, you know."

Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed.  "Is
that a man's man?"

Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last
night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge
Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on
the bridge.  I don't want to interfere, dear, but,
somehow, I wondered whether—it looked as though
you cared for one another, perhaps——"

Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses.
And, looking at her, as she sat up in her little white
bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild disorder
about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck
warm against the white lace of her nightgown,
he realised for the first time with something like a
shock how very beautiful she was.  Being a brother
he had taken her for granted.  He had only looked
at her with a brother's eyes.  Now he saw her as a
man sees a woman; young, in the first flush of
youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded
and made for love.

"Yes, we do love one another," she whispered.
"He wants me to marry him one day, but I haven't
promised yet.  Our positions are so different.  I'm
not good enough for him."

Rupert laughed.  "You, not good enough!"

Marjorie nodded.  "That's just what he said
when I told him.  But it's true.  I'm only a farmer's
daughter; he's the son of a gentleman.  Don't
say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to
reply.  "Time will tell.  If we really care for
one another we can both wait until we're quite sure."

Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very
gently.  There were tears in his eyes.  He rose
from the bed and blew out the candle and the room
was in darkness.

"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter
since I've been in London," he said, finding it
easier to speak in the darkness.  "Owing to my
stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town
to-morrow, but it will only be for a couple of days,
and when I come back I'll tell you my secret.  For
I've fallen in love, Marjorie.  I'm beginning to feel
as you do—that I'm not good enough for her....
She's wonderful."

He groped his way towards the door and opened it.

"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered.  "Good-night."

"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door
quietly and went to his own room.

Perhaps it was true.  Marjorie was only the
daughter and he the son of a farmer.  That was
why he had made such a mess of things in London.
But his eyes had been opened just in time.  Love
had opened them.

A farmer's son.  But his father's ambition should
be realised.  He would learn to be a man and a
gentleman.





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.. _`THE VISITORS`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium

   THE VISITORS.

.. vspace:: 2

It was dark before the West of England express
pulled into Paddington Station.  Rupert
alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand.  He
avoided the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but
walked to the underground railway and took a
train to Westminster.  He was turning over a new
leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty
of money, he had made up his mind henceforth
not to spend a penny more than was necessary.

He had not warned his landlady that he was coming,
so he found that she was out and that nothing
was ready for him.  His rooms looked dusty and
uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere
was cold and cheerless.

The servant suggested lighting the fire, but
Rupert shook his head.  He was going to do
without luxuries of any sort.  The first thing he did
was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial
Hotel, telling him of his arrival and saying he was
at his service during the whole of the next day.
Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing
his clothes, he went out and had dinner at a humble
restaurant.  He would have telephoned to Ruby,
but there was not much time, and, again, it would
have meant added expense.

It was curious and irritating how important money
had suddenly become.  It seemed to check him
at every turn—though there was gold in his purse
and a balance at his bank.  A week or two ago
when he had been really broke, it scarcely troubled
him.  Not as it troubled him now.

For the first time in his life he realised its
importance.  And his father's words continually
echoed in his ears.

At eight o'clock he went to the Ingenue Theatre
and waited at the stage door for Ruby Strode to
arrive.  She generally put in an appearance between
eight and eight-fifteen.  Every minute cabs and
motor-cars drew up and members of the company
got out and passed through the narrow entrance to
the back of the theatre.  Some of the girls he
recognised, but he kept out of the way, as he did not
wish to be seen.

When the hands of the clock in the doorkeeper's
office pointed to a quarter-past eight, he began to
grow a little anxious.  Ruby was late.  As a rule
she was careful about time where her work was
concerned.

He waited five minutes more, then stepping inside
the passage he knocked at the sliding glass-panel
of the doorkeeper's office and asked if Miss Strode
had arrived.

"I'm sure I couldn't say," the man in charge
replied.  "The doorkeeper's been called away for
a moment, but he'll be back directly.  All the
chorus and extra people are supposed to be booked
in by eight-fifteen."

As Rupert turned away a girl hurrying along the
passage nearly ran into him.  As she apologised
he recognised Iris Colyer, a friend of Ruby's.

"Do you know if Miss Strode has arrived yet?
I wish you'd find her for me," he said.  "I've
just come up to town from the country, and I don't
suppose I shall have more than twenty-four hours
here.  I want her to meet me after the performance
to-night."

He noticed a look of surprise on Miss Colyer's
face, and she hesitated a moment before replying.
"But don't you know she has gone away?  She's
been absent about a week now."

"Gone away," Rupert echoed blankly.

"Yes; didn't you know?  She was a bit run
down.  Got a chill or something—at least, she
said so!  Anyway, she wanted a holiday, poor
dear!  She's been at it hard for the past twelve
months."

"Yes—of course, she wanted a holiday," Rupert
said mechanically.  "Where has she gone?"

Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders.  "I haven't
the faintest idea.  As you ought to know,
Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones, never
gabbled about her own affairs or other people's
like the rest of the girls."  She held out a
neatly-gloved hand.  "I must rush away; late as usual.
I expect you'll hear from Ruby in a day or two.
I remember now she talked about the Continent—Paris,
I believe.  Said she'd send me picture
postcards—of course, the little wretch never has....
So long."

Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head.
Rupert remained standing in the passage, pushed
about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and
dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered
himself with an effort and made his way into the
street and walked slowly along in the direction of
Piccadilly Circus.  He found it difficult to believe
that Ruby had gone away suddenly without a
word to him, without even leaving her address.
She had not complained of feeling ill the day they
parted.  He could not believe she had gone away.
A sudden fear struck him that perhaps she was
seriously ill.

Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street.
He rang the bell three times without receiving an
answer, then he went in search of the porter.

The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had
told him.  Miss Strode had gone away for a holiday.
He did not know where she had gone, but he
remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to
take her to Victoria Station.  She had left about
eight o'clock on the evening of the same day Rupert
had started for Devonshire.  She had said she
would send an address to which letters could be
forwarded, but up to the present she had not
done so.

Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone
alone, then he checked himself, ashamed of the
thought.  For jealousy had prompted it.

He turned away without a word and walked
blindly down the street.  The contemptible thought
which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden
wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return
of the dreadful fear which had assailed him several
times during the last forty-eight hours, and against
which he had so far fought successfully.  But now
it would not be denied.  It brought with it a horrible
suspicion.

Why had she gone away? he asked himself again
and again, still not daring to find the answer which
fear prompted.  When she had said good-bye to
him at his rooms in Westminster she must have
known she was going and have made her preparations.
Yet she had carefully concealed the fact
from him.  It was not a case of illness.  He would
have seen it or she would have told him.  He knew
she had not tired of her work at the Ingenue.  She
loved the theatre.

Then why had she gone?  Why had she suddenly
run away from him, from London, from life?

She loved him.  Nothing could shake his faith in
her love.  She had proved it.  Her love had saved
him from taking his own life.

Rupert found himself standing just inside the
gates of the Marble Arch.  The roar of traffic echoed
dully in his ears; on his left the lights of Oxford
Street glared.  Facing him was the darkness of
the Park, with here and there the red blot of a gas
lamp.

She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction.
With extraordinary clearness pictures rose
before his eyes presenting each incident of the last
day they had spent together.  They passed before
him like the pictures projected by a cinematograph.

She had not told him of his good fortune until
she had found him seated in the chair with a revolver
clasped in his hand.  Yet she had known his position
perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat
of the favourite in the big race ruin faced him.
Yet she had said nothing until she found him face
to face with death.

He put his hands up to his face to shut out the
pictures which danced before his eyes.  He heard
himself laugh.

The next moment he was striding through the
Park trying to escape from his thoughts and from
the fear which now permeated his whole being.

At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus.
He wanted to get back to his rooms again.  He
might find something there, some proof, that these
fears were groundless.

The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch
on all the electric lights.  He noticed a vase of
faded flowers on the bureau.  He was about to throw
them into the fire when he hesitated.  As far as he
could remember there were no flowers in the room
when he had left.

He rang the bell and told the servant he wished
to speak to the landlady.  The maid gave him
a scared look and said she would ask her to step up.

Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and,
closing the door, stood with her back to it.  She
gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to pick
up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.

"I've returned rather unexpectedly on business,"
Rupert said, speaking jerkily.

"Yes, sir.  I hope—there ain't no serious
trouble, sir?"

Rupert forced a laugh.  "Trouble?  Why—by
the way, are there any letters for me?"

Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after
a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which
she straightened out and handed to Rupert.

"Miss Strode left that for you the day she went
away, sir.  And she put them flowers in that vase
on the bureau.  I said as how they wouldn't live
until you came back.  But, there, it was her fancy
to have them while you were away, and I was to
leave them there."

Rupert nodded.  He turned the envelope over,
broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it
into his pocket.

"No other letters?" he asked sharply.

The landlady looked over the top of his head,
and picking up her apron commenced to twist the
corners nervously.

"A gentleman called to see you this afternoon,
sir, and not knowing you was returning I told him
you had gone away and weren't expected.  He
said you were probably coming up to London—I
didn't take no notice of that.  He wouldn't give
his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see you."

Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton.
Turning his back on Mrs. Jones he took out his
key intending to open the bureau.  To his surprise
he found it was unlocked.  The landlady continued
to twist her apron, watching him surreptitiously.

"There are no other letters for me?" he repeated.

"Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there
were some letters—and Miss Strode, after you was
gone, I think she paid some bills for you.  At least,
so I understood her to say.  But two gentlemen
have been here since you arrived this evening——"

She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary
hairpin from the floor.

Rupert swung round.  He waited for her to continue.

"Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them,
sir—but, I couldn't help myself."

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Jones hesitated.  She was washing her hands
in her apron now, and she sniffed suspiciously once
or twice as if tears threatened.

"Speak out—speak plainly, for goodness' sake!"
Rupert cried fiercely.  "What did these men come
for?  Who were they?"

"Scotland Yard, sir.  In order to search the
rooms."  She raised her apron to her eyes and
commenced to sob.  "Such a thing ain't never
happened to me before, sir, never since my poor
husband died and I was forced to take in lodgers.
I told them what I thought of them, but it weren't
no good, sir.  They had a warrant, or whatever
it's called....  And they took your letters, sir.  What
right had they to them, I'd like to know."

"It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly.
"It's a mistake."

"I know that, sir.  But it ain't pleasant to have a
thing like that happen in one's own house.  Police
officers they were, sir....  I told them you was a
perfectly respectable gentleman....  You'd paid
your bills, as they could see——"

"That will do," Rupert interrupted.  "Did they
take anything else out of my rooms?"

Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes with her apron.  "I
don't think so, sir.  I had a look round after they'd
gone.  The race card you'd left and which I'd put
on the blotting-pad was missing; and they took
the blotting-pad, too, the robbers.  I'd just filled
it up with fresh blotting-paper the very day before
you left, as you may remember."

"Yes, I remember."  Again Rupert laughed.
"You needn't worry, Mrs. Jones.  It's a mistake
and it will be put right to-morrow.  That'll do,
you can go now."

The landlady hesitated, fingering the door-handle.
"No one knows but me, sir.  Fortunately, I
answered the door myself, so my servant, she don't
know.  People will talk, so——"

"I quite understand.  But there will be nothing
to talk about.  Good-night."

"Good-night, sir.  Anything I can do I'm
sure——"  The door closed on the remainder of the
sentence.

Rupert waited until her footsteps had died
away.  He opened the bureau and searched.  A
few papers were missing, some notes he had made
of his examination, and one or two unimportant
letters.  As far as he could remember that was all,
with the exception of the letters which had arrived
during his absence and the bills Ruby had paid.
It was lucky they had found and taken the race card.

He took Ruby's letter from his pocket and
opened it:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"DARLING,—

.. vspace:: 1

"In case you return before we meet again,
this is just to greet you and to tell you I have
paid all the bills I could find, and put a hundred
and fifty pounds to your credit in the bank.  It
is just possible that I may go away for a little
holiday, as I have been feeling rather seedy,
lately, and the management say that if I give
them a doctor's certificate I can take a rest.  So
don't worry if you return and find me flown.
I won't write to Devonshire as you told me it
would be better not to.  Guard yourself for my
sake.  I love you better than anything else in
the world.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Always yours,
    "RUBY."

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau.
I'm afraid they'll die before you see them, but
they are my thoughts, which will always be in
this room with you."

.. vspace:: 2

He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their
heads.  Bending down he pressed the letter to his
lips.  Then slowly and deliberately he tore it up,
threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them
burn.  Drawing a chair forward he sat down and
stretched out his hands to the glowing coal.  They
were icy cold.  He was shivering.

It was obvious that the police suspected him
of having altered Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque.
Their suspicions must have been pretty strong.
They must have found some evidence in order to
obtain a warrant to search his rooms.

Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest.
He smiled grimly.  But suddenly the expression
on his face changed.

If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire
it would break his father's heart, ruin his
sister's life.

He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending
to go out at once and find Sir Reginald.  The
clock struck the hour—eleven.  It was too late
to see him now.  Besides, he did not know for certain
that the police suspected him!

They had some letters, the contents of which
he did not know.  Receipts for the bills Ruby
had paid.

It was quite possible they might suspect her.
He threw his hat aside and examined the bureau again.

Why had the police taken the blotting-pad?
He could not remember having written any letters
on the day of the race.  Yet the blotting-pad must
have contained evidence of some sort or the police
would not have taken it.  If the cheque had been
altered in his rooms and blotted on that pad——

His body broke out into a sweat.  He dropped
back into the chair and sat gazing into the fire.

His suspicions would no longer be stifled.  He
still fought them, but it was useless.  He reasoned
with himself, he argued with himself.  But the
more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions
take root.

Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all.
She had told a lie to save his life!

And, having saved his life, she had had to find
the money which, she told him, they had won, and
without which he had confessed he dared not face
life.

How had she obtained that money?

He heard the question answered again and again,
but he dared not listen.  He put his hands over his
ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony.

To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself.  She
could not have known what she was doing.  She
must have been mad at the time....  As mad as he
when he had taken his revolver and placed it over
his heart intending self-destruction.

Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed.  The
sun was commencing to rise before he slept.  For
sleep only came when he had made up his mind
what he would do when a few hours later he met
Sir Reginald Crichton.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ARRESTED`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium

   ARRESTED.

.. vspace:: 2

Rupert awoke with a start.  Some one had
been knocking loudly at his door.  He
turned slowly round, then sat upright.  The
little maid had drawn back the curtains and pulled
up the blind with a noisy jerk.

"It's past nine o'clock, sir.  You slept that
sound I began to grow scared—though I wouldn't
have woke you but for Mrs. Jones—she's got one
of her nasty moods on this morning; she says
she can't have breakfast kept about the whole
morning.  Shall I turn the bath water on for you, sir?"

"Yes, I shan't be five minutes," Rupert replied.
"She can start cooking the breakfast at once."

Directly the door closed he jumped out of bed,
and slipping on his dressing-gown commenced to
shave.  Every now and then as he lathered his face
he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
The action was unconscious, yet, whenever he
caught himself doing it he was filled with a vague
sense of uneasiness.  On his way to the bathroom
he glanced at the breakfast-table to see if there
were any letters for him.  He half expected one
from Sir Reginald.  But there was only a postcard.

As he saw and recognised the writing he picked
it up eagerly.  It was from Ruby.  The postmark
was Paris, dated the previous morning.  He turned
it over, but for a few seconds the writing was blurred
by the mist which rose before his eyes.  He
experienced a sudden, blessed sense of relief.  The
horror which had haunted him all night went away.
He read the address at the top of the card—"Hotel
de Tournon."  He knew it, a little place in the Latin
Quarter patronised by artists and students.

Had she been guilty she would never have written
to him nor let him know where she was hiding.

The postcard meant that she was not hiding,
that she had not run away.  He knew that she
was safe.

For the moment nothing else mattered.  Not
even the danger which threatened him, the possibility
of his arrest, the shame it would cast on his
father and sister.

The maid came into the room carrying the
breakfast-tray, so he took the card to the bathroom,
and, locking the door, read it there:

.. vspace:: 2

"I arrived here about a week ago.  Thought
I'd let you know where I was in case you
returned to town; but I'm moving on to-morrow, so
if you get this write by return.  Tell me how
you are and if everything is going on satisfactorily.
I'm anxious to know.  On hearing, I'll send you
my next address."

.. vspace:: 2

She did not sign her name or her initials.

Slowly, the feeling of relief Rupert had experienced
faded away.  He read the card again as soon as he
was seated at the breakfast-table.  Her anxiety
to know that all was well with him and progressing
satisfactorily, caused fear to return.  He told
himself angrily that he was a fool, he knew his
suspicions were groundless.  Of course, she would not
have written at all, not even on a postcard, if she
had been in any way connected with the altered cheque.

She would really have run away and hidden
where no one could find her.

And yet....  When men stole or robbed or murdered
or committed any crime, they nearly always
did so in the belief that their crime would remain
undetected and they would escape.  In this case
she would be the last person anyone would suspect.
No one connected with the affair knew of their
friendship or of the relations which existed between
them.  Neither the Crichtons nor his father had
ever heard of her.

There was a knock on the sitting-room door,
and Rupert started and hastily hid the postcard
in his pocket.  It was only the landlady to ask if
he had everything he required and to take any
orders he might have to give her for luncheon
or dinner.

"I shall be out all day," he replied, trying to
speak in his normal voice.

"Will you be staying another night or two, or
will you be returning to Devonshire at once, sir?"
she asked.

"I expect I shall go back to-morrow."

Even as he spoke he had a curious feeling that
he would not return home next day.  Some dreadful
sub-conscious instinct warned him that he would
not return home for a long time.

Directly the landlady had gone he looked at
the postcard again, then with unsteady hands
tore it up and put it into the fire.  Under
normal conditions, lover-like, he would have
kept it.

In every little thing he did now he seemed to have
some ulterior motive.  He found himself criticising
every action and every thought.

He sipped his tea—it was half cold.  He had been
seated at the table for ten minutes without realising
the flight of time.  The bacon lay untouched on
his plate.  He nibbled a piece of bread, then lay
back in his chair staring across the room—at
nothing.

The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the
hour—half-past ten.  It was time he started to call on
Sir Reginald Crichton.  But he did not move.
During the night, during the long hours of
darkness, he had made up his mind that the woman
he loved was guilty of the crime of which
obviously he was already suspected.  And he had
made up his mind what course of action he would
pursue.

But by the cold, clear light of day he began
to reason again, once more to argue with himself.

In imagination he saw two figures standing by
his side; one on the right, the other on the left.
Duty and Love.

His duty was to tell the whole truth.  To clear
himself from any possible shadow of guilt.  That was
his duty, because his life was not his own any more
than his name.  Both, in a sense, belonged to his
father and sister.

And his sister was loved by the son of the man
he was suspected of robbing.  But Love, on his
left hand, told him that at all costs he must shield
and save the woman who loved him.  If she had
done this terrible thing, she had done it on the
inspiration of the moment; love and fear had made
her do it.  She had found him seated in this very
room determined to take his life.  She had entered
at the critical moment.  And when she had tried
to show him his folly and sin, he had told her,
calmly and quietly, that nothing could alter his
determination.  He had told her he was not
only thinking of himself, but of his father and
Marjorie.

And that was why she had done this thing ... To
save him and those he loved.  She had not
considered herself at all.  It was not just because she
loved him and wanted to keep him.  He remembered
everything she had said to him and he had said to
her in this little room a week ago.

He put his hands up to his face.  They were wet
and clammy now.

Love and Duty.

He heard the front door bell ring.  He started
to his feet, his nerve had gone.  Again the clock
chimed the hour—eleven.  Sir Reginald Crichton
would be waiting for him.

He turned towards the bedroom, then stopped.
There was a hurried knock on the door and the
landlady entered.  He noticed that her face
looked white, her large, coarse hands were clasped
together.

"There are two—two gentlemen to see you,
sir.  I didn't know what to say.  I told them
to wait while I saw if you was at home or not."

Rupert pulled himself together.  He looked at
Mrs. Jones and smiled.  "I haven't finished my
breakfast yet.  Tell them to come up."

As he spoke the men entered the room.  Rupert
looked at them, and he knew who they were and
why they had come.

There was a moment's silence.  He glanced at
Mrs. Jones and smiled again.

"You can go."

Very slowly she stepped back.

"I hope nothing's wrong," she stammered.
"I'm sure the young gentleman's done
nothing—nothing to be ashamed of——"

"That's all right, Mrs. Jones....  Shut the door,
please."

He sat down again and sipped some tea.  Then
he told the men to be seated.  One stepped forward.
From the breast-pocket of his tunic he took out a
slip of paper and unfolded it.

"You are Rupert Allen Dale?"

"Yes.  You have a warrant——"  He checked himself.

The man said something else which he did not
hear.  There was a buzzing in his ears.  The
imaginary figures on either side of his chair had grown
to an enormous size.  They seemed to be hemming
him in.  He felt stifled.

Now the man was reading.  Reading the warrant
for Rupert Allen Dale's arrest.  He caught words
here and there.

"That's all right," he said when the officer
had finished.  "But it's a mistake.  I'm not guilty."

Again the man repeated automatically the official
warning.  Rupert glanced round the room.  His
eyes stopped at the vase of faded flowers, the red
roses which Ruby had left for him....  Her thoughts,
which she said would always be with him,
surrounding him—in the little room where they had
first known one another; known and loved one
another.

Again a mist rose before his eyes.  He set
his teeth, telling himself that he must play
the man.

For he had made up his mind what he was
going to do, and there was nothing for it now
but to do it.  To do what he felt was right.
Or, right or wrong, to do what heart and head
prompted.

"Do you mind if I finish my breakfast?" he said
steadily.

The officer glanced at his watch.  "I can give
you five minutes."

Rupert made a pretence of eating.  He managed
to swallow a little food.  He felt he wanted to
remain in this room just a few minutes more.  Just
a common lodging-house room, that was all, but
it seemed now as if the greater part of his life had
been passed here.

Here he had worked; here he had really lived,
learnt just a little of the meaning of life.  Here love
had come to him for the first time.  It was just
as much or even more his home than Blackthorn
Farm had been.  He swept it with his eyes.  But
he did not see the common cloth nor the lodging-house
breakfast service, the framed text on the
wall "Home, Sweet Home," the cheap etching
of one of Landseer's pictures, or the coloured print
from the Christmas number of the *Illustrated London
News*.  He did not see the hideous wallpaper with
its green and gold pattern which had long irritated
him, nor the well-worn Early-Victorian furniture.
He only saw the Ghost of the Things that Had Been.
The photograph of Ruby on the bureau, the vase
of dead roses, and through the windows one of
the turrets of Westminster Abbey.

The officer cleared his throat.  "I'm afraid——"

Rupert rose instantly.  "Will you call a cab?"

Then, to his own surprise, as much as to the
surprise of the two men waiting, he laughed.  For,
suddenly, the vision of an old four-wheeled cab,
a policeman on the box next the driver, and inside
a man sitting very close to a plain-clothes officer,
rose before his eyes.  He had seen this four-wheeled
cab and its occupants on Westminster Bridge the
day he and Ruby went to the races.

And they had both laughed then at some foolish
joke he had made.

And so he laughed again now.  "Get a taxi-cab,
if you can," he said.

He put on his hat and coat, drew on a pair of
gloves.  Then, not out of bravado, but prompted
by a sentimental whim, perhaps, he drew one of
the roses from the vase and placed it in his button-hole.

"I'm ready," he said.  "I don't suppose you'll
want to—to handcuff me?"

The officer put his hand on his arm.  "I don't
think it will be necessary, sir."

They walked downstairs together side by side.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PROPOSAL`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium

   A PROPOSAL.

.. vspace:: 2

The news of his son's arrest did not reach
John Dale at once.  Though Rupert could
have written or wired to him he naturally
refrained from doing so.  The longer his father and
sister remained in ignorance of the crime of which
he was accused, the better!

Bad news spreads quickly enough, and he wanted
Ruby to remain in ignorance, too.  It was fortunate
he had burnt her postcard as quickly as he did.
He had not answered it, and unless she wrote again
when she left Paris he would not know her address.

It was from the lips of Sir Reginald Crichton's
son that John Dale eventually learnt of Rupert's
arrest.  In Crichton's mind there was little doubt
but that Rupert was guilty of altering the cheque,
and he pitied the proud old farmer from the bottom
of his heart.

For Sir Reginald also had an only son, one in
whom all his hopes were centred; he could enter into
John Dale's feelings and he knew how this blow
would strike him.  So he wrote to his son Jim,
who was, fortunately, at Post Bridge Hall on leave,
and asked him to break the news as best he could.
Though father and son had no secrets from one
another, Jim had not yet told his father of his love for
Marjorie Dale.  He himself knew there were many
reasons against a definite announcement of their
engagement.  He was still young; needless to say,
he could not live on his pay, and though his father
made him an allowance it barely covered his
expenses.  Flying was an expensive game, and, like
all men attached to the Royal Flying Corps, Jim's
energy and keenness knew no bounds.  He was
always experimenting, trying new engines, building
new machines—giving the benefit of his experience
to his corps and to his country.

And there was Marjorie's side of the question
and her point of view to be considered.  Being
both so young, having both been brought up in
natural healthy surroundings, it was impossible for
them to hide their feelings from one another, and
before he was aware of it, Jim had confessed his
love and read a corresponding confession in Marjorie's eyes.

It was not until afterwards, when quietly and
soberly he thought out their position and considered
the question of their marriage, that he realised
love was all in all to a woman, but to him, while
he had his profession, it would only be part of
his life.  And that at present his life was not his
own.  Not only did it belong to his country, but he
risked it almost daily.  For that reason alone he
felt he could not tie Marjorie down to a formal
engagement.

Sir Reginald Crichton little knew the effect his
letter, telling his son all about the altered cheque
and Rupert Dale's arrest, would have on him.  Had
he guessed he might not have written it.

He asked him to break the news to poor old John
Dale, to tell him that he, Sir Reginald, was seeing
his son had the best legal advice that could be
obtained, and to advise Dale to come up to London
immediately.

It was with a heavy heart that Jim Crichton
walked over to Blackthorn Farm early in the morning
after he received Sir Reginald's letter.  It was
not an easy or a pleasant job to tell another man's
father that his only son had been arrested on a
criminal charge.  He was rather annoyed with his
father for not writing direct to Dale.  For, after all,
he could only blurt the news out in a way that might
hurt more than if it had been conveyed by letter.

Youth must always be a little egotistical and a
little selfish, and what troubled Jim most of all
was the shock the news would give to the woman
he loved—and the effect it might have on their
love and their future life.

If Rupert Dale were guilty!  Jim Crichton
was a soldier, and so could not help being a little
conventional and having more respect sometimes
for the opinion of others than his own opinion.
He had to consider what the world thought and
said.  He knew he would have to consider his own
position as well as his father's.  And he knew as
he walked along the banks of the purling Dart in
which Rupert and he had often fished together as
boys, that before seeing Marjorie and telling her,
he would have to make up his mind as to the position
he would take up in this wretched affair—if her
brother were found guilty.  He knew it meant that
the Dales would be ruined, probably financially
as well as socially.

In the West country a social sin is never
forgiven, never forgotten.  They would have to leave
Devonshire and go far away.  And he might never
see Marjorie again.

He halted, sat down on a giant boulder, and looked
across the bleak moorland to Blackthorn Farm
not a quarter of a mile away.  At that moment he
realised for the first time how deeply he loved
Marjorie Dale.

Better than anyone else in the world; more than
anyone else in the world.  She even came before
his profession.

It was with a shock he discovered this.  But he
had to confess it to himself.

He could not give her up.  Not even though her
brother were convicted of being a criminal and
sent to prison.

It was a glorious summer day.  The sun was rising
in a cloudless blue sky.  A gentle wind brought
the scent of gorse.  Here and there streaks of
purple showed in red heather where it had burst
into bloom.  Now and then a trout leapt with a noisy
splash in the pool at his feet.

A long time James Crichton sat on the granite
boulder lost in thought, trying to look at the thing
from every point of view, arguing and reasoning
with himself.  No matter what happened, he could
not give up Marjorie.  If he had only considered
his own feelings, it might have been possible, even
though it meant a broken heart.  But she loved
him.  He belonged to her; she looked to him
for her future life and happiness.  She had done
no wrong.  Why should she, he asked himself,
suffer for her brother's sin?

He could save her, even though it meant humbling
himself, even though it meant giving up the
profession he loved.

He knew the decision to which he had come
would hurt his father terribly; but if it came to a
choice between him and Marjorie, he knew he
should choose the woman who was destined to be
his mate; the girl, the whole of whose life lay
before her, rather than the man, his own father
whose life had been lived.

It was a terrible choice, perhaps a strange one.
But Jim instinctively felt he was right.

So deep was his reverie that he did not hear a
light step on the grassy ground.  A hand was laid
on his shoulder and he started, looked up, and
found Marjorie smiling into his face.

"My dear!" he cried, jumping to his feet.  "My
dearest!"

He took her in his arms with a passion she had
never felt before and held her so fiercely that she
would have cried out with the pain had she not
loved him as she did.

"Jim....  You frightened me—and I thought
to frighten you," she panted when he released
her.  "You don't know how strong you are."  She
glanced at him, her cheeks scarlet, the love
and dawn of passion swimming in her eyes.  She
wore no hat and her hair shone in the golden
sunshine.  Her neck and arms were bare, and her
short, workman-like skirt showed her tiny, well-bred
ankles and long, narrow feet.  Jim looked at her
silently, hungrily.

Slowly her colour fled and she came close to
him again, holding out her hands.  "Is anything
wrong?"

Without replying he put his arm around her
and led her away towards Blackthorn Farm.

Some one lounging on Post Bridge might see them.
A labourer in the fields, or a farmer on the hills,
who would carry the news back to his cottage at
night that he had seen the young master of Post
Bridge Hall making love to old John Dale's daughter.
But he did not care—now.  Every one should soon
know that they loved and that Marjorie was to be
his affianced wife.

He told her as gently as he could what had
happened.  Of course, he made as light of it as
possible, assuring her that Rupert would be released
and the affair cleared up satisfactorily.

"That's why the guv'nor wrote to me instead
of your father and asked me to tell him and see him
off to London.  He was afraid if he wrote Mr. Dale
would put the worst construction possible on the
affair.  It's quite a common thing for a man to be
arrested by mistake on some scraps of evidence
the police get hold of....  Don't you worry,
Marjorie.  You've got to leave all the worrying to
me in future."

She tried to smile and press his hand, but the
happiness had left her eyes and her face was very
pale now.  "I'm frightened," she whispered.  "I
can't help it, Jim—if father goes to London I must
go with him."

But James Crichton shook his head.  "That's
just what you mustn't do.  That friend of Rupert's
I saw the other day will see him safely up to town.
Despard was his name, wasn't it?  I suppose he's
still here?"

Marjorie nodded.  "Yes.  He and Rupert had
made some discovery in the old tin-mine.  They
were awfully excited about it."  She tried to laugh.
"They were going to find radium and make a
fortune, I believe.  I heard them say something about
it....  Oh, Jim, we were so happy and everything
seemed to be turning out so well.  And now this has
happened.  Rupert—it can't be true.  Of course,
I know it isn't true.  It will kill father."

Jim forced himself to laugh.  "My dear, we
shall have him back here within a week.  You mustn't
think anything more about it.  There's something
else I want to tell you.  I'm going to announce
our engagement—at once."

She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, almost
as if she could not understand.  Then she shook
her head.

"Not now, Jim.  We must wait until—until
Rupert's free; this charge against him disproved."

He shook his head, and, stopping, held her in his
arms again.  "Darling, if by any chance the worst
should happen, it would make no difference to our
love!  Nothing would force me to give you up.
That's why I'm going to announce our engagement
now.  Now, while this thing is hanging over our heads."

Again she would have protested, but he silenced
her.  "I've made up my mind, nothing can change it."

Holding her hand he led her forward and opened
the gate that led into the farmhouse garden.  As
they entered they saw Despard lounging in a chair
on the lawn reading the morning newspaper, a pipe
between his lips.  He glanced up as they entered,
smiled at Marjorie, and without taking the pipe
from his lips, or rising, gave Jim Crichton a curt nod.

"Bounder!" was the latter's silent ejaculation.
But he saw old John Dale standing in the doorway,
so, giving Marjorie's hand a gentle pressure, he
left her.

Telling Mr. Dale he had something to say to him
in private he entered the dining-room.

"You bring me bad news of my son," Dale said
quietly.  "I know it."

"How did you?" Jim asked, off his guard.
"Surely it hasn't got into the local papers."

Dale stepped forward instantly, then, gripping
the back of his chair, sat down.  "So, it's true,"
he said in a broken voice.  "It's true."  He gave
a mirthless laugh.  Jim tried to speak, but the words
refused to come.  He would have done anything
to spare the father of the girl he loved.  He would
have borrowed the money from his father, hushed
the affair up, and repaid the bank.  He would have
done anything.

"It's true he has been arrested," Jim said after
he had given the old man time to recover himself.
"But I'm quite sure he will be able to prove his
innocence.  I know my father thinks so, too.
Indeed, he himself is employing the best legal advice
he can obtain, and will see he is given every chance
of defending himself.  We want you to come up
to town, if you will, sir, and, if possible, to catch
the train to-day."  He glanced at the grandfather
clock in a corner of the room.  "There is one that
leaves Newton Abbot about two-thirty, I think.
I can motor you in.  I am sure Mr. Despard will
accompany you."

John Dale shook his head slowly to and fro.
"Yes, I must go up.  I must see him," he whispered.
He rose to his feet and held out his hand.  "You're
too good, Mr. James.  I'm afraid—I'm afraid——"

"You needn't be," Jim interrupted quickly.
"Rupert's innocent, I'll swear.  Anyway, we'll
see to him and see that justice is done."

"Yes; that's so.  Justice must be done at all
costs."  John Dale raised his head and looked
proudly at Sir Reginald Crichton's son.

The latter took his hand and shook it warmly.
"Then I'll be round with the motor in about an
hour's time.  Perhaps you'll warn Mr. Despard
that you want him to go with you.  Anyway, under
the circumstances, he could not be left here alone
with your daughter, could he?"

He walked to the door, then stopped.  "There's
something else I would like to say, sir, though it
may not seem quite the moment.  I love your
daughter Marjorie: I hope to make her my wife.
With your permission I should like to announce
our engagement at once."

It was a long time before Dale replied.  "That's
impossible now.  But I thank you, Mr. Crichton....
It is just the sort of thing I—I would have
expected—from Sir Reginald's son."

The old man broke down then, and Jim saw
tears coursing down the lined and furrowed cheeks.
He bit his lip.  "It is not impossible, sir.  I want
to announce the engagement now; now, at this
moment, while this charge is hanging over your
son's head.  Do you think a thing like that would
make any difference to my love for your daughter?
It's at this moment she wants my love and
the protection of my name.  And she shall have it."

Without waiting for a reply he opened the door.
Dale stopped him.

"I ought to tell you," he said unsteadily, "that
last night Mr. Despard, Rupert's friend, made the
same request—told me he loved Marjorie and asked
for her hand."

"What did you say?"

"Of course, I refused," Dale replied.  "Why,
they've only known each other a few days.  But,
putting that aside, I'm afraid I dislike and distrust
the man.  I feel he's one of the men who has led my
son into bad ways."

He bent over the table and bowed his head between
his hands.  Again there was a long silence.

"You have no objection to me as a son-in-law,
Mr. Dale?"

"Surely that question needs no answer—but,
please say no more now.  Leave me, Mr. James."

Quietly closing the door behind him Jim walked
out of the house into the garden.  Taking no notice
of Mr. Despard, he drew Marjorie aside and told
her what had happened.

"I am driving your father—and Mr. Despard—to
Newton Abbot in about an hour's time.  When
I come back we'll have a little run in the car—tea
together at Moretonhampstead, perhaps.  Or, better
still, we'll go over to Hey Tor and have a picnic
on our own.  Cheer up, darling, all will be well,
I know."

Bending down, he kissed her in full view of Robert
Despard.  The latter scrunched the *Western Morning
News* up between his hands with an oath.

Waving a farewell to Marjorie, Jim swung through
the gate and hurried across the moorlands towards
Post Bridge Hall.

An hour later he was driving both John Dale
and Mr. Robert Despard to Newton Abbot
junction.  And he could not help feeling some
satisfaction when the train carried the latter gentleman
away from Devonshire back to London.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN SUSPENSE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium

   IN SUSPENSE.

.. vspace:: 2

It was Saturday.  A week had passed since
Rupert's arrest, since he had left the little
rooms at Westminster and been driven to
the police court.  It all seemed to him like a vivid
dream, in which he played a passive but unwilling
part.

He had seen no one but the prison chaplain since
that dreadful day at the Westminster Police Court.
The long wait in a bare cell, the sudden hurrying
through dark passages, the Court, with the hum
of conversation suddenly stifled—and then he found
himself standing in the dock and felt rather than
saw that every eye was fixed on him.

He had pleaded "Not guilty," in a voice he
scarcely recognised as his own.  Shame covered
him as with a cold mist.  He was committed for
trial, but bail was offered him, two sureties of £500
each.  He had shaken his head as he gulped down
the lump in his throat that prevented him speaking.
Who would stand bail for him?

He began to realise that he had not a friend;
many acquaintances—many pals, yes—but not one
friend!

A tear dropped on the open book on his
knees—"Barnaby Rudge"—that the chaplain had brought
him.  He had just finished chapter sixty-two,
and the tale of Rudge's prison had strangely softened
his troubles.  But the uppermost thought in his
mind was the woman he loved!

Ruby!  Again he felt that icy grip at his heart.
How often had he reasoned it all out and fought
against the suspicion that at last had become a
certainty.

Why had she not been to see him?  Why had
she sent no word, not even a message?

What a coward he had been.  The pistol that he
held to his own breast had really been pointed at
her heart.  She had committed this great crime
to save him from a greater.

A crime of murder, for in taking his own life
did he not end hers, too?  And now it was up to
him to play the man and pay the price of his own
sins.  He began to pace the narrow cell.

The key turned in the lock, the cell door
opened, and a warder curtly ordered Rupert to
follow him.  A second warder walked behind, and,
after descending a flight of stairs, he stopped
before a door which he opened and motioned
Rupert to enter, and at once closed the door
from outside.

Rupert found himself in a small, bare room, in
the centre of which a table covered with a green,
ink-stained cloth and half a dozen wooden chairs
were the only furniture.  Seated at the table was
an elderly man with a closely-trimmed beard, while,
standing with his back to the fireplace, was a younger
man, whose clean-shaven face and clear-cut features
at once arrested Rupert's attention.  The man at
the table rose and bowed.

"Mr. Dale, I believe!  This is Mr. Marshall, who
has undertaken your defence.  Please be seated!"

Rupert obeyed automatically.  He was too
surprised to speak, and the man, obviously a lawyer,
continued:

"I must explain to you that I represent
Messrs. Redway, Wales & Redway, Sir Richard Crichton's
solicitors, who have been instructed by him to
arrange for your defence.  Mr. Marshall has kindly
accepted the brief and will defend you.  Now,
Mr. Dale, I want you to tell us all you know about
this unfortunate occurrence.  You must understand
that whatever you tell us will be treated as
strictly confidential, and it is absolutely necessary
that you are perfectly frank with us.  Mr. Marshall
will tell you that to conceal anything from us will
greatly prejudice your case—in fact, it might ruin
your defence."

Mr. Marshall murmured "Quite so! quite so!"
and began to examine the toes of his boots.

"I have nothing to conceal," said Rupert.  "I
intend to plead guilty; I have no desire to be
defended—I am quite prepared to pay the penalty
of my folly."

Mr. Marshall coughed.

"That's frank; that's very frank," Mr. Redway
exclaimed.  "But, my dear young sir, you must
allow us to judge the way you should plead.  Now,
I have here a statement of the case as far as we've
been able to obtain it from the proceedings in the
police court, and the statements made by the
witnesses for the prosecution.  What we now
require are the exact circumstances under which
you—er—altered the amount on the cheque and
exactly how you proceeded to cash it.  Will you
kindly tell us in the first place what caused you to
be in want of this large sum?"

"I was in debt.  I had been betting, and living
beyond my means."

"Just so," said Mr. Redway; "and so you altered
the cheque under the pressure of debt—to avoid
ruin, in fact?"

Rupert nodded.

"Will you kindly tell us to whom you gave the
cheque in the first instance with a view of getting
it cashed?"

"What's the use of all this?  I have admitted
the crime, and I do not wish to make any
further statement."  Rupert spoke with sudden
irritation.

"Now, look here, Mr. Dale—Excuse me,
Mr. Redway!" Mr. Marshall interrupted—"I have done
an unusual thing in coming here to-day, and I have
done it entirely in your interests, to enable me to
get a personal insight into this case, which possibly
I could not get from my brief alone.  The least you
can do in return is to answer the questions asked
you, and give us as much information as you are
able.  You must understand that unless I am fully
acquainted with the details of your actions in this
matter, it will be impossible for me to meet and
reply to the evidence which the prosecution will
bring against you."

Rupert bit his lip, and, after a few moments'
silence, he looked straight into the barrister's eyes:
"I am extremely sorry to put difficulties in your
way, and I fully appreciate Sir Reginald's kindness
in arranging for my defence.  Believe me, I am
very grateful to him and to you both; but there
are circumstances which render it impossible for
me to give you any information regarding the
cheque or its subsequent disposal.  I hope you will
not press me further in the matter."

Redway, who was fidgeting with the papers,
looked at Mr. Marshall with raised eyebrows, and
the barrister nodded to him as though he understood.

Redway cleared his throat: "We quite understand,
Mr. Dale, and your scruples do you honour;
but you must remember that in trying to shield
your accomplice by refusing to confide in us, you
are not only spoiling your own case, but very possibly
endangering your friend.  Come, now, be reasonable.
We must know who gave the cheque, or rather
the note containing the cheque, to the messenger-boy."

Rupert looked up, and the surprise he felt must
have been clearly reflected on his face, for
Mr. Redway exclaimed: "You don't mean to say
that it was you who gave the note to the
messenger?"

There was a long silence before the lawyer spoke
again.  "Will you, then, give us Miss Strode's
present address?  This is really most important,
as she has completely disappeared and left no trace,
although the police have been searching for her for
the past week."

Rupert's heart gave a great bound.  Then she
was still safe!  "I can answer that question, at
least.  I don't know where she is, and have heard
nothing of her since I was arrested."  Then, after
a moment's hesitation: "I suppose she is utterly
disgusted with my crime, and wishes to avoid
having her name in any way connected with mine!"

Redway rose and touched the bell on the table.
"I am sorry you can give us so little help.  I shall
see you again before the trial, when I hope you will
see your way to place a little more confidence in
us, otherwise I fear your defence will suffer
gravely."

The door opened, and the warder escorted Rupert
back to his cell.  As he reached it, he handed him
a letter.

The door slammed, and the retreating steps of
the warder echoed down the stone-flagged passage.

Rupert glanced at the envelope in his hand, and
started as he recognised his father's writing.  He
sat on the wooden bunk and slowly opened it.  The
envelope fell to the floor and lay there.  He
noticed that the post-mark was London, not
Princetown.

For a moment Dartmoor and the great convict
prisons rose before his eyes, and he shuddered at
the bare possibility of his being sent there.  He
began to read the letter:

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR BOY,—I hardly know how to write
these few lines.  I have had a great struggle, and
from my heart tried to believe you innocent—for
how could my son commit this horrible crime?  Sir
Reginald has been more than kind.  He asked me
plainly if I believed you did this thing, and I looked
him in the face and said '*No*!  It is impossible!
He is a true gentleman!'  He shook my hand and
said: 'Neither do I; and what's more, I'll see
he has a fair trial.'  He has written to his lawyers
and they are to help you, and he has brought me
up to London, and I hope to see you to-morrow.
For God's sake, my dear boy, clear yourself and our
good name!  For my sake, and your sister's, help
the lawyers to find the man who has put this awful
burden upon us.  Find him, Rupert, and hunt him
down, for unless you do my heart is broken, and
I fear ruin faces us—all three.  God help you clear
our name.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Your affectionate father,
    "JOHN DALE."

.. vspace:: 2

The letter fluttered to the floor beside the envelope
and Rupert threw himself on the hard bunk and
sobbed aloud.  Try as he would, great sobs shook
his frame.  All his resolutions were shattered by
this appeal.  How could he destroy his father, ruin
his sister, and bring desolation and unending shame
to his home?

What was he to do?  A word to Mr. Redway,
and his innocence would be quickly proved.  Nay,
he need only give a hint, and the lawyers would do
the rest.  He need not mention Ruby's name.

Blood was thicker than water, after all; if it
had only been himself to sacrifice he would have
been too ready to do so for Ruby's sake; but had
he any right to sacrifice his father and sister as
well?  The more he thought of it the more
convinced he became that he must save them at all
costs.

His eye fell upon the ink-pot on the wooden shelf.
As a prisoner awaiting trial he was allowed to send
and receive letters.

He found a sheet of paper and wrote to the lawyer.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TRIAL`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium

   THE TRIAL.

.. vspace:: 2

It was the second day of the trial.

The atmosphere of the Court was stifling,
and as the counsel for the prosecution sat
down a deep buzz of conversation and scuffling of
feet instantly succeeded the tense silence which had
been maintained during his speech.

The judge left the bench, and every one in Court
rose.  It was exactly ten minutes to five by the
clock over the door.  The counsel for the
prosecution had spoken for just twenty minutes.
The public struggled through the door, intent
upon tea.

"Poor devil, not much chance for him after that!"  "Oh,
he's guilty all right!  Did you notice the
jury's faces?"  "G'on! we ain't 'eard t' other
side yet."  "Did yer notice the bloomin' judge?
What I calls a 'anging face, 'e's got!"

The crowd elbowed and jostled its way into the
street, where the newsboys were shouting "Special
edition!  Great fraud case—full account."

The barristers were collecting their papers, and
Mr. Marshall touched John Dale on the shoulder:
"Come on, Mr. Dale, we will go and have a cup of
tea together at my own special tea-room.  It is
only just across the road!"

The old man had sat beside his son's counsel
throughout the long day, and as witness succeeded
witness and the chain of evidence grew stronger,
his face became sterner and sterner, and when the
eminent K.C., who represented the Crown, had
reviewed it, taking each link in turn and cleverly
wielding the whole into one perfect piece—there
seemed not a flaw in the chain of evidence against
the prisoner.  He was already condemned, and it
seemed to the old man that even he could no longer
believe in his innocence.

Mr. Marshall had watched the old man all day,
and his kindly heart had been touched by his loneliness
and obvious grief.  He felt it would be cruel to
let him go to his lonely lodgings without doing
something to counteract the effect, which the case
for the prosecution was bound to leave on the mind
of one who was totally ignorant of Law Court
methods.  So, after removing his wig and gown, he
steered the old man across the crowded Strand into
the snug little tea-room.  When the pretty,
ribbon-bedecked Hebe had placed the pot of fragrant *bohé*
and plate of hot muffins between them, Mr. Marshall
spoke:

"Well, Mr. Dale, what do you think of the prosecution?"

The old man sipped his tea, and carefully put down
his cup before he replied: "I'm afraid it looks very
black for my poor boy.  I hardly know what to
think.  Do you know, sir, that last speech absolutely
shook my faith in Rupert's innocence; what, then,
must be its effect on the Judge!"

Mr. Marshall laughed heartily.  "Good gracious,
Mr. Dale, you must not take anything he
said seriously; and, besides, it is the jury,
not the Judge, that matters.  It will be my
turn to-morrow.  You have not heard the other
side yet."

The old man looked up quickly.  "Do you really
think there is still hope, sir?"

"Hope, Mr. Dale!  I am hoping to-morrow to
completely pulverise my learned friend, Mathews.
Why, bless me! he entirely ignored the fact that
the man who sent the cheque to the bank has not
yet been found, while the woman, Ruby Strode,
who actually received the money, is also not
forthcoming.  My dear sir, these two facts alone,
when—ahem!—skilfully handled, are quite enough to
damn the case for the prosecution!  Remember
this: In English law a man is innocent until he
has been proved guilty.  I admit there are many
very suspicious circumstances, which our learned
friend made the most of; but there has been no direct
evidence in proof adduced, and that is our strong
point.  The evidence to-day, however strong, was
purely circumstantial.  Mind, I do not say as things
stand at present that there is no danger of an adverse
verdict; but I do say that we have a good case.
I wish we could find that young woman.  I feel
certain that her evidence would go far to clear
your son."

"You have greatly relieved my mind," Dale
sighed, "for I was feeling very down about it; and
now I must be getting back to my rooms.  I wonder
if I can get a 'bus to Bloomsbury?"

"You are a stranger to London, and it would
be most unsafe for you to try to find your way by
'bus.  A taxi will only cost you a shilling.  Come
along, and I will see you safely off."

As the taxi drove off with John Dale, a boy
handed Mr. Marshall a telegram:

"The caretaker sent me across with this, sir, as
he thought it might be important."

Mr. Marshall nodded, and tore open the envelope.

.. vspace:: 2

"Miss Strode here now; can you come at once?
Very important.—REDWAY."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Marshall's face lit up with excitement.  The
solicitors were only in Chancery Lane, so he decided
to walk.  Just as he passed the Griffin he found
himself on the edge of a large crowd, and he had some
difficulty in forcing his way through; so he did not
notice that it was caused by an accident.  A taxi-cab
and a motor-bus had collided, and apparently
some one had been injured, for a police ambulance
was arriving.  When he got clear of the crowd he
hurried on, little thinking who it was being lifted
on to the ambulance.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

John Dale had never been in a taxi-cab before, and
when the kindly barrister had shaken his hand and
told the driver the address, he lay back with a
sigh of satisfaction on the luxurious cushions and
resigned himself to enjoy his first drive.  It was
marvellous to him how the cab managed to dodge
in and out of the heavy traffic; more than once
the driver stopped with a jerk that nearly sent
him off his seat, but he supposed this was the usual
experience in London.

Presently he saw a policeman ahead put up his
hand, but the driver dashed on across the front of
a big omnibus that was coming down at right angles
from another street.  In a moment there was a
crash, he felt himself hurled into space and knew
no more until he found himself lying in a strange
bed, and saw a white-capped woman bending over him.

"Are you feeling better now?" she asked.

His head was aching, and when he raised his
hand to it, he found it swathed in bandages:
he closed his eyes and asked what had happened.

"You must not talk, but just try and go
to sleep," the nurse said.  "You have met
with an accident, but you will soon be all right."

"Ah!  I remember now!  The taxi-cab.  Yes!"  And
again he closed his eyes, and the nurse stole
softly away.

It was late the next morning when he awoke to
find the doctor bending over him.

"Well!  You have had a good sleep," he said.
"How are you feeling now?"

"I am aching all over, but my head is better,
thank you.  Where am I?—and what time is it?"

"You are in Charing Cross Hospital, and it is
just half-past ten in the morning."

Suddenly he remembered.  This was the hour he
ought to have been in Court to see his son's honour
cleared.

"I must get up," he cried.  "I have an important
engagement, and am late already."

The doctor smiled.  "I am afraid that is impossible.
You have broken your leg, and it will be
several weeks before you will be able to walk
again."

He thought for a few moments, then asked if he
could send a telegram.  A form was brought him,
and with a trembling hand he wrote the message.

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The Court was packed from floor to ceiling when
Rupert entered the dock between two warders.  Not
only were most of his fellow students present, but
also a number of the chorus ladies from the Ingenue
Theatre, who were sprinkled among the crowd,
conspicuous by their bizarre hats and ultra-fashionable
costumes.  He at once noticed that his father
was not at the counsels' table, and wondered that
he should be late.  The jurymen were already in
their places, and immediately, on the judge taking
his seat, Mr. Marshall rose and opened the case for
the defence.

"My Lord and gentlemen of the jury—yesterday
you heard the case for the prosecution, and the
long chain of circumstantial evidence that all went
to show the guilt of the prisoner at the bar.  Had I
known yesterday the facts I am about to put before
you, I need scarcely say I should have interposed
at once, and so saved a wasted day.  We now have
a complete answer to the charge—the best answer
possible—the person who altered the cheque has
come forward at the eleventh hour and has made a
full confession."

A loud burst of conversation mingled with applause
greeted this dramatic announcement, and when the
ushers had secured silence the Judge spoke:

"If there is any repetition of this most improper
demonstration, I shall clear the Court."

Mr. Mathew was already on his feet.  "My Lord,
may I ask my learned friend if he proposes to put
in a written confession?"

Mr. Marshall signified assent.

"Then, m' Lord, I must object."

Mr. Marshall, who was still standing, replied at
once: "It is an affidavit, my Lord, and as such is
legal evidence."

"I object, m' Lord!" Mr. Mathew interposed.

"Will you state the grounds of your objection?"
the Judge said.

"Certainly, m' Lord; I am instructed that the
person who has executed the affidavit is merely an
accomplice of the prisoner at the bar, and their
relationship is such as to warrant the gravest doubts
of its genuine nature.  I am instructed, m' Lord,
not to accept this confession, and I must insist on
my right to cross-examine, if this affidavit is
put in."

"Are you prepared to call this witness, Mr. Marshall?"

"I am in your Lordship's hands; if your Lordship
rules that I cannot put in this affidavit without,
I have no alternative."

A buzz of conversation was instantly suppressed
by a loud cry of "Silence in Court!" from the
usher.

The Judge replied: "I so rule.  Let the witness
be called!"

"Ruby Strode!" Mr. Marshall said in a loud voice.

"Ruby Strode!" came the stentorious tones of
the usher.

Every eye was turned to the door by which
witnesses enter, and the strain of expectancy was
intensified by a second loud call, "Ruby Strode!"
followed a moment later by sounds of scuffling feet
and eager whispers, as a slight figure, wearing
a small toque, and thick veil, came through
the door, and quickly made her way to the
witness-box.

Rupert, who was clutching the rail in front of
him, was white to the lips; and the Judge, noticing
his condition, ordered a chair to be given him, and
he at once sank on to it gratefully.  He was stunned
by the course things had taken, for Mr. Marshall
had purposely kept the news of Ruby's return from
him, fearing the consequences.

Was this the reason his father was absent?  But
no! surely the joy at the proof of his innocence
would overcome any resentment he might feel at
his secret engagement.

He dared not meet Ruby's eyes—with every one
watching them so intently.  He was furious with his
counsel, and determined to prevent Ruby convicting
herself at all costs.  He drank in every word, and
his brain was busy endeavouring to see how he could
defeat her loving sacrifice, and prevent her confession
from being her ruin.  She had taken the oath,
given her name and calling, and was now listening
to the reading of her affidavit by Mr. Marshall.
When he had finished he handed it to the Judge,
and asked her a few questions, to which she replied
in monosyllables.

Presently he asked her: "Did you see Mr. Despard
that day?"

"Yes."

"Did he see the cheque in your hand?"

"I object, m' Lord!" said Mr. Mathews.

"I am not leading," replied Mr. Marshall.

"I submit it is a leading question, m' Lord, and,
further, that it is not evidence, unless my learned
friend intends to call Mr. Despard."

"Will you put your questions in another form,
Mr. Marshall?"

"Certainly, my Lord, though I had no intention
of leading at all.  Did you have anything in your
hand when Mr. Despard called?"

"Yes," said Ruby, "the cheque."

"Did he see it?"

"I object!"—from Mr. Mathews.

"Really, my Lord, I must protest at this continual
interruption," Mr. Marshall said.

The Judge interposed, and the question was put in
another form.

"Do you think he saw the cheque in your hand?"

"Yes, I feel sure he did."

Mr. Marshall at last finished, and Mr. Mathews
at once rose and cross-examined.  His questions
were very searching; he asked about her engagement
to Rupert, and she admitted with pride that she
loved him devotedly.

"Yes, she was deeply affected by his present
position—she knew he was innocent."

"Supposing he had been guilty—she would
willingly take his place?"

"Yes."

"There was no sacrifice too great to make for
him—her future husband?"

"None."

"She had come to-day with no other object than
to save him?"

"Yes," Ruby replied again.  "That is why I
made the affidavit now before the Court."

Then the counsel's manner, entirely changed, and
instead of leading her easily and pleasantly with
smiling questions that she had only to agree to
with an eager "Yes," he began to ask her questions
which she found it difficult to answer at all; and
presently he made her contradict herself.

"Now, please be careful, Miss Strode; you
distinctly told us just now that you wrote the note
to the bank asking them to give the money to the
messenger boy, and now you say that it was
written by the prisoner.  What are we to understand?"

Poor Ruby was by now thoroughly frightened,
and hardly knew what she was saying.  "I—I mean
Mr. Dale wrote it for us, and I sent it.  You see,
I did not want him to get into trouble!"

"Oh!  So you knew he would get into trouble if
he was found out?"

"Yes, of course—I mean—that is—Oh, dear, you
know he did not do it, and I swear I did it
all—all myself.  Oh, Rupert, Rupert, they won't
believe me after all!"  She burst into a storm
of tears.

Mr. Mathews sat down with a significant smile
at the jury, and Ruby was led sobbing out of Court.

"Robert Despard!"

He stepped into the box—dressed in a dark tweed
suit—cut in the newest fashion—the latest thing in
ties, and a blue velour hat in his hand.  He might
have stepped out of a tailor's fashion plate, which
accurately described his appearance as "Smart
Gents.  The latest!"

He looked round the Court quite at his ease, and
nodded to a friend whose eye he caught; but he
studiously avoided catching Rupert's.

He gave his evidence quietly, and without the
slightest hesitation.  He admitted visiting his
friend's rooms on the day of the races—he came
to condone with him on his loss over the big race.
Yes, he knew he was heavily involved.  He found
Miss Strode there alone; he spoke to her of the loss.
No, he did not remember her telling him she had
won over "Ambuscade."  He was certain of this.
Yes, he waited till Rupert came in.  He sat alone
in the room for a few moments after Miss Strode
had gone and before Rupert came in.

He did not notice anything in Miss Strode's hand.

"Did you notice a cheque or slip of paper—in
her hand?" Mr. Marshall asked.

"I must object to that, m' Lord," interrupted
Mr. Mathews.

"I submit the witness is hostile, m' Lord," replied
Mr. Marshall.

"I think Mr. Marshall is entitled to treat this
witness as hostile," the Judge said.  And
Mr. Marshall again put the question.

"No, I did not see a cheque or slip of paper in
her hand."

"Come, Mr. Despard, think again: did you not
remark to Miss Strode that it was a cheque for her
winnings?"

"I have no recollection of any such conversation,"
Despard replied curtly.

"Did you notice the blotter on the writing table,
Mr. Despard?"

"Yes."

"Was it much used?"

"No, it was perfectly clean."

"Will you swear that it had never been used?"

"No, I can't swear that; but I thought——"

Mr. Marshall broke in: "Never mind your
thoughts; what we want to know is that you will
not swear that the blotter was clean? ... Thank
you, that is all."

Mr. Marshall sat down.

Mr. Mathews with a smile asked two questions
only.  "You said that this blotting paper was
perfectly clean, but that you could not swear that
it had never been used?  Will you kindly tell us
why you noticed this pad at all, Mr. Despard?"

"I noticed it because the last time I saw it, it
was covered with ink—worn out, in fact—and I
naturally noticed the clean white sheet."

"And you feel sure it had not been used?"

"Yes—I feel sure I should have noticed it."

"Thank you; you can sit down!"  And Mr. Mathews
resumed his seat.

Other witnesses followed to prove that Rupert
was not the man who sent the note to the bank;
that the money was given to Miss Strode; that the
word "hundred" on the cheque was not his writing.
But here a difficulty arose, because Ruby had tried
to copy the writing on the cheque, so that it was
not recognisable as her writing either.

When the last witness had stepped down, Mr. Mathews
addressed the Court.  He pointed out that
Ruby was Rupert's sweetheart, that she herself
admitted, under cross-examination; that she had
made this confession to save her lover.

"While doubtless she had been his accomplice in
the crime, and as such received the money," he went
on to say, "the letter to the bank was in the
prisoner's own handwriting, and bore his signature.
This had been admitted by the defence, though they
gave a clumsy and wholly unbelievable explanation,
namely, that it referred to a bookmaker and a bet
that he had apparently never made!

"The evidence of their own witness, Despard,
was perhaps the strongest proof of the unreliability
of Miss Strode's statements.  He distinctly denies
seeing the cheque she states she had in her hand.
He says there was no mention made of winning a
bet, and he declares that the blotting-pad—that
should have been stained as it now appears in
Court, was perfectly clean!  So careful is this
witness as to the accuracy of what he gives in
evidence, that he actually declines to positively swear
that the blotter had not been used, although sure in
his own mind that it was quite clean.  Contrast this
straightforward evidence with the statements made
by Miss Strode herself!  Why, she cannot tell her
story without contradicting her own evidence, and
then when she is asked to say which statement is
true, she breaks down and gives up her attempt to
save her lover!  Gentlemen of the jury, I should
be the last to take advantage of a woman's weakness—of
the unfortunate position in which she has
placed herself; I cannot but admire her heroism,
her self-sacrifice in trying to save her lover by
taking the crime on herself; but I should not be
doing my duty—nay, I should be defeating justice
itself, were I to permit this loving woman to condemn
herself of a crime, of which she is only the innocent
accomplice."

He sat down, and Mr. Marshall rose.  He was a
young man with his reputation to make, and this
was his first big case.

He began quietly by reviewing bit by bit the
evidence for the prosecution.  He cleverly seized
each point in which a witness had said anything
indirectly injurious to the prisoner, and pointed out
that it was equally true if applied to Ruby Strode.
He asked the jury if there was one single piece of
direct evidence against his client.  And, after a
dramatic pause, he answered: "No, gentlemen,
there is not!  Circumstantial evidence there is in
abundance, but nothing—absolutely nothing—that
can justify you in finding this man guilty."

Then he took the evidence for the defence.  He
drew a pathetic picture of the prisoner suffering in
silence to screen his sweetheart; of his refusal at
first to make any defence; of his determination to
plead guilty; and finally, his consent when he
believed his sweetheart safe on the Continent,
solely because of his aged father's grief at the
dishonour and the stigma that would attach to his
sister's good name.

He spoke for forty-six minutes, and concluded
a clever and eloquent defence with the following
words:

"Gentlemen of the jury, were I not convinced
myself of the innocence of the prisoner at the bar,
I could not stand before you and ask you for a
verdict that will place his own sweetheart in the
position in which he now stands.  But my learned
friend who represents the Crown, heard the confession
of Ruby Strode as it fell from her lips in the
solicitors' office only last night.  Had he listened
as I did to her ready answers to every question
asked—seen her evident sincerity and heard her
straightforward account of the whole transaction,
he would, I feel certain, never have allowed this case
to go on.  I only ask you for justice for an innocent
man, and I leave him in your hands, gentlemen,
confident that he will receive it."

There was a burst of applause as he sat
down—instantly suppressed by the ushers—and then the
Judge summed up.

He reviewed the evidence very shortly, and
pointed out to the jury that it was for them to
consider these statements and to say if they believed
the affidavit put up for the defence.  If they
believed this, then it was their duty to acquit the
prisoner.  On the other hand, if they did not believe
the confession therein to be true, if they believed
the contention of the prosecution that it was made
under the motive of affection for the prisoner, then
they must, on the evidence before them, find the
prisoner guilty.

On the point of law there was no difficulty.
Fraud had been committed, and it was for them to
say if it had been committed by the prisoner
or not.  He warned them against allowing their
sympathies to interfere with their judgment, but
at the same time he must remind them that if any
uncertainty existed in their minds, they were
bound to give the prisoner the benefit of any such
doubt.





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.. _`MARRIAGE IS IMPOSSIBLE`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


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   MARRIAGE IS IMPOSSIBLE.

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Directly the Judge had finished his summing-up,
the jury rose and left the Court to consider their verdict.

The general opinion was that they would not take
much time before coming to a decision, and so quite
half the people remained in their places.  A subdued
hum of conversation arose; women surreptitiously
powdered their faces, others fanned themselves.  In
the corridors outside barristers discussed the case.

"Guilty, right enough!" the majority agreed.
A few wiseacres shook their heads.  They were not
so sure.  Certainly Rupert Dale's attitude had been
that of a guilty man, so much so that to those who
had had a wide experience of criminals he seemed
innocent.

It's the guilty man who invariably assumes the
mask of innocence to perfection.

It was in vain that both counsel and solicitors
tried to persuade Ruby Strode to leave the Court.
She was as white as death and looked as if at any
moment she might faint.  Her friend Iris Colyer sat
by her side and did her best to comfort and console
her.  But Ruby seemed scarcely conscious of her
surroundings.  Feeling had almost deserted her.

She was possessed by just one thought.  She had
failed to save her lover.  Twice she had tried to
save him.  And each time she had failed.

Now she had been prepared to take his place in
the dock—to suffer for the crime she had committed.
And they would not believe her.  The fools would
not believe her when she confessed she was guilty.
In her own mind she had proved her guilt.  She
sat huddled up, her hands clasped between her
knees, her eyes fixed on the door through which
the jury had disappeared.  But ever and again she
muttered to herself, and those sitting near her
caught fragments of what she said:

"*I alone am guilty.  I did it.*"

Once Robert Despard strolled across to her side,
and the solicitors made way for him.  He made a
few conventional remarks in the usual strain.  Ruby
took no notice.  But suddenly he said something
which caused her to sit upright and look at him
with flaming eyes, eyes in which contempt and
hatred shone.

"You could have saved him!" she hissed under
her breath.  "I believe you know I am guilty.
You came into his room that afternoon, and you
saw the cheque in my hand.  I felt then, for the
moment, that you had some suspicion."

Despard smiled and laid his hand on hers.  "I
never suspected you.  I never could!"

She snatched her hand away.  "I believe you
want him to go to prison because——"

She faltered, and for a moment her white cheeks
grew scarlet.  Despard knew what she was going
to say, and he could not resist being brutal.

"Because I loved you?"  He shrugged his
shoulders.  "Yes, I was very fond of you once,
Ruby.  But you rejected and snubbed me,
remember.  That's all over now, and I've found some one
who will be kinder than you were.  No, I shouldn't
have much cared if you had gone to prison."  He
lowered his voice: "Though on the whole it will
suit my book better if Rupert is found guilty.  As
a matter of fact, I suppose you're both in the same
boat, and if justice were done, both of you would
suffer."

"And you called yourself his friend!" she cried.
"If Rupert goes to prison I swear you shall pay;
for I know, if you had chosen to speak, you could
have saved him, and helped to prove the truth of
my confession."

Despard rose, and picking up his velour hat,
brushed it carelessly.

"I shouldn't get so excited; if you raise your
voice like that you'll be turned out of Court."  He
bowed mockingly.  "In case we don't meet again,
Miss Strode, good-bye."

"We shall meet again one day!" she said between
her teeth.

Then her head sank forward; she clasped her
hands together again between her knees and
resumed her former attitude.

Half an hour passed; three-quarters.  The tension
became unbearable.  She heard a man laugh in
the corridor.  Behind her a couple of barristers were
telling a funny story under their breath.  In the
gallery a woman dropped her fan; and as she
happened to be good-looking, there was quite a
little commotion to recover it.  And her lover's
honour, his freedom, his very life, lay in the balance.
She swept the Court fearlessly with her eyes; half
of these people had come out of curiosity, as they
would go to the theatre.  Not one of them cared.

She knew what it was to hate, for she hated them
now—heartless and selfish.  An hour passed.  A
minute later there was a sudden commotion.  People
began to flock into the Court.  The door on which
Ruby's eyes had been fixed opened, and the jury
slowly returned to their places.  The usher shouted
for order, and the Judge resumed his seat.

Silence came.  A pin could have been heard fall.
Then the Judge leaned slightly forward towards the
Foreman of the Jury.  The little formalities that
took place now seemed needlessly cruel.  Ruby
scarcely heard what was said—she was waiting for
one of two words: Guilty, or Not Guilty!

It seemed a long pause before the Foreman
answered the final question addressed to him by
the Judge.  The answer was what every one
expected:

"We find the prisoner guilty, my Lord."

Ruby Strode staggered to her feet; but the
solicitors who had been watching her seized her
arm and dragged her down.  The Judge passed
sentence: Five years' penal servitude.

The silence was broken, and straightway the
Judge rose.  A few people were surprised at the
severity; others said that Dale thoroughly deserved
it.  For the public the excitement was over, the
show was finished, and in the hurry to get outside
into the fresh air, no one noticed Ruby Strode.
She had risen to her feet and stretched out her arms
imploringly to the retreating figure of the Judge.

"My Lord, I did it!  I swear to God I did it!"  Then
she swayed, lost consciousness, would have
fallen had not Mr. Marshall stepped forward and
caught her.

"Poor girl!" he whispered, as with the assistance
of one of the ushers he carried her off to another
room.  "Poor girl! how she must have loved him.
By gad! they say women haven't as much pluck as men!"

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The result was brought to John Dale in Charing
Cross Hospital by Mr. Redway.  The kindly solicitor
broke the bad news as best he could.  He knew it
was no use beating about the bush or trying to
deceive the old man.  There was nothing he could do,
nothing he could say to alleviate the blow.  He
could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the
hand try to convey his deep sympathy—and then
leave him.

Dale said nothing.  He prepared himself for the
worst, but the news for the moment was almost
more than he could bear.  He covered his face, so
that none should see it.

Fate could deal him no more crushing blow.  His
son—his first-born—his only son!

He prayed that death would come and take him,
since there was nothing left to live for.

It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later
found him and obtained permission to sit by his
side until late into the night.  He knew words were
useless; but the old man was alone in London,
apparently without a friend, and he felt that he
could not leave him alone in the great hospital.

"You—why are you here?" John Dale asked
at last.  "You whom we have wronged so grievously."

"I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied,
bending over him.  "I also have one son who is
the apple of my eye.  This thing might have
happened to him, Mr. Dale—to my boy.  That's why
I am here.  We have got to share this thing
together."

Then for the first time tears shone in Dale's eyes
and ran down his cheeks.  He tried to speak, but
the poor lips trembled and quivered.

"Your son—is a—gentleman.  He could never
do anything—mean, Sir Reginald."

"One never knows," Crichton replied.  "Your
boy must have been sorely tempted—if he did it."

Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the
tears from his eyes.  "He did it," he cried fiercely,
"and he must suffer for his sin.  It is just he should
pay the penalty.  I'm an old man; it won't be easy
to hold up my head and face the world now; but
I'll do it.  I'll fight still!"

"That's right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily.
"You still have something to fight for....  There's
your daughter, Mr. Dale."

Dale started and dropped back on the pillows,
hiding his face again.  His daughter Marjorie.  Sir
Reginald's son loved her—and she loved him.

A great wave of hatred for his son swept over
him.  Not only had he ruined his father, but he
would break his sister's heart and ruin her life.

"I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir
Reginald said as he took his leave.  "But I
understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days'
time.  Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to
you, and said he would look in and see you
to-morrow; and when you're fit to travel he says
he'll take you down to Devonshire himself.  He
made a proposal to me directly the trial was over
which I must say does him great credit.  I am not
at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope
you will be able to accept it—if not for your own,
then for your daughter's sake.  We have got to
consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves.  She
is young, and life is still sweet to her."

Dale shook his head.  "Nothing seems to matter
now, Sir Reginald.  I can't conceive what proposal
Mr. Despard has to make.  He is my son's friend,
not mine.  But as you justly say, I must consider
Marjorie.  For her I must live and fight in spite of
the shame that has fallen upon me."

Sir Reginald nodded.  "That's right.  I think
you will find Mr. Despard means well, and sincerely
wishes to help you—for Rupert's sake."

He turned to go—then stopped.  "Have you
written or telegraphed to Marjorie—the result of
the trial I mean?"

Dale shook his head: "She's alone.  If she were
to hear from the lips of strangers——"

Crichton nodded.  "I tell you what I'll do; I'll
wire to Jim the first thing to-morrow morning and
tell him to go over and break the news.  They're
old friends and playmates.  It will be better than
if she sees it in the newspapers or gets it from the
gossips——"

But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out
his hands.  "No, you mustn't do that, Sir
Reginald.  You mustn't do it.  Your boy must
never see my daughter again—never!"

"Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his
hand on the old man's shoulder.

Dale looked at him with haggard eyes.  "Don't
you know?  Your son is in love with Marjorie.
He wants to make her his wife!"

Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away:
"My God!" he said under his breath.  "I never
suspected that!  You're right, Dale, I'm afraid
they must never meet again.  I'm sorry—but it's
impossible.  Any thought of marriage.  Utterly
impossible now!"





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.. _`THE IRONY OF FATE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium

   THE IRONY OF FATE.

.. vspace:: 2

Rupert found that four weeks in prison was a lifetime.

His experience at Holloway before the
trial helped him not at all; though he remembered
now, that at the time, it had shocked and horrified
him.  Yet the cruelty and ugliness had all been on
the surface.  Looking back on it now, after four
weeks of the real thing, with the eyes of a professional,
he saw the humorous as well as the dramatic side
of it.

If Holloway had been under the direction of the
manager of a Drury Lane melodrama it could not
have been run on lines better calculated to excite
the common mind, and arouse the curiosity and the
mirth of the vulgar.  It had all been very cheap
and dramatic.  The great gates, barred and bolted
in primeval fashion; the uniformed warders and
wardresses, obviously chosen for their stature and
their lack of humanity.  The clanging of bells and
the rattling of great bunches of keys.  The herding
together of guilty and innocent in pen-like places.
The coming and going of numerous officials.

The real thing was very different.  It had not got
the glamour of Holloway, or its melodramatic
atmosphere with a dash of pantomime.  There was
an atmosphere of "Abandon hope all ye who enter
here," about Wormwood Scrubbs, though the interior
of the prison was not so depressing as the
exterior—the Scrubbs itself.

In about a week's time Rupert began to realise,
not only where he was, but what he was.  The
warders, neither good, bad, nor indifferent, merely
machines wrapped up in red tape, did their best
to help him in this.

The first thing he realised was that he was no
longer a man, but a cypher, number three hundred
and eighty-one.  He was glad he had not a name
any longer.  The only drawback was that, though
unknown in the prisons, he would remain Rupert
Dale to the world outside.

The next thing that dawned upon him was, that
he was a criminal.  A jury of his fellow-countrymen
had found him guilty.  There was nothing to
grumble at in that!

The difficulty lay in behaving like a guilty man.
He had a curious feeling when eventually he was
exercised with a batch of other convicts and attended
Divine Service, that they resented him.  In spite
of having his head shaved, in spite of wearing a
costume—a cross between a clown's and one beloved
by music-hall comedians—he knew he did not look
guilty.  He was hall-marked with the broad arrow,
but it took more than four weeks for the iron of
prison life to enter his soul and make him really
feel like a criminal; at times wish to be a criminal—until
a curious feeling eventually came to him that
he really was one—that he only wanted to be free
again to prove the fact and show himself in his real
colours.

But for the first week or two he found himself
without emotions, without feelings.  Things
had turned out as he wished them to.  He was
satisfied.

The woman he loved was free!  Even though she
had accused herself no one believed her.  What his
father thought or felt he did not know.  He did not
want to think—yet.  Perhaps nature was kind, and
caused the reaction of the excitement and strain of
the trial to act as an anæsthetic to his brain.

At the periodical visits of his warders, when his
food was brought him, when he had to clean out his
cell or make his bed, or when he was taken out to
exercise, he found himself quite unconsciously speaking
to them, trying to enter into conversation.  Silence
was the first blow that struck him.  After five days
he began to wonder how he was going to manage
five years of it.  If it were enforced it would
probably send him mad.

He tried talking to himself, but that frightened
him, and the one-sided conversation soon became
brainless.  He welcomed the visits of the chaplain
until he found that that official considered it his
duty to do all the talking.  And, moreover, he did
not want to talk about anything but the salvation
of Rupert's soul.  And as the unfortunate man had
for years been dodging in and out of prison cells
like a ferret in and out of rabbit holes trying to
catch souls that were not at home, he had lost all
real interest in the game and had fallen back on
quoting texts in an unconvincing tone of voice.
Certainly he called Three-eighty-one his "dear
brother," but Rupert did not believe he meant it,
and told him so.  And so the chaplain's visits were
cut short.  The doctor was the only cheery human
being in the prison.

At first Rupert was exercised alone; as soon as
he joined his gang he was slowly initiated into the
conversation of eyes, lips, and gestures—the latter
by far the most effective and subtle: a movement
of a muscle of the face, the slightest elevation or
depression of the shoulders, the crook of a finger,
or even the pretence of stumbling as a man walked.

The desire to learn this conversation saved him
at the critical moment of his incarceration.  Hour
after hour as he lay alone in his prison cell he thought
it out, drew imaginary pictures or diagrams on the
floor.  Like a dumb man every sense became
preternaturally sharpened.  He learnt how to speak with
his eyes as well as his lips.  He learnt, too, how to
hide his eyes when he was watched or wished to be dumb.

He took an interest in the most extraordinary
or trivial things.  A spider spun its web across two
bars of the window in his cell.  He took more
interest in that spider's larder than probably did
the spider itself; it was with mingled feelings of
joy and horror that he saw the first fly caught—his
feelings were so equally divided between the
miserable captive and the other hungry insect.
Once the spider dropped down with a silken thread
right on his foot.  Rupert held his breath, not
daring to move a muscle, and he experienced the
first thrill since he had been in prison when the
tiny thing eventually crawled up his leg and ran
across his hand!

A day later, when he cleaned out his cell, he was
told to wipe away the spider's web.  He nearly
refused, and the tears actually swam in his eyes as
he obeyed.

Under his breath he cursed the warder.  Had the
man no feelings; was he indeed a brute in human shape!

For forty-eight hours afterwards he waited for the
return of the spider, waited for it to climb down on
its silken thread and run across his hand again:
but in vain.

One day as he exercised with his gang in the prison
yard he noticed a man who once or twice before
had been his leader in the dreary round—a young
fellow with dark eyes, and protruding jaws that had
evidently been broken in a fight.  He noticed that
he was talking to him.  A spasmodic movement of
his hands told Rupert that he wanted to say something.

As they turned Rupert caught his eye and signalled
that he was ready to receive a message.  He
was not yet an adept in this new art of conversation,
but his senses were alert and his instincts
already preternaturally sharpened.  He concentrated
his whole mind on his fellow convict, and,
perhaps unconsciously, he read his thoughts even
before he understood the message which hand and
foot, head and shoulders sent with lightning-like
rapidity.

Translated, it meant that some of them were
going to be removed from Wormwood Scrubbs prison.

"Good," Rupert signalled back.  He found himself
grinning until he read another signal of "Shut
up!" from the blue-eyed convict.

The change might be for the worse, but that did
not trouble Rupert.  There was to be a change!
Perhaps a journey somewhere.  Outside the prison
walls.  The silence would be broken.

He wanted to shout aloud with joy.  The silence
would be broken!  They would go out into the
streets.  The streets where there were cabs and
omnibuses, and great drays with horses in them,
and men and women hurrying to and fro; and
children playing.  They might even go a journey;
in a train through fields and forests.  They would
see blue sky and perhaps sunshine.

He thought of nothing else for the rest of the
day; he dreamed of it at night.  Next morning
hope alternately rose and fell in his heart, refusing
to die throughout the day's routine.  He continually
built pictures of the journey he might take.  So
far, the effect of prison had been to make him
like a child again.  Time had ceased to exist; he
took no count of days, but the news of the
change made him wonder how long he had been
at Wormwood Scrubbs.  A week, a month, a year?——

It was curious how little he had thought of those
he loved.  At first, when he had been taken away
from the Old Bailey, he had been temporarily
overcome by remorse.  The night after the trial
he had suffered agonies.  Yet curiously enough
after that night, thoughts of the outside world and
those he knew in it had not troubled him much.
He had been a coward in so much as he had
been afraid to think of his father or his sister—or Ruby.

For he could not speak of them.  He could not
speak of them to a living soul.  He could not write
to them.  If a letter had been permitted it would
have been read and censored.  So, not daring to
write, he dared not think.  Nature had been
kind, and for weeks his brain had been anæsthetised
by the deadly routine, the bare walls of
his prison, the sudden and terrible change of environment.

This happens to some natures.  Thoughts are
checked, memory sleeps, but there always comes
a rude awakening.  To other men it is the first few
weeks of imprisonment that are the most terrible.
A few never survive; their minds are wrecked,
morally and spiritually they are ruined; then
their suffering comes to an end.

Rupert's awakening came one grey morning
when at daybreak he found himself with half
a dozen of his fellow convicts paraded in the yard,
and, after a breakfast more generous than usual,
marched outside the walls of Wormwood Scrubbs
and conveyed in a van to an unknown destination—which
proved to be Waterloo Station.

The thrill of joy he experienced when he found
himself standing on the platform surrounded by
familiar sights, hearing familiar sounds, his nostrils
inhaling familiar smells, was almost instantly
followed by a sickening sense of fear.  Fear of the
unknown!

He glanced at the men by his side all wearing the
convict dress—the badge of shame.  It suddenly
struck him how funny they looked.  He wondered
if he cut as ridiculous a figure.  Perhaps there
might be some one on the platform whom he knew,
some one who would recognise him.

He stared with hungry eyes at the few people
who passed.  Forgetting what he was, he yearned
to see a familiar face.  And presently he realised
that he and the other convicts were being stared
at by men who were free.

One man made a ribald jest.  Others laughed.
A few men looked with dull curiosity.  A woman
shuddered and turned away.

Rupert bit his lip.  It was not nice.  Especially
when he realised the handcuffs.  He squared his
shoulders and held up his head.  He was not
ashamed.  There was nothing to be ashamed of.

A newspaper boy passed; on his tray the
morning newspapers and the illustrated magazines.
Half a dozen pairs of yearning eyes followed him.
Probably each convict would have sold his soul
for a copy of the *Morning Post* or the *Daily
Chronicle*.  Opposite to where they were lined
up, the station wall was covered with posters and
play bills and advertisements.

The first thing Rupert read was the "Ingenue
Theatre," a poster staring at him in six-inch letters.
His jaws dropped, and he blinked his eyes to drive
away the mist that rose before them.

Then the train backed into the station.  The
warder in charge gave a sharp order.  As Rupert
swung round in obedience to the command he
saw another poster facing him, the *Financial
Times*, and beneath in huge letters one word—"RADIUM."

He started, a frown knitted his brows.  For a
moment he forgot what he was, where he was.  That
one word had conjured up the past, swept the fog
from his brain.

"Now, 381, what are you about?"

He pulled himself together with an effort and
rolled into a third-class compartment of the train
with his fellow convicts.

Radium!  The word seemed to be burning into
his brain.  He said it aloud and received a sharp
reprimand from the warder seated on his left by
the window.

There rose before his eyes a vision of Dartmoor,
the disused tin-mine on his father's farm; Robert
Despard and he groping in the semi-blackness
up to their knees in water....  Their discovery of
pitch-blende—and Despard's belief that, in that
old worthless mine, there might lie hidden a
fortune.

A fortune for his father and his sister.  His
father whom he had ruined and shamed.  And
his sister!

Again he blinked his eyes, driving away the mist
before them.  He found himself staring straight
at the convict facing him.  The man was talking to
him.  He saw the fingers of his handcuffed hands
moving stealthily.  He saw his half-closed eyes
contracting and expanding.  He answered:

"Yes?"

"Dartmoor!  Princetown Prison," was the reply
he received.

Rupert lay back and closed his eyes.  He might
have guessed.  It was the irony of fate.  They
were taking him home, back to his own land, to
Dartmoor.

To Princetown Prison.  The great monument of
granite that broods over the valley of the Dart,
from whose barred windows, if a man could gaze,
he would see Blackthorn Farm ... and the disused
tin-mine with its hidden fortune waiting to be
claimed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PARTING OF THE WAYS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium

   THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.

.. vspace:: 2

The words Sir Reginald had spoken to John
Dale when he visited him at Charing Cross
hospital after the trial, returned fairly
frequently to his mind for many hours afterwards
when he reached his own home on Dartmoor.

"This thing might have happened to my boy."  He
recalled, too, the old yeoman's reply when he
reminded Sir Reginald that his son was a
gentleman—and therefore could not do a mean thing.

The Dales came of old yeoman stock; they
could trace their family back as far, probably
further, than the Crichtons.  Old Dale was a
gentleman right enough, and Crichton knew it would
be impossible for him to do anything mean, much
less dishonourable.  Indeed, he had been the first
to warn Sir Reginald that his daughter must never
meet the baronet's son again.

Sir Reginald did not find it easy to believe that
Jim had fallen in love with Marjorie Dale.  He had
to presume, like all parents, that he had been blind.
His boy had never been in the habit of keeping
anything from him.

Since Jim had grown up and become a man,
their relationship had been that of brothers or dear
comrades rather than father and son.  Jim had
always bluntly confessed to the few scrapes and
peccadilloes into which he had got, and his tendency
had been to exaggerate rather than diminish the
few mistakes he had made in life.

Probably he had not considered falling in love
a mistake.  But it is—a grievous one, to the elderly,
or to those who have fallen in, been half-drowned,
and crawled out again.

Even had this terrible tragedy of the altering of
the cheque never occurred, Sir Reginald knew
he would have found it very difficult to agree to
any engagement between his son and the daughter
of John Dale.

First of all, Jim was much too young to think of
marriage.  Secondly, when he did marry, it would be
some one in his own cast, occupying the same rank
in life or a higher one than he.  For though Crichton
kept his youth, he had already forgotten that he
married for love, and, *mirabile dictu*, had been
happy.  Thirdly, Jim had apparently been wedded
to his profession.  He had already done excellent
work in the Flying Corps, and his name was down
for early promotion.  He had received both public
and official recognition for the services he had
rendered to aerial navigation.

Sir Reginald had meant to tackle him at once on
his return home and tell him, what he felt sure
Jim would have already realised, that it would be
impossible for him to see Marjorie again, and, in
future, they could not even be friends, much less
lovers.  He thought the task would be quite an easy
one.  Of course, he would be sorry for the girl,
but she was still young, and would easily find a
suitable husband later on in her own class; for
Crichton was old-fashioned enough to still believe
that marriage was the only suitable profession for
a respectable female.

But directly he saw Jim he realised that Rupert
Dale's conviction had been a serious blow to him.
As in duty bound, he walked across to Blackthorn
Farm to sympathise with Marjorie, to give her
the latest news of her father, and reassure her in
case she should be feeling anxious as to his health.
He knew as little about women as he did about the
Bible.  One had brought him into the world, and he
believed the other kept him there; but he had never
thought it necessary to go deeper into the subject.
Both women and Bibles were necessary to the
State.  The place for both was the home and the
church, and he had a good Protestant's profound
distrust of the man who had too close an intimacy
with, or quoted, either, except in the secret precincts
of his own castle or the local cathedral.

So, to his surprise, Marjorie greeted him calmly,
with a smile, and gave him a cool, steady hand.
He said the conventional thing in a conventional
tone of voice, but she showed no signs of hysteria,
neither did tears once rise to her eyes.

"I expect your father will be back in two or
three days at the latest," he said.  "Mr. Despard—one
of—er—your brother's friends, is going to
bring him down."

He had nearly said one of your late brother's
friends, but he checked himself in time.  Of course,
it would have been far better if Rupert had died,
and Sir Reginald secretly hoped he would never
live to come out of prison.

"Why is Mr. Despard bringing father home?"
Marjorie asked.  "Perhaps he was one of Rupert's
friends, but he is practically a stranger to us both."

"He has been exceedingly kind," Sir Reginald
explained.  "He is the only man your father
knows in London at present.  And I may say
that he has given practical proof of his kindness
and sympathy.  He has done something I should
like to have done myself—I won't say anything
more about it now, but I will only hint that as long
as you choose to remain at Blackthorn Farm no one
will disturb you....  The property is your own
again—for the mortgage will be redeemed."

Marjorie said nothing, but Sir Reginald noticed
that a frown puckered her forehead.

"I think Mr. Despard was very glad of the excuse
your father's accident gave him to come down here
again."  He was trying to be tactful, and failing.

With a woman's quick instinct Marjorie divined
the hidden meaning of what he said.  "Mr. Despard
is not a man whose acquaintance I care to
continue.  I don't think father was impressed with
him, either."

"One can't always judge from appearances.  When
I first saw him I was certainly not prepossessed in
his favour.  But he is showing great solicitude
for your father in his hour of trial.  He is an
exceedingly kind-hearted man, and—I know he is
looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Dale."

It was a feeble effort, and Sir Reginald felt
ashamed of it directly afterwards.  He held out
his hand.

"If I can be of any service to you please let
me know.  I'm afraid you may find your position
here a little difficult—but I'm sure we shall do our
best to help you to forget the—er—the sorrow
that has fallen upon you."

Marjorie took his hand and held it.  Then, raising
her head, she looked straight into his eyes.  "Tell
me, please, do you believe my brother guilty?"

Sir Reginald cleared his throat.  It was an
extraordinary, a stupid question.  Had he not felt so
sorry for the girl, he would have been irritated.

"Naturally, you haven't read the newspapers—the
evidence.  I'm afraid his guilt was proved
beyond doubt.  Of course, he must have been
sorely tempted.  The jury would not have found
him guilty, my dear young lady, if they had not been
absolutely certain of the justice of their verdict."

"I'm not asking you what the jury thought.
I want to know what you think.  For I know that
he's innocent.  He did not do it."

Sir Reginald pressed her hand tightly.  He did
not know what to say.  That was the worst of
women, they were so illogical.  Rupert Dale had
been found guilty by a jury of his own countrymen,
therefore, of course, he was guilty.

"Why do you say you know he's innocent?
You can't have proof.  If you had——"

A curious smile parted Marjorie's lips.  She
looked at Sir Reginald with sorrow in her eyes,
almost pity.

"How strange men are!  They only use their
reason, never their instinct.  Evidence has hanged
many an innocent man, Sir Reginald, hasn't it?
Instinct—which for some reason women have
cultivated and men have neglected—tells me that
my brother is innocent.  I know.  You will never
know."

Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders.  It was
impossible to say anything.  Argument would be
useless and unkind.  He pressed her hand again
and was turning away when she stopped him.

"I also know why you came over to see me to-day."

Sir Reginald flushed.  "I came to——"

"To tell me that you will not allow an engagement
between myself and Jim.  He has told you, or you
have found out, that we love one another."

Sir Reginald dropped her hand.  His body
stiffened.  He looked at her sternly.  "Your father
told me.  My boy has said nothing.  This is the
first time in his life he has ever had a secret from
me.  I suppose you wished it kept a secret?"

She shook her head.

"I haven't spoken to him yet," Sir Reginald
continued, his voice hardening.  "But, of course, as
I hope you will realise, it's impossible, utterly
impossible, that there can be any engagement between
you.  You must not see each other again.  I'm
very sorry, Miss Dale; but leaving this unfortunate
affair of your brother's out of the question
altogether, I should have looked with strong disapproval
on any engagement of marriage, however remote.
Jim is much too young——"

"To love?" she interjected quickly.  "Surely
youth is the time for love!"  Then she gave a bitter
laugh.  "But, of course, you've forgotten."

"My boy has his future to consider, his profession.
He has only just started in life.  Surely you must see,
Miss Dale, that any alliance between you would ruin
his career for ever."

She bowed her head.  "To be married to a girl
whose brother is a convict.  To marry the sister
of the man who robbed her husband's father.  Yes,
I quite see it's impossible."

She looked at him proudly and there was defiance
in her eyes.  "I am sure my father would never
permit it, Sir Reginald, and as I am his only daughter
and not yet of age, I suppose I should have to obey
him.  Yet, surely, it's for Jim to say what he'll do.
You haven't spoken to him yet?"

"Not yet.  I haven't had an opportunity."

Sir Reginald was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"Has he said anything to you—since
the result of the trial, I mean?"

"As to our future?  Not a word," she replied.
"But it's for him to decide.  I shall not try to
persuade him either way, though if I thought it
would be better for him were we never to meet
again, I might be persuaded to give way even in
opposition to his wishes.  I can't say yet.  I haven't
had time to think....  I've suffered, Sir Reginald.
Rupert and I were more to each other than most
brothers and sisters, perhaps.  But Jim is more to
me than father or mother.  He's all the world to me."

"Yes, yes, of course.  But——"

"It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said
again.  "This blow that has fallen, this shame,
which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only
him and me.  Not you nor my father, not you nor
anyone else in the world.  We two must settle it,
no one else."

She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away
without speaking again.  There was nothing more
to be said.  He did not go straight home, he took
a long walk.  His wishes had never been opposed,
and he had not expected opposition now.

What would his son say?

Directly after luncheon he broached the subject
by asking when his leave was up.

"In about a week's time, guv'nor!  Why, are
you in a hurry to get rid of me?"

Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great
oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room,
and with fingers that were not quite steady lit
a cigar.

"When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross
Hospital before leaving London he told me your
secret, Jim.  I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's
lips.  You've never kept anything from me before."

Jim nodded.  "I'm sorry, sir.  It was a secret
I'll admit.  Love is different—to other things,
and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her."

"That's all right.  But this unfortunate affair
has, of course, altered everything.  I saw Marjorie
this morning.  I went over to sympathise with her
and see if we could do anything to help her.  She
broached the subject."

"About our marriage?"

Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar.
"There can be no question of marriage now."

"Why not?"

"My boy!"

There was a long silence.  Father and son looked
into one another's eyes.  The father was the first
to lower his gaze.

"I love her, sir."

"Yes, of course."  Sir Reginald coughed.  "I'm
sorry for you.  But you're young.  You—you
don't know your own mind."

Again a short silence.  "Has anything I ever did
at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at
home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested
to you that I don't know my own mind?  That
I am fickle or changeable?"

"No."  Sir Reginald was not used to being
questioned by his son.  He was off his guard.

"I've never shown myself a coward in any way, father?"

The old man started, came a step nearer to his
boy and looked at him again.  And his eyes lighted
as he smiled.  "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward!
My dear boy!"

"I don't mean just physically," Jim continued.
"No normal, healthy man's afraid, of course.  I
suppose it's the danger of my job that gives it a
zest.  I've never shown myself to be the other sort
of coward, either, I hope?"

Sir Reginald just held out his hand.

"Wouldn't it be cowardly, then, to desert the
woman I love just at the moment she most wants
me?  I don't mean that she just wants my love,
but she wants my protection.  The protection my
name can give her.  We have a clean record, we
Crichtons, haven't we?  I shall be smirching it
if I desert the woman I promised to marry just
because her brother's turned out a bad egg."

"A convict.  A felon."

"Yes, yes, but it would make no difference
had he been a murderer."

Sir Reginald turned away.  His cigar fell into the
grate, he leaned his arms on the mantelshelf and
buried his face between his hands.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked eventually.

"To announce our engagement at once.  Or,
if that decision does not meet with her or your
approval, to wait a little while and then announce
it.  I've given her my word, and I'm going to keep
it.  I'm sorry, father, if it hurts you, but you must
see that I'm right."

"I don't see it!" Sir Reginald cried fiercely.
Then, after a few moments' silence, "Do you know
what it means if you persist in marrying her?  It
means your career will be ended.  You will have
to send in your papers."

"I don't think so."

Sir Reginald turned round.  "There can be no
question.  Do you mean to say if you married
a convict's sister you would be tolerated in any
regiment, in any decent society?"

Jim sighed.  "I don't know.  Perhaps you're
right.  After all, aviation is not confined to the
army.  I can still do my job.  The world's a big
place, father."

He stood by Sir Reginald's side and laid his hand
on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry if I've hurt you, dad.  But, leaving
my feelings out of the question, putting aside
society, even love, I feel it's my duty to keep
my word, my duty to protect the woman who
loves me."

Sir Reginald nodded his head.  He looked at
his son through a mist.  "Have you thought of
your duty to me?  Your duty to society, then—to
the State?"

"The fact that I love will not prevent me doing
all three.  The woman I love is straight, clean,
honourable.  She has done nothing of which to be
ashamed.  If because of this woman you and
society and the State refuse my services"—he
shrugged his shoulders—"as I said, the world is
large, father.  I'm young, and I can fight."

The old man held out his arms.  "You're young
and you'll forget.  She'll forget, too, Jim.  My
boy, you don't know what you're doing.  Why,
she's only a girl.  Inside of a year, she'll forget it.
There are lots of men——"  He stopped, hesitated,
and looked at his son again.  "Why, that fellow,
Mr. Despard, who was down here a little while
ago, I know he's in love with her——"

Jim stopped him with a gesture.  "Don't say
any more, father.  I don't think you quite
understand.  I've made up my mind.  I've given my
word and I'm going to keep it.  I'll do everything
in my power not to hurt you.  But nothing, no
one, will come between the woman I love and me."

Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and
sat huddled up, staring across the room.  Jim stood
by his side and put his arm around his shoulder.
A long time they waited, but neither of them
spoke.  Each knew there was nothing more to
be said.

Youth and age had travelled side by side for a
long time, until at last they had reached the
inevitable barrier, the place where the road
divided.

The parting of the ways.  To try to go on together
meant destruction, yet the old man would not
believe it.  The young man, whose sight was clearer
and whose heart was bolder, knew.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ESCAPE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium

   ESCAPE.

.. vspace:: 2

The great convict prison of Princetown stands
on the wildest part of Dartmoor, nearly
fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded
by wild, rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered
slopes stretch for miles in every direction.  Four main
roads cross the moor from Plymouth to Moretonhampstead,
and Tavistock to Ashburton.  These
unite at Two Bridges, where they cross the river Dart.

In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and
Tavistock roads which divide at Two Bridges lie
the prison farms.  This land has been reclaimed
from the moors with years of heavy toil by the
convicts.  Only those who by good behaviour have
earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the
farms, where they have more freedom and even
the chance of stolen conversation.  Although the
rule of silence is not relaxed, it is impossible
for the warders, who stand on guard at every
vantage point around the field in which the men
are working, to hear; and the art of speaking
without moving the lips is practised by every
convict.

Nearly six months had passed since Rupert
had stepped from the train between two warders
on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for
six months the prison walls had hidden from his
longing eyes the moor that was his home.

But eventually the day came when he was taken
outside the prison walls to work in the fields.  As
he was marched with his gang through the great
gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer
morning he remembered with a curious tightening of
his heart-strings another morning—he had forgotten
how long ago—when he had entered those very gates
with his friend Robert Despard.

They had come to look over the prison, to stare at
the prisoners.

He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching
on his left half turned his head and gave him
a look of warning.  They had reached the cross
roads and the next moment halted outside the
gate that led to the fields—for the convicts were
never marched further along the road than was
necessary.

Rupert looked back at the risk of reprimand.
It was at this very spot that his sister Marjorie
had left them, going on into Princetown to do the
week's shopping—and to buy herself a present
with the money Rupert had given her!

He stared dry-eyed along the broad highway.
Tears never dimmed his eyes now, as they had done
at first.

Reaction had come long ago.  He had gone
through the fire and had come out hardened.  For
a little while his sufferings had been unbearable.
He had prayed for death.  Even his love for Ruby
Strode had not been sufficient to give him a hold
on life.

In the great convict prison day and night
had been merged into one.  There had been no
break to the dreadful monotony and the everlasting
silence.  Time had not been composed of
days and nights, but of hours; hours of minutes,
minutes of seconds—and each second had been an
eternity.

Part of his torture had been in thinking of the
sufferings of those he loved.  Of the woman who
had tried to save him, and whose great love had
brought him to this pass; of his father and
sister, who, perhaps, would never hold up their
heads again, ostracised by the so-called decent
people.

He did not even know how they managed to live,
whether they had enough money to keep body and
soul together.  And it was that thought that
sometimes nearly drove him mad.

The old man who had sacrificed everything for
his sake to make a gentleman of him; his beautiful
little sister, who had been standing on the threshold
of life with the dawn of love in her heart.  He had
robbed her, too, of life and of love.

Over and over again he had pictured Marjorie
and his father sitting in the old kitchen of the
little farmhouse alone, afraid even to look at one
another, afraid to talk.  Shunned by all their
neighbours.  Poverty facing them, perhaps starvation,
the farm going to rot and ruin before their eyes.
And yet, had they but known, a fortune waited for
them in that old, disused tin-mine.  No one
knew anything about it but his friend, Robert
Despard.

His eyes had been opened too late, and he knew
what sort of a friend Despard was.  He did not
even dare hope that the man who had taken their
hospitality would play the game and tell John
Dale of the vast possibilities that were hidden
in the mine on his property.  He would keep the
knowledge to himself and take advantage of it
... and of Marjorie!—Rupert's sister—whom he had
professed to fall in love with.

The convicts were crossing a patch of moorland
towards the fields in which they were to work; the
soft turf was beneath Rupert's feet, the blue sky
above his head, the scent of gorse, already
blossoming, in his nostrils.  The sweet sounds and sights
and scents stirred his blood.  He gazed down into
the valley across the Dart.  There lay Two Bridges,
almost a stone's throw away.  Beyond, Post Bridge.
He almost fancied he could see Blackthorn Farm!
Were they still there, his loved ones, ekeing out
a lonely, miserable existence, or had shame driven
them away, and had the home they owned been
taken?  With a fortune lying hidden beneath the land!

Sometimes he had wondered whether the story
Despard told him about the traces of radium in
the pitch-blende had been an hallucination on his
part.  But long ago, a month or two after his
arrival at Princetown, he had made up his mind
and sworn a solemn oath that he would wait for a
chance of escape.  He knew that no convict had
ever succeeded in getting right away, but now and
then some unfortunate had hidden on the moors
for many days before he was captured.

Knowing the country as he did it would be easy
for Rupert, if he could make a dash for freedom,
to get to Blackthorn Farm, see his father and tell
him what lay hidden in the old mine just outside
his very door.  The place was mortgaged to Sir
Reginald, and in that fact lay the one chance that
Despard had been unable to either purchase or
lease it.  He would have to wait until Sir Reginald
foreclosed and then buy it from him.

Every week that passed, every day, meant that
the chance of the fortune was slipping away from his
father.  Rupert knew by the time of the year that
more than nine months had passed since he had
been tried and sentenced.  Unless he escaped within
the year it would be too late.

It might be too late now, but it was worth the
risk.  To get out from the prison cell, or from
the great walls that surrounded the prison
itself, was practically impossible.  His only hope
had lain in being sent to work in the quarries
or fields.

And now the chance had come.  It seemed as
if Providence had sent it.

Suddenly the word "Halt!" rang out.  Automatically
Rupert stopped.  The convicts were lined
up and their numbers called over.  Rupert raised
his eyes.

The man on his left was speaking to him
again—using his usual signals—a man who had
often been his companion in exercise within the
prison walls and whose one idea, curiously enough,
had also been escape.

Rupert did not look at him.  His fists were
clenched, every muscle in his body was tight and
taut.  It required all his self-restraint not to make a
dash then and there.  He looked up: the blue sky
flecked with fleecy clouds was above him, the sweet
smell of new-mown hay was everywhere in the air;
the soft bleating of sheep and the barking of a dog
came faintly down the breeze from Beardown
Hill, and along the white dusty road he could see
the carrier's cart crawling to Post Bridge.

"No. 381, get on with your work!"

The raucous voice of the warder brought him
back to the fact that work was about to commence.
As he lifted the hay on his fork he gazed around.
The black forms of the warders stood like silhouettes
against the sky, their rifles glinting in the sun, a
wall as formidable, as impassable, as those of the
prison behind him.

By a lucky chance the convict who was raking
by him now was his pal, No. 303.  He had been
plying him with questions of roads, paths, and
distances to the nearest railway stations, and only
yesterday had offered to make an attempt with him
to escape.  He was a small man with flaxen hair,
which now stood up in a short, stiff stubble like a
closely-mown cornfield, and the blue, dreamy eyes,
whose kindly glance belied the broad arrows which
covered every portion of his costume, made one
wonder how this kindly little gentleman had earned
the ten years, four of which had failed to stamp
the convict brand upon his face.  In all their
many opportunities for secret conversation he
had never confided in Rupert his crime or his name.

He was a mystery, but his willingness and his
ready obedience, his haunting smile and kindly
blue eyes, had made him a favourite with the warders,
who treated him with a lack of harshness that almost
amounted to kindness.  And as he worked as though
his life depended upon it, and always with the
same sad smile, he was allowed more freedom of
movement within the limits of the warder's chain
than any other convict.

Once or twice during the day, whenever they
were close together, No. 303 questioned Rupert
as to the part of the moorlands they were on, how
far from Princetown or Moretonhampstead.

"Keep your eyes open, the chance may come to-day."

But Rupert shook his head.  What chance had
they, surrounded by armed men, in the broad light
of day?  True, there was always the chance of a
fog, and though in the spring they were fairly
common, as the summer advanced their appearance
was rare.

To-day the heat was oppressive, and though the
sun shone in a cloudless sky a thin, almost
imperceptible, haze hung over the tors, and the peaks
shone with a curious light.  Rupert noted this,
for it sometimes was the precursor of a summer fog,
and when these fogs did come they appeared suddenly,
without warning—and as suddenly disappeared.

In the afternoon a slight breeze, which now and
then had blown from the hills, died down.  There
was not a breath of air.  It was with a sigh of
relief that even the warders saw the sun sink
beneath the bank of grey cloud that had covered
the western sky.

The perspiration poured down the convicts'
faces as they worked, and the warders began to
throw anxious glances behind them where Great
Tor had already disappeared in an ominous
cloud-bank, which rolled down its slopes like
cotton-wool.  The field in which they were working was
the furthest one from the prison, and just above
Two Bridges, which lay at the bottom of a steep
slope of rough grass.  The field was separated
from the road by another one, and a high wall
without any gates ran down the whole length of
the road.

The head warder pulled out his watch.  It was
a quarter to five.  He glanced at the low, white
clouds which the least puff of wind might at
any moment bring down and blot out the landscape.

He sounded his whistle, and the convicts at once
began to form up and the guard to close in.  There
was a few moments' delay while the rakes and forks
were collected and the waggon brought up from
the end of the field.

"Stand next me," No. 303 whispered to
Rupert.  "Our chance has come.  You won't fail me!"

Rupert, whose knowledge of the moor told him
that escape was impossible for one as ignorant of
his surroundings as poor 303, stooped down to
tie his shoelace.  "For God's sake, don't be a
fool!  Summer fogs are no good, I can't——"

"No. 381, stand up!  All present, chief."

The chief warder immediately gave the order to
march, and the whole party moved up the centre of
the field towards the prison, the warders marching
beside their charges and the armed guard about
thirty paces away extended so as to completely
surround them.

Further conversation was rendered impossible.
A faint breeze began to stir the still air, bringing a
damp mist, which beat in their faces.  Rupert, with
his eyes fixed on the ground, began to pray that
the approaching fog might not blow away.  A
chance had come—for him.  His heart went out
in tender sympathy to the poor soul who could not
face the long dreary years of his punishment yet to
come, while his mind was torn in two by an agony
of doubt.

He, who knew the moors so well, did not
believe for a moment that, alone and unhampered,
he could escape; even if they could hide on the
moors for a day or two, capture in the end
was inevitable.  All he wanted was to get to
Blackthorn Farm; but 303 wanted to get clear away.

Within a few minutes telephones and telegraphs
would inform every town and village in the two
counties, every railway station would be watched,
every egress barred; every constable in Devon and
Cornwall would block all roads.

Suddenly the voice of the chief warder ordering
the convicts to close up broke in upon his thoughts,
and looking up he saw that the prison had
disappeared—nothing but a white sea of fog lay all
around, and even the walls of the field a few yards
away were almost invisible!  They were only
two fields now from the prison, and the gang
checked for a moment as the last gate but one was
reached.

Rupert was almost the centre of the gang, and he
noticed that his own warder, who was just in
front, was only just visible in spite of his dark
uniform.

As he reached the gate 303 gripped him by the
arm, dropped on his knees behind the wall and
disappeared.  At this moment the chief warder gave
the order to halt, and his heart flew into his mouth,
for he thought 303's action had been seen.  But the
sound of some one shouting at the horses, and
the chief warder's voice raised in angry question,
reassured him.

Without thinking of what he was doing he
dropped on his face and crawled rapidly down
the side of the wall.  At the same moment the
order to march was given and the noisy beating of
his heart was drowned by the creaking of the waggon
as it lumbered past.

He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall.
He wondered why he heard no shot or other
indication that they had been seen.  The rear
guards passed within six feet of him, and when
their black forms were swallowed up by the
white fog, he realised that their absence from
the gang would not be discovered until they
reached the prison.

Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and
almost immediately fell over 303, who was crouching
against it.

"Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered.
"We must make for Beardown.  This fog
may blow away at any moment."

They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls,
falling into holes, stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent
only on reaching Wistman's wood before the fog lifted.

He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge
of the direction in which he originally started
from the wall and the moorman's instinct to prevent
him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable
fate of every one lost in a fog.

They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road.
"Come on, we are right now!" Rupert cried excitedly.

They scrambled over the wall and raced down
the steep hillside.  Suddenly they saw the gleam
of water below them, bushes and stones appeared.
They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.

As they plunged across the river and breasted the
steep hill they saw the blessed fog shutting out
Beardown Farm and all the tors above it.

"Quick! we must get up with the fog before
we are seen.  Thank God, there is no one in
sight!"

But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already
dropping behind.

"I can't do it, 381; go on without me!"

Rupert turned back and, taking him by the arm,
pulled him down into a little hollow behind a huge
furze-bush and laid him on his back.

"You're only winded; we have run over a mile;
you'll get your second wind in a minute," he
whispered.  "But we must not wait here a moment
longer than absolutely necessary.  If the fog should
lift now, we are certain to be taken.  I am going
to make for Hartland Tor, which is close to my
father's house; there is an old, disused mine
below the tor in which we can hide for the present."

Boom!  A dull explosion echoed across the hills.

"What's that?" exclaimed 303.

"The alarm," Rupert replied.  "We have not a
moment to lose."





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.. _`"YOU'VE KILLED HIM"`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium

   "YOU'VE KILLED HIM."

.. vspace:: 2

Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland.
In a few minutes the hill would be swarming
with warders searching for them.

Rupert felt a thrill of excitement.  The first
thrill he had experienced for many weeks.  Curious
thoughts and memories flashed through his brain
as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict
303, who kept closely to his side in spite of the
steep ascent.  He remembered as a boy hunting
with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The
Hall; he used to ride a rough moorland pony.  This
thrill of being hunted was somewhat similar to the
thrill of hunting.  As a boy he had always had a
sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague
hope, he was always ashamed to express, that it
might escape.  He understood now.  It was far
finer to be hunted than to hunt.

"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried
to his comrade.  "Keep your pecker up, man!"

"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I
can't keep this pace up for long."

They had entered the thick pall of fog, and
presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath.
They stood close together, touching one another,
listening.  At first they heard nothing but the
sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their
own hearts.  And they could see nothing; the
blessed fog shut everything out from sight—rocks,
walls, roads, hills, and valleys.

"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.

"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked.
"Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's
a seaport town?"

Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of
his comrade.  He laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you?
It has never been done and never will be done.
I was born on these moorlands.  I know every
stick and stone and bush on them.  Even if I
wanted to I couldn't get away."

"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed.
"What do you mean?  What sort of game is it
you're playing—Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"

He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened
on his shoulder.  The silence was broken.  On the
still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping
along the distant road in the valley somewhere
below them.  They held their breath and listened
intently.

The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few
seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was
checked.  Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds
became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.

"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to
cut us off in that direction," Rupert said.  "We
must stick to the tors.  While the fog lasts they
can't leave the roads or bridle paths."

Again they commenced to struggle up the steep
ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course.

"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.

"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart.
A good place to hide if the fog lifts."

"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected.
"We must find a farm or a cottage where we can
get a change of clothing and food.  Then we may
get a chance of slipping away.  You say you know
the moorland—then you must know the folk on it.
Ain't there some one who would help us—or somewhere
where we could hide ourselves?  This is life
or death, remember."

Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened
speed and stopped.  "Listen, 303.  I don't want to
escape, because I know it's impossible.  All I hope
is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to
Blackthorn Farm—to my home."

His voice faltered a moment at the last word.
"There is something I want to say to my father—if
he's still alive.  Something I must say.  It's a
matter of life or death to him, perhaps—and to my
sister.  When I've done that, delivered my
message—why then I shall give myself up."

The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue
eyes clouded.  For a little while he was silent,
turning over in his mind what Rupert had said.

"You're balmy!" he growled eventually.  "Crikey,
what a chance!  Why, if you gets home, they'll
hide you, won't they—give you food and clothes and
money?  And I'll jolly well see that I gets the
same too.  We're going to see this thing through
together."

Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me,
if you like; but it's not a bit of good.  My father
will give us both up."

He looked at 303 sadly.  For months, perhaps for
years, he knew this convict had only thought of,
and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night.
The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already;
he could not believe that they would not get clear
away.  It was no use trying to persuade him that
he was attempting the impossible.

"I'll stand by you," he replied.  "I'll do what
I can to help you.  But it's no use talking.  Come
along!"

Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and
Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy.

"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is
the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough
Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall.  It will be
easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will
help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."

They started off again at a good pace.  They had
not gone for more than half a mile when they both
stopped simultaneously.

The sound of a voice had come out of the fog
far above them.  They listened.  It came again—a
faint shout.  They were straining their ears in the
intense silence.  Presently they heard a pony's
iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite.  A moment later
another shout, nearer than the first.

"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert
whispered.  "Quick, get over the wall!  We must
hide until they're gone."

As they climbed the wall a large stone was
displaced and went rolling and bounding down the
hill side.  Then, just as they jumped to the ground,
there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of
fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white
blanket withdrawn by invisible hands.  And there
on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined
against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred
yards apart.

"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.

The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing
their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to
gallop down the hill.

"We must make a run for it," Rupert said.
"There's fog still in the valley."

Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like
a hare, leaping, stumbling, dashing first one way,
then another to avoid obstacles.  Rupert followed.
Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend
him a hand.  Once he glanced back and he saw the
warders reach the wall; they dismounted, and one
commenced to pull the stones off the wall to make
a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and
shouted to the flying convicts to stop—or he would fire.

Twice the warning came.  They were racing side
by side now.  Rupert heard himself laugh.  The
sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards away
now.  He set his teeth and flung back his head
while he waited for the crack of the warders' carbines
and the "ping" of the buckshot.

It came just as the kindly fog was about to
envelop them again.  Ten seconds more and they
would have been safe.

Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a
sportsman.  Perhaps he had purposely given them a run
for their money.  But he had to do his duty.  He
knew that if once they got into the fog again they
would be lost.

So he fired.  He saw the right-hand man stumble,
then roll over and over like a shot rabbit until he
lay quite still face downwards on the heather.
Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the
other man had disappeared.

Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over
the wall and ran down the hill-side to the fallen
convict.  The man who had fired the shot stooped
down and turned him over.  And he started and
looked at his companion.  The convict's face was
white as death; blood was flowing from a wound on
his forehead.

"My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the
second warder said.  "You've killed him!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT POST BRIDGE HALL`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium

   AT POST BRIDGE HALL.

.. vspace:: 2

The warders stared into each other's faces.

"It's a bad job.  You're sure he's dead——"

"I wouldn't have done it for anything,"
the man who had fired the shot whispered.  "I
aimed at his legs, too.  Damn the gun!"

He threw it into the heather, and turned away
to hide his emotion.

The second warder glanced back over his shoulder.
The fog was slipping down the hillside again.  The
stone wall and the ponies were already lost to view.

"Fire off your gun again; they'll hear it on the
road.  I'd better go back for the ponies, or we shall
lose 'em."

"Which way did the other fellow go?"

"I don't know.  You get the ponies—I'll wait here."

The second warder hurried up the hillside towards
the stone wall and disappeared into the fog.  The
one who had fired the fatal shot stooped to pick up
his gun.  As he did so, the figure of the convict
lying on the heather stirred.  A second later he
was on his feet, running for dear life!

He was gone before the warder could realise what
had happened.  He swung round and stared open-mouthed
at the wall of fog surrounding him on all sides.

"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated.

Jamming a cartridge into his gun, he fired it off.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

When the fatal shot was fired Rupert was a few
yards ahead of 303, and he felt a sharp sting at
the point of his shoulder as he heard the shot whiz
by.  Thinking that the shot was aimed at him, and
feeling himself hit, he swerved to the right and made
for a low wall which ran down towards the powder-magazine,
intent only on reaching its shelter.  The
shock of being fired at had put all thought of his
comrade for the moment out of his mind, and it
was not until he was over the wall and heading for
the small clump of trees, through the top of which
he could see the ruined chimney of the old powder-mill
which instinct told him was his only chance,
did he think of 303.

Slackening his pace, he glanced back over his
shoulder—but he could see nothing.  He turned
once more and sped towards the trees which were
now only a few hundred yards away, and the fold
in the ground hid him from the road and also from
the hill above.  On reaching the trees, his breath
coming in great gasps, worn out with excitement,
he threw himself upon a bed of rushes growing beside
the Cherry Brook, which flowed within the walls
that enclosed the powder mills.

He was consumed with raging thirst, and when
he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he crawled
to the brook and buried his face in the cool, clear
stream.  As he sat up he saw his right hand dripping
with blood, and for the first time remembered his
wound.  Taking off his broad-arrowed coat, he felt
his throbbing shoulder, and was relieved to find the
bullet had but grazed his flesh.  He went to the
stream and dipped his coat into the water—when
he was startled by the dull thud of horses' hoofs
approaching.

The powder mill buildings were mere ruined shells.
There was no shelter there—but suddenly his eye
caught the chimney, a circular stack about thirty
feet high.  The horseman had reached the wall; he
heard him check the horse and dismount.  Rupert
remembered that he had often swarmed up the inside
of the chimney when a boy.  The sound of the pony's
hoofs striking the stones of the wall as the warder
led him through the gap caused Rupert to spring
towards the chimney.  In a second he was within
the ruined furnace, grasping the iron bar which
crossed the chimney some six feet above the ground.

He swung himself up, and placing his knees against
the round wall in front of him, and with his back
against the other side, he slowly worked himself up
the narrow shaft until he was some twelve feet up.
By jamming his feet in a niche from which the
mortar had fallen out, and with his back thrust
against the opposite wall, he made himself secure
for the moment.

He heard the warder and the pony stumbling over
the rubble which strewed the mouth of the ruined
chimney; his heart was in his mouth.  Pony and
man were within the furnace, and the voice of
the warder almost beneath him made Rupert look
down in momentary expectation of meeting his
upturned gaze; he saw his arm and shoulder already
beneath the chimney—another moment he would
be discovered.

A voice outside hailed the warder, and he stepped
back—and disappeared.

For some little time Rupert heard the voice of
men talking in the precincts of the powder mill.
He strained his ears to try and hear what they said,
but only caught odd words.  He gathered that they
were still searching both for him and Convict 303.
He was relieved to know that his friend had not
been caught; yet in his heart he realised it was
only a matter of time.  Once he reached home—if
indeed he were lucky enough to succeed in doing
so—he would only wait long enough to discover how
things were with his father and sister, and to warn
them that a fortune might still be lying within their
grasp.  He did not know how much of the little
property had been mortgaged to Sir Reginald
Crichton; he almost hoped the disused tin mine was
included.  As long as the interest was paid, the
mortgage would remain undisturbed; and Sir
Reginald had proved himself to be not only an
upright gentleman, but a kind friend.

It was his one-time friend, Robert Despard, the
man who had called himself his pal, whom he
feared.  Almost the last words the latter had spoken
to him echoed ironically in his brain:

"I'll keep the secret about our radium mine, old
man, never fear.  It's safe with me!"

Various schemes flashed with lightning-like
rapidity through Rupert's brain as he clung to his
perilous position in the chimney above the furnace.
He began to think that the men outside intended
to remain there for the night—it seemed so long
before they moved away, and he heard the beat of
their ponies' hoofs growing fainter and fainter.
But at last he knew they were really gone.  Even
then he waited awhile before he commenced to
painfully clamber to the ground.

He was stiff and sore.  His shoulder ached and
throbbed where the stray buckshot had struck him.
There was blood upon his hand, too, where he had
cut it.

But he was still free.  At first he moved cautiously,
examining the country as much as was visible in all
directions.  The fog had partially cleared away, but
it still lay in patches here and there.

There was not a soul in sight.  Not a sound to
be heard save the purling waters of the little Cherry
Brook on his left.  He knelt down and washed the
blood from his hand, then took a drink.  And
suddenly he laughed under his breath.

It was good to be alive again—for he had not
been living those past months in prison.  He had
been less alive than a caged animal.  He had slept,
eaten, worked, and exercised with mechanical-like
precision.  Even the agonies of mind he had
undergone seemed unreal now.  They did not even seem
to matter—nothing mattered but the fact that he
was free!

Free to sit or stand, to walk or run, to laugh or
to cry.  Free to move as he liked, look where he
liked, do what he liked.  He dug his hands into the
soft peat and tore it up, and sniffed the sweet scent.
He stood upright and stretched out his arms, then
laughed aloud.

It was indeed good to be alive again.  It was
wonderful!  The next moment he was trembling
from head to foot, and his body broke out in a
sweat.  He was not to be alive for long.  Even if he
reached Blackthorn Farm and delivered his message
he would have to give himself up and go back to
prison.  Back to that living grave!

He had told poor 303 that escape was absolutely
impossible.  Even if a man got outside Dartmoor
and reached Tavistock or Exeter or Plymouth he
was certain to be detected and brought back.  His
father would never hide him or help him—he knew that.

Yet if he once succeeded in getting home he could
remain there hidden long enough to disguise himself,
to grow a beard.  And then one day, so altered as
to be hardly recognisable, he might ship off to Canada
or Australia.

His head swam: he put his hands up before his
eyes for a moment.  The sudden draught of freedom
had intoxicated him.

Once again he gazed round the moorland.  It was
growing dark, the sun had set, and the western sky
was still glowing red.  Now and then a faint puff
of wind stirred the trees surrounding the powder
mill, and he saw stray banks of fog driving here and
there, shifting their position.  By crossing the
stream he could step right into the white bank of mist.

Freedom!  The thought of it had become an
obsession now.  Taking a run he cleared Cherry
Brook and plunged into the fog.  He knew his way
now; he could have found it blindfold.  But he
went cautiously, for no man can be sure of himself
if he once misses his way when a Dartmoor fog is down.

To reach Blackthorn Farm he would have to pass
Post Bridge Hall, which lay between him and the
East Dart.  He kept edging towards the valley, for
though it was near the main road, the fog lay more
thickly there than in the higher ground.

It was rough going.  Rocks and boulders and gorse
bushes impeded the progress, invisible in the mist.
Now and again he struck a boggy patch of ground
and had to make a wide detour to avoid it.  He had
been walking for upwards of an hour, and he began
to fear lest he had missed his way and perhaps been
going round in a circle, when suddenly he stepped
out into a clear, starlit night.  Below him he saw
the tiny village of Post Bridge, and almost directly
in front of him red lights gleaming through the
belt of trees.

Post Bridge Hall!  Down on the bridge itself,
near the little post office, he saw figures moving to
and fro.  He dropped on to his hands and knees
behind the shelter of a rock.  He heard the barking
of a sheep dog, the voices of men and women travelled
up to him.

Of course the news of the escape had spread, and
the place was alive with people searching.

How eager men and women were to hunt their
kind!  He remembered how as a boy he had joined
in just such a hunt.

He commenced to crawl along on all fours towards
Post Bridge Hall.  The trees there might shelter
him, but it would be useless to try and cross the
patch of country on the other side.  He climbed a
couple of stone walls, crossed a field, scrambled over
a fence, and dropped straight into the garden of the
Hall itself.

Lights gleamed from the windows.  The front
door stood wide open, and not a hundred yards
away from him he saw the outer door of the glass
conservatory which abutted from the drawing-room.
He saw with surprise that this was open too.

For a long time he lay waiting, watching, afraid
to go on—because he knew the fog would not descend
again.  The million eyes of the night watched him
from a cloudless sky.

Presently from the woods behind him he heard
voices and the barking of dogs.  A gang of men were
beating the spinney, searching for the two convicts.

Within sight of home he would be caught.  He rose
to his feet, crossed the narrow stretch of turf and
walked boldly up the drive.

He stood a moment outside the conservatory
door, listening.  He heard nothing but the voices
of the men in the wood and the barking of the dogs.

He stepped inside the conservatory, closed the
door, and then, fumbling for the key, found it.
He locked it, and drew the bolts top and bottom
which he knew were there.  Stooping down he
crawled beneath the broad shelf which ran the length
of the glass-house.  The leaves of a palm and the
fronds of a large fern gave him complete shelter.

He stretched himself out full length so as to lie
perfectly flat, and as he did so his foot struck a
pile of empty flower-pots.  They fell over with a
crash.  He stopped breathing.  He thought he
detected a woman's voice in the drawing-room.
A minute passed, but no one came.

He breathed again.  He was safe for the time
being.  The conservatory door was locked.  They
would never search Sir Reginald Crichton's house!
He was still a free man.  And freedom to him
now was more than anything else in the world.
More than love or honour, or the wealth that might
be lying hidden in the tin mine at home, waiting
for his father and sister.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALARMED`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium

   ALARMED.

.. vspace:: 2

Marjorie Dale only remained at Blackthorn
Farm after her father's return from London
long enough to nurse him back to health.
When he had completely recovered from the effects
of his accident she left home, Devonshire, and all
she knew and loved.  She went away as much in
deference to her lover's wishes as to her father's,
though so far as her own feelings were concerned
she would have preferred to remain at Post Bridge
and face public opinion—scandal, cruelty, and
calumny.  She knew that both she and her father
would be social outcasts.

She had connections on her mother's side living
at Calais.  They were in the lace trade, and had
spent the best part of their lives out of England.
To them Marjorie was sent—not altogether as a guest.
In return for a home and protection she was
expected to play the part of nursery governess to
their children and help in the housework.

No one was more delighted at this arrangement
than Sir Reginald Crichton.  Marjorie would be
away for at least six months, and during that time
much might happen.

Jim would learn to forget; work would help him.

He was so grateful that he made the mistake of
thanking Marjorie for the step she was taking.  But
she read his thoughts as she had done before: she
knew what he hoped would come from this parting
between Jim and her.

"I'm going away, not for my father's sake, nor
for yours, nor my own, but for Jim's sake," she
explained.  "I know that the parting will only
strengthen our love, and his determination to marry
me.  With him I believe that love is the greatest
thing in the world."  She smiled when Sir Reginald
shrugged his shoulders.  "I know it's an unfashionable
belief, yet everything in the world depends on
love.  The greatest men have always been the
greatest lovers; even soldiers, sailors, and Empire
builders.  When I return from abroad Jim is going
to announce our engagement.  I'm not entirely
selfish in agreeing to this; for I know that his
happiness and his future lie in my hand."

Sir Reginald had nothing to say.  He had proved
that argument was useless.  His son's attitude was
a severe blow to him.  For the moment love was
stronger than reason or ambition, but he still
believed that by waiting, love would weaken and even
Jim would listen to wiser and more worldly counsels.

So Marjorie bade her lover farewell one grey
autumn morning and left for France—but not
before she had had an unpleasant interview with
Robert Despard and taken a very unhappy farewell
of her father.

For when Despard brought the old man back from
London, he had stayed on at Blackthorn Farm, and
he had seized every opportunity of making love to
Marjorie—even after she had told him his case was
hopeless, that her heart was already given.

Despard had merely laughed and said he intended
to win her in spite of all opposition.  At first his
attitude puzzled her, for she could not conceive why
a man of his type should wish to marry into a family
whose name was now a byword in the county.
Her father encouraged him, moreover, and did
everything in his power to make her look kindly on
Despard's suit.

It was only the night before she left for Calais that
she discovered the reason.

Despard had insisted on paying off the mortgage
which Sir Reginald held on Blackthorn Farm, and
the homestead was once again her father's property.
Crichton, too, had acted very generously in the
matter of paying the conveyancing expenses himself.

Instead of being grateful, Marjorie was shocked and
horrified.  It seemed as if the three men had laid
their heads together and planned this thing to put
her in their power.  It was a trick on Despard's
part, and Sir Reginald had helped him—not
really for John Dale's sake, but in order to save
his own son from what he considered would be a
mesalliance.

To a certain extent she was right.  But Despard
had another and stronger motive for his generosity
in paying off the mortgage on the farm and handing
the estate back to the man who had, only a month
or two ago, been a stranger to him.  The reason
was to be found in the old tin mine where Rupert
and he had suddenly discovered the presence of
pitch-blende, firing their imaginations with thoughts
of radium—and a fortune.

News of what was happening in the outside world
seldom reached Marjorie in Calais.  And the only
news she received of what was taking place in the
wilds of Dartmoor was contained in a weekly letter
from her father.  He refrained from telling her
everything.  Jim wrote to her daily.  They were
very wonderful letters telling her of his work, telling
her of his love.  But for those letters she would
never have remained for half those long, weary
months in the conventional Anglo-French family
in the sleepy little town of Calais.

But even Jim did not know what was taking
place at Blackthorn Farm until the news became
public property, and the great boom which Despard
cleverly engineered was burst on a credulous,
Tango-dancing world.

By that time Marjorie had returned home to
find Despard ensconsed at Blackthorn Farm, the
land surrounded and over-run by a small army of
men, and Jim Crichton still absent with his corps
at Netheravon.

Marjorie hardly recognised her old home.  It was
over nine months since her brother had been
convicted and sentenced.  A change had taken place,
too, in her, and she knew it.  Six months abroad
had made a great difference—mentally and
physically.  She had looked forward to returning to
Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the
bitter memories she knew she would find there.

Her father met her at Newton Abbot station,
and it was some minutes before he found her in
the crowd of passengers who alighted from the West
of England express.  To the old man it seemed as
if she had grown up suddenly.  Grown from a girl
into a woman.  From a farmer's daughter into a lady.

"Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled.
"I almost took you for a Frenchwoman with that
smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous
shoes!  It's lucky we haven't brought the dogcart,
so you won't have to walk up the hills."

Marjorie imagined they would take the train to
Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor
omnibus to Post Bridge.  When she had collected
her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and
out of the station.  And there she saw Robert
Despard waiting in a motor-car.  He seized the
reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it
warmly, put it to his lips.

"Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to
Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she's become!
She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"

Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment.
Despard was the last person in the world
she wanted to see.

"Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she
cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car.

While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale
explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that
he kindly allowed them to make use of it.

"It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied.
"There have been great happenings at Post Bridge
since you went away, Marjorie.  I'm afraid you'll
find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself,
but the surrounding waste land."

"Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been
living with a fortune under our feet all these years,"
Dale explained.

He looked anxiously at his daughter and took
her hand; but she made no response.  After two
or three attempts at conversation when the car had
started, Dale relapsed into silence.  It was not easy
to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing
in their ears.  And in his heart, too, he felt a little
afraid of Marjorie.  A little frightened at the quick
march of events since she had been away.  And
perhaps just a little ashamed.

Marjorie guessed what had happened.  When
Blackthorn Farm was reached, she knew.  But
instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized
her.  Within a few hundred yards of the farm,
hideous corrugated iron buildings had sprung up;
the land all around the tin mine had been cleared
and levelled.  Plant was being erected; scattered
here and there were temporary dwellings, and offices
for the workmen; a miniature railway line had
already been laid on the ancient granite track.  Tears
rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that
had been done to her moorlands and her home.

"Whose work is this?" she asked.  "Mr. Despard's,
of course!  I suppose Sir Reginald gave permission——"

Dale explained all that had happened, and the
generous part Despard had played.  "I owe him a
debt I can never repay.  Ruin stared us in the face,
Marjorie, and through him it has been averted.
When—when my boy comes out of prison—though
I hope I shall not live to see that day—he will at
least have the chance of living a decent life, of
wiping out the crime he committed, and becoming
a useful citizen.  He will have the opportunity, for
he will be a rich man.  God grant that he takes it."

Marjorie shook her head.  "Mr. Despard is a
stranger to us.  It's unlike you, father, to accept
so much from a stranger.  What does Mr. Despard
expect in return?"

The old man turned away.  "Nothing.  Of course
he'll share in our good fortune.  He'll take the
larger share of whatever money we make.  I have
insisted on that.  A company will be floated—it's
in the course of promotion already.  It's a gamble,
to a certain extent.  I believe there's a deal of
opposition; there are men who scoff at the idea of
traces of radium having been discovered here.
Other eminent men have made exhaustive tests, and
their report leads us to believe there is no doubt
that we shall be able to extract radium from the
mine.  But I've refused to take a single penny in
cash; I'm to be paid entirely in shares."

"And how is Mr. Despard to be paid?"

"I don't believe he has thought of himself," Dale
replied.  "He'll join the board of directors, of
course, and I suppose he'll receive a certain
number of shares.  He'll become a very famous man,
Marjorie.  I've seen a lot of him during the past
few months, and my respect has grown daily.  He
has thrown himself heart and soul into this business.
At first every one scoffed at him, but lately a change
has taken place in public opinion here.  Even Sir
Reginald is converted.  Can't you guess why
Mr. Despard has worked so hard and been so generous?
I'm sure his love for you, born originally of pity,
has been the motive."

"Then I'm sorry," Marjorie said quickly.  "Even
if I were not engaged to Jim I could never care for
Mr. Despard.  I dislike and distrust him.  The
sooner he realises this the better."

John Dale sighed and shook his head.  He had
forced himself to believe his daughter would forget.
He had hoped, he had prayed, that she would
have grown to see things in a reasonable way, and
that this sudden promise of wealth would entirely
change her point of view of life and love.

"Sir Reginald will never consent to his son
marrying you," he replied harshly.  "Why, Jim is
little more than a boy, he doesn't know his own
mind.  He has already forgotten."

Marjorie smiled and said nothing more.  She knew
that she would see him in a few days' time, for he
had applied for special leave on urgent private
affairs, and he had written assuring her that he would
be at the Hall again within twelve or fourteen days.
He also hinted that he had important work in hand,
that he might be doing some long distance flights
on a new monoplane containing improvements,
which were his own inventions, later on in the year.
And he was down for early promotion.

The twelve days of waiting for her lover's return
were long and weary ones.  Blackthorn Farm was
no longer the lonely, forgotten homestead, tucked
away in a secluded part of the moorlands it had
been formerly.  Tourists and trippers thronged to
look at the curious old farmhouse and to watch the
works being erected a few hundred yards away.
The place was over-run by workmen.  All day long
cars and lorries were rushing to and fro along the
main road between Princetown and Post Bridge and
Moretonhampstead.  Solitude and loneliness, which
had been so easy to find in the old days, disappeared.
Marjorie had to take long walks before she knew
she was safe from intrusion.  She dreaded meeting
friends and acquaintances more than the strangers
who came to stare at her old home.  She was
not afraid of being cut or shunned.  Instinct
warned her, that now it was known vast wealth was
hidden in the old mine, people would conveniently
forget the shame that had fallen on her name.
They would no longer think of her as the convict's
sister, but as the future heiress.  Shame made her
want to hide from every one but her lover.  Even
from her father and the labourers and farm hands
on the estate.

She was ashamed—not of herself or her brother,
but of them!

At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from
her lover saying that he would reach Post Bridge
Hall that evening.  Of course the news of the
happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried
to him.  He told Marjorie that his father would be
absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon
as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall.  He
did not want anyone to know of his arrival.

So Marjorie said nothing.  Her love had become
too precious a thing to be talked about.  Moreover,
she did not want Despard to know of Jim's
presence at the Hall.  Feeling secure in the knowledge
that John Dale approved of his love for Marjorie,
Despard had pressed his suit on every available
opportunity, giving her no peace.  When he found
it was useless to plead, he even threatened her.

But Marjorie laughed in his face.

"You can laugh now," he said savagely.  "But
I mean to make you my wife.  I mean to win you.
Not many men would have done for a woman what
I've done for you.  I've saved you from poverty,
I've saved you from disgrace.  Perhaps when
we're married I can save your brother from prison."

She had always believed in her heart that Despard
could have proved Rupert's innocence if he had
chosen to speak at the trial.  And these words
returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.

Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left
the farm and walked in the direction of Beardown,
intending to pass the rest of the day there reading,
until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall.
When the fog came down, she had to slightly alter
her plans, and she made for the main road as she
knew she could not lose her way there.  She was
terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered
close to Post Bridge Hall until it began to grow
dark.  She scarcely heard the boom of the warning
signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on
meeting the man she loved.  It was just as the fog
lifted and she was making her way by the long
drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook
her and pulled up, and Jim jumped to the ground.

They looked at one another, but spoke no word.
Telling the chauffeur to take the car on, Jim slipped
his arm through Marjorie's, and together they
walked up to the house.  Not until they had entered
the drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing,
did Jim Crichton speak.  He took Marjorie's hand
in his and looked deep into her eyes.

"I can hardly believe that you are really here,"
he whispered.  "It seems too good to be true.  The
months have been like years.  But you have never
been absent from me—even in my work you have
always been beside me.  By day and by night.
If I had ever doubted that love was the greatest
thing in the world I should know it now."

Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she
tried to speak, but no words came.  He had said
just what she wanted him to say.  And he had
said it quietly, almost coldly.

For a few moments there was silence.  Then he
released her hands, and opening his arms he took
her in them and, holding her tightly, covered her
face with kisses.  The pent-up passion burst.  The
months of separation, the obstacles that had been
placed in their way, instead of killing their love,
had increased it ten-fold.

"My dear, my dear one, what does anything else
in the world matter so long as we have one another!"
Jim whispered.

"Nothing," she sobbed, unable to keep back her
tears—tears of joy.  "Nothing—but I'm a woman.
Therefore love is all in all to me.  But you're a
man, and——"

He silenced her with his lips: "And helpless,
useless without his mate."

The darkness increased.  The old oak-panelled
room was only lit by the dancing flames from the
log fire.  There was silence in the house, and outside
on the moorlands there was silence, too.  Presently
it was broken by the shouts of men and the baying
of dogs.  But the lovers did not hear.

They only heard the beating of each other's
hearts and the voice of Love calling them to walk
fearlessly along the path they had chosen.  And the
voice of Fate calling them to face the unknown
future together.

Twice a servant knocked at the door before Jim
heard, and starting up told him to enter.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, striking a match
to light the candles, fearful lest his father had
returned earlier than he expected.

The servant explained that an official from
Princetown Prison wished to see him.  "I understand,
sir," the man said in an excited voice, "that
a couple of convicts escaped this afternoon in the
fog.  They traced one in this direction.  He
was wounded by a shot the warder fired.  They
want permission to search the grounds and out-buildings."

Jim hesitated for a moment.  "Of course they
can search," he replied.  "You know where the
keys of the garage, the stables, and the out-buildings
are, Perkins.  You had better accompany them;
and be sure to lock up carefully."

"Very good, sir!"

The servant was about to retire when the burly
form of a uniformed warder blocked the doorway.
He saluted.

"I understand Sir Reginald is away; can I
speak to you a moment, sir?"

Jim glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie.  She
was hidden from sight, seated in a large armchair.

"Certainly," he replied.  He crossed the room
and stepped into the hall, closing the drawing-room
door behind him.

As he did so a noise from the conservatory on
the left of the fireplace startled Marjorie.  The
sound of a sudden crash.  She listened a moment,
then rose to her feet.

Very quietly stepping towards the door which
led into the hot-house, she pulled back the curtain
and peered through the glass panel.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XIX`:

.. _`"YOU MUST GO BACK"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium

   "YOU MUST GO BACK!"

.. vspace:: 2

Marjorie could see nothing.  It was quite
dark outside now.  She listened, straining
her ears, but not another sound could be
heard.  Whatever had fallen or been knocked
down had made a great noise.  Obviously, some
one was in the conservatory.

She turned the handle of the door; it was
unlocked, and it opened.  Her first thought was that
perhaps one of the dogs had been shut in by
mistake.  As she stepped down on to the tessellated
pavement into the darkness she experienced a
sudden little throb of fear.  For the thought came
that perhaps one of the escaped convicts had made
his way into the conservatory and was hiding there.
The fear went as quickly as it came.  Her eyes,
growing accustomed to the gloom, saw dimly
outlined the delicate fronds of the ferns and the
graceful palms and overhead the green of the clambering
vine.  The air was heavy with the warm and subtle
odour of forced growth.

She made her way to the door leading into the
garden, and found it locked and bolted.  So no
one could have possibly entered that way.  She
gave a whistle and snapped her fingers, still thinking
that one of the dogs might be there.  There was
no response.

She was turning away when her foot struck a
portion of broken pot.  Stooping down she saw
that a large pile of them had been overturned,
and the majority lay in fragments on the ground,
behind them a tin bucket from which water was
still trickling.

She gave a little laugh—it seemed so mysterious.
And then her brow puckered in a frown....  Had
some one been listening and spying on them?  The
idea was ridiculous, and yet—the bucket, obviously
half full of water, and the pile of pots could not have
fallen there on their own account.  It was just
possible that a large rat——

She stooped down to peer under the shelf.  As
she did so she was conscious of footsteps on the
gravel outside, and at the same moment a brighter
light shone through the door leading into the
drawing-room.  A servant had brought in the lamp.
Then she heard Jim's voice, obviously speaking to
one of the warders from the prison.

The ferns and the drooping tendrils of plants
and a bank of moss blocked her view underneath
the shelf; the light from the drawing-room fell at
the wrong angle.  Bending lower she brushed aside
a clump of ferns.

And she saw, pressed tightly against the wall,
the outline of a foot and leg.  Some one was hiding
there.

The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale
broad-arrow on the boot and trousers.

One of the escaped convicts!  She caught her
breath, and drawing back stood upright, uncertain
for the moment what to do.  The door was bolted
on the inside, and with Jim and the warders a few
feet away in the drawing-room he was trapped.
There was no escape.  She hesitated a moment, not
in the least alarmed, only surprised and a little
overwhelmed by her discovery.  She knew that the
moorlands must be alive with men searching; already,
probably, the outbuildings and the houses were
being ransacked—and here the convict lay, at her feet.

The next thought was that he must have heard
her enter and knew that she had discovered him.
She wondered why he had not attacked her and tried
to bolt.

"Marjorie—where are you?"

She started at the sound of her lover's voice.
It brought her back to a sense of her duty.  As
she turned towards the drawing-room she heard—him
saying good-night to the warder to whom he had
been talking.

"One moment," she cried, "I want you, Jim."

Something stirred at her feet.  A movement
from the hunted creature lying hidden beneath
the ferns and flowers.

Suddenly, in a flash, she felt as if her soul, her
whole being, had changed places with his.  She
experienced the agony that he was feeling—alternating
hope and fear.  The desire to live and escape
at all costs, and the desire to kill those who stood
between him and liberty.  She heard herself draw
her breath with difficulty, with hard, sharp gasps.
Her body broke out into a sweat.  She trembled
from head to foot.

Then she felt Jim's hand on her arm.  "Hello,
dear, what are you doing out here in the darkness?"

She turned her back on him, afraid lest the light
coming through the open door shone on her face.
Again she heard a stealthy movement of feet followed
by a shuffling under the shelf.  The convict knew
the game was up and was coming out.

"Don't move," she cried, scarcely knowing what she said.

With an effort she steadied herself and gained
self-control.  Against the wall on her right a
Maréchal Niel rose-tree had been trained.  A yellow
bud caught her eyes just out of reach.  Jim Crichton
entered the conservatory.

"I wanted to steal that rose," she whispered.
"I'm not tall enough.  Do pick it for me, Jim."

"Silly child," he laughed.  "You gave me quite
a fright.  I thought something was wrong."

Standing on tip-toe, he picked the rosebud and
gave it her.  Bending her head she placed her lips
to it.  Jim kissed the top of her head, then, turning
away, tried the outer door.

"That's all right.  No one can get in here.
Come along back to the drawing-room, Marjorie.
Those fellows will have finished searching in a
minute and we shall be left in peace again.  It's
rather serious, you know, a couple of convicts
getting away.  But, of course, they'll catch them
all right—though I'm afraid they'll have to wait
until the morning now."

Taking her hand he led her back to the drawing-room.
He was closing the conservatory door when
she asked him to leave it open.

"It seems rather hot in here."

"Well, it's hotter in there," he laughed.

He put his arms around her and gazed into her
eyes.  "I'm jealous of every minute that's stolen
from us.  I shall never let you go away again for
such a long period.  It's been bad enough for me,
and I've had work that I love.  It must have been
worse for you, darling."

She nodded, and laid her face on his shoulder.
"That's all gone, dear.  This hour is ours—and
there's the future....  Jim, I have a confession to make."

"Well, come and sit down in the arm-chair and
make it," he laughed.  "Let me hold you in my
arms as if you were a child, for that's all you are
sometimes."

"Not now.  I'm a woman.  No," as he made a
movement, "listen to me, Jim.  While I was away
from you I had no doubts about the future.  I
was certain that I could make you happy, that love
was the principal thing in life.  I'm not so sure now."

She felt his grip tighten.  "Why, just now you
confessed——"

"I confessed what *I* felt," she interrupted.  "I
want you to confess.  I want you to look far, far
into the future ... and also to remember the
past.  Remember what I am—and what my
brother is."

Against her will her eyes were drawn towards
the conservatory where the convict was hiding.
An outcast, an outlaw, wearing the shameful
uniform of crime.  Just such a man was her brother.
Wearing just the same uniform, living the same life,
thinking the same thoughts.  Just as desperate.  Her
brother: herded with other criminals in one of the
great prisons of England.  She had been speaking
her thoughts, saying just what she felt.  She knew
that she was speaking them to gain time.  She
ought not to have wasted one moment before telling
Jim of the man hiding a few yards away from
them.  Warders were at that moment searching
outbuildings and the gardens.  She was committing
an unlawful act in not giving him up.  She was
making her lover party to her guilt.

But she could not tell him.  For one dreadful
moment she had entered into that wretched man's
feelings.  It was as if she had taken his place in the
darkness out there where he was hiding.

She wanted him to escape!  She was incapable of
reasoning that moment.  Perhaps the taint of crime
was in her blood.  Perhaps her brother really had
been guilty of robbing her lover's father.

"My dearest little one, you needn't trouble
about my future.  I shall really only begin to live
when you're my wife.  I can't lose my job—if I
do I can find another.  And your love will make
me twice as keen on my work, for you will share
in it.  We have each got our job to do, and we
shall do it better for being together.  That's all
about it."

She heard his voice, as from a distance off.
As he finished speaking she heard footsteps in the
hall—the opening of the front door.

Some one knocked at the drawing-room door.
It opened, and the servant admitted the chief warder.

"We've searched carefully, sir," he said to Jim,
who put Marjorie from him and stood in front of
her.  "And some of my men have been right through
the gardens and shrubberies, but they ain't hiding
anywhere here.  No doubt you'll see that your
men-servants keep a sharp look-out.  One man's
badly hit—but he was a sharpish one, he was.
I'm afraid there ain't much chance of getting them
to-night, but we shall have them as soon as day
breaks."  He saluted.  "Good-night, sir.
Good-night, ma'am."

The drawing-room door closed, and Marjorie
listened to the footsteps crossing the hall.  "We shall
get them as soon as day breaks."  Automatically
she repeated the words the warder had spoken.

"Jim, come here quickly.  I have something I
must tell you before the warders go."

He turned towards her, frowning, a look of
amazement on his face.  Even then she hesitated.  She
heard the front door close.  The warders had gone.
Taking Jim by the arm she led him towards the
conservatory.

"There's some one hiding in there," she whispered.
"When you left the room to speak to the chief
warder I heard a crash from the conservatory.  I
went in, and under the shelf I saw a man crouched
up.  His clothes bore the broad arrow.  He's one
of the convicts who escaped."

Jim looked at her with unbelieving eyes.  Then
putting her aside, he stepped quickly towards the
conservatory.  Suddenly he stopped and swung round.

"Marjorie!  You're certain of this?  Why didn't
you speak—before the warders left?"

Something moved in the darkness of the hothouse.
Slowly out of the masses of foliage a head and
shoulders emerged.  Jim sprang to the bell and
rang it.

"What are you going to do?" Marjorie whispered.

"Send Perkins to call the warders back.  Give
the fellow up," he replied sharply.  "You ought to
have told me at once, Marjorie.  You had better
wait in the dining-room."

He stood in the doorway blocking the exit.  Marjorie
stood in front of him and laid her hands on
his arms.

"Jim—you mustn't give him up.  It's horrible."

He tried to push her away.

"Jim," her voice rose piercingly.  "My brother is
a convict....  You needn't hide him, but just let him
go—give him a sporting chance.  Let him go.
No one will ever know.  Give him a chance."

"Silence, dear.  You don't know what you're saying."

The door opened and Perkins entered the room.
For a moment there was silence.  Not a sound
from the conservatory now.  Not a sound from
the garden outside.  The barking of the dogs and
the voices of the men had died away.

"You rang, sir?"

"Bring the glasses, a syphon of soda water, and
the whisky," Jim said in a strained voice.

Directly the servant had gone he pointed to the
sofa on the other side of the fireplace away from the
entrance to the conservatory.

"Marjorie, dear, go and sit down there.  I
understand, and I'm sorry; but I must do my duty."

She looked at him dry-eyed.  All the tenderness
had left her face.  "It's five-score of men against
one.  Open the door and let him go.  Yes, he's
bound to be caught to-morrow, but every hour,
every minute, every second of freedom must be as
sweet to him as our love is to us, Jim.  Give him
a run—for his money."

Jim had turned his back on her.  He disappeared
into the conservatory and the door closed behind him.

Perkins brought the tumblers and the whisky
into the room and placed them on a small table.

"Quite exciting, miss, this escape of two convicts.
Hasn't been an escape from Princetown for a long
time.  What with that and this radium mine on
Mr. Dale's estate——"

He suddenly stopped and coughed deprecatingly.
He, too, in speaking of convicts had forgotten
that he was speaking to a convict's sister.

Marjorie waited.  For a long time she heard no
sound.  Then Jim's voice, strained and very stern.
Not the voice of a lover now, but the voice of a
soldier—even something more than that, the voice
of a man under the strain of great emotion.

Presently she detected an answering voice.  She
rose to her feet, and standing against the
conservatory door peered through the glass.

She could see the outlines of the two men
distinctly.  One her lover, the other the convict.
Jim turned, and as he did so he saw her.  She
saw him push the convict back, then, mounting the
steps, he opened the door.

"Go back!" he cried fiercely.  "Go—away—into
the dining-room."

"You must tell me what you're going to do."

She looked into his face, but his eyes fell.  His
mouth looked merely a thin line, his jaws
protruded.  She put her hand on his arm—it was
like a steel band.

"Go away, do you hear!  Go away, do you hear!
Wait until I come to you."  He commanded now.

He tried to push her across the room.  She clung
to him and stood her ground.  She stared into his
face, forced his eyes to meet hers.

"You are hiding something from me, Jim....
You are going to give him up——"

Suddenly he seized her wrists in a grip of iron.
"You know who's hiding out there," he said between
his teeth.

"A convict—that's all I know——"

A sound from the conservatory made Jim turn
his head.  Marjorie wrenched herself free.  Out
of the darkness beyond the conservatory door the
figure of the convict emerged.  Marjorie stopped as
she saw him.

"Go back!" Jim cried.

The convict spoke.  "It's too late!  I'm a
coward, I know.  But liberty's dearer than life
now."  He held out his arms to Marjorie.  "Hide
me, for God's sake, hide me!"

She put out her hands as if to keep him off.  Her
lips framed his name.  The name of her brother!
It rattled in her throat.  She turned to her lover.

"I didn't know, Jim, I didn't know!"

He nodded.  "Speak quietly.  Sit down there."

Crossing the room, he locked the drawing-room
door.  He motioned Rupert to the arm-chair and
made him place it so that if he had to open the door
no one would see him.  Then he poured out a stiff
whisky and soda and gave it him to drink.  The
tumbler rattled between his teeth as he emptied
the contents.  He laid it on the floor by his side, then
he looked at Jim, avoiding his sister's eyes.

"I—I was hunted here.  I didn't come purposely.
When I broke away it was not to escape....  I had
a message.  But the taste of liberty has grown
so sweet that—that nothing else matters!"

He stopped, and drew the back of his hand across
his mouth.  "But before it comes to a question
of—of fighting for my freedom—in case I go under,
you had better hear what I've got to say.  It's for
Marjorie and my father I escaped.  It was not for
you or your father's ears, Mr. Crichton—I want
to make sure that swine Despard doesn't cheat
us of our rights."

He paused a moment as if expecting an interruption,
but neither Jim nor Marjorie spoke.  They
were as motionless as figures of stone.

"Just before—before I was accused of robbing
your father, Mr. Crichton, Despard and I found
there was pitch-blende in the old tin mine by
Blackthorn Farm.  Despard made experiments with
it and—he got a report from Vardoff—you may
have heard of him—an expert.  The report said
there were good grounds for supposing that radium
might be——"

Then Jim Crichton stopped him.  "Save your
breath.  We know this.  Why, already the plant is
being erected, a company floated.  Mr. Despard
has apparently done quite the right thing.  Anyway,
the property belongs to your father again, and if
there's any truth in the report he'll make a fortune.
If that's all you came to say, all you wanted to know,
you can go back to prison with an easy conscience."  He
spoke brutally.  "You must go back, you know."

"I am innocent."

"That's not the question now.  You must go back."

Slowly Rupert turned and looked at his sister.
"Marjorie.  Help me!  Say a word for me.  He
loves you....  Ask him, and he'll help me to escape.
For he can, now.  The warders won't come back
here.  I'm safe for the moment.  Marjorie—speak.
You are my flesh and blood.  Speak!  It's my
life I'm pleading for."





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.. _`PLANS FOR ESCAPE`:

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   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium

   PLANS FOR ESCAPE.

.. vspace:: 2

Marjorie looked at her lover.  He met her
gaze fairly.  But she saw fear in his
eyes—a thing she had never seen there before.

She knew he had never known the meaning of
fear until now.  Then she looked at her brother.
Crossing to his side she told him to stand up.

"Look at me, Rupert.  Tell me whether you're
innocent or guilty—one moment, before you speak.
I know, but I want to hear the truth from your lips."

"It can make no difference."  Jim Crichton spoke.
"He has been found guilty.  He has escaped from
prison.  He must go back to prison."

Brother and sister were standing close together,
facing one another fearlessly now.  To Jim listening
and watching it seemed a long time before Rupert
spoke.

"I am innocent," he said at last.

Marjorie put her arms around him, holding him
closely and tightly.  "I knew it."

Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back.
"Who was the guilty person?  Do you know that?"

"Yes.  I know that."

"Who was it?"  Her voice rose triumphantly.

Again there was a long silence.  Jim turned his
back.  He was fighting against the fear which
possessed him.  He was afraid of himself.  Emotions
of which he had never before been conscious
filled his heart—war against ideals, principles and
faiths to which he had been brought up.

"I shall never say who was guilty."

Marjorie gave vent to a little cry: a cry of joy.
She took her brother's hands, both of them, and
covered them with kisses.  Roughly he snatched
them away and stood back.

"I've given you my message—though it has
come too late.  I don't know what Despard has
done for you, but don't trust him, Marjorie.  Warn
father....  When I said just now that I had had no
intention of escaping it was true.  But now I
have escaped I don't mean to go back.  If you won't
help me, if the man who loves you does his duty
and gives me up, then I shall fight for it."

He backed across the room as he spoke, and
gazed around as if seeking for some weapon.

Marjorie stepped towards her lover and held
out her arms.  "Jim!"

He shook his head, and crossing the room unlocked
the door.

"Jim!  What are you going to do?"

"I must do my duty."

She followed him.  "Your duty to the State?
But what of me.  Yes, I am pleading for myself
now.  For the love we bear one another."

The door-handle rattled in his hand.  He stood
with his back towards her.  "Marjorie, don't
tempt me."

"I'm not tempting you," she replied quietly.
"I'm asking you calmly and coldly to save my
brother.  I know what I'm asking.  I know that if
you hide him and if he's discovered you will be
ruined.  I realise the awful responsibility I'm
putting on you.  I'm doing a terrible thing,
but I'm doing it with my eyes open, conscious
of the love I bear you....  Still, I ask it.  Save him."

Beads of perspiration stood on Rupert's forehead.
He was trembling from head to foot as if with an
ague.  The muscles of his face worked convulsively.

"Just let me go then.  I'll take my chance
outside.  They'll never know I was here, I'll swear
to that.  A few hours' more freedom—that's all I
want.  I might get back home and see my father
for a moment....  They won't take me alive.  I can't
go back to that granite hell at Princetown.  Death's
easier.  I'm not afraid—for I can die fighting
... but to be taken back like a dog on a chain, to
be put into a hole where there is neither night nor
day, only silence and four narrow walls, and a
cup of water and a piece of bread——"

Jim held up his hand.  "Silence, Dale.  Don't
say any more.  This rests between Marjorie and
me.  There is one thing, however, you should
know—I am going to marry your sister."

Rupert made a movement forward, then stopped.
"I told you just now that I was a coward," he cried
fiercely, his voice rising.  "I am no longer a man.
Prison has done its work quickly....  All I want now
is freedom.  I don't care how I get it.  I was
neither a thief nor a liar nor a coward when I was
convicted nine months ago, but I am now, and
I'll lie, cheat, kill—for freedom.  I'm going to get
out of this house alive even if they shoot me like
a dog outside your garden gate.  So now you know."

"Be silent," Jim said again.  He turned round
and looked at Marjorie.  "You have heard.  What
do you say?"

"Save him.  Perhaps I am asking you the greatest
thing in the world.  If my love is worth the
sacrifice—make it."

He took her hands in his then.  They were
as cold as ice.  She scarcely looked beautiful.
The agony she was undergoing had distorted her
features.

"Wait here.  I shall not be long."

He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Marjorie stood with her back to it, supporting herself
against it.  Rupert stared round the room, crossed to
the conservatory door and closed it.  He pulled the
curtain at the window closer.  He picked up the
decanter of whisky as if to help himself again,
but changed his mind and put it down.  Twice
he tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips.

"Sit down, dear," Marjorie said, striving to
regain her normal voice.  "You must be very tired."

He nodded his head but remained standing.  Jim
was absent a long time.  Now and then sounds
they would not have heard under ordinary
circumstances startled the brother and sister waiting in
the drawing-room—waiting far apart.  Once they
had been all in all to one another; now a third
person stood between them, and in his hands lay
Rupert's life.

At last Rupert spoke.  "I can't stand this much
longer.  Marjorie, open the door and let me go.
I'm asking too much.  Let me go and take my chance."

She shook her head.  "Wait."

At last Jim returned.  He left the door open and
beckoned to Rupert.  "Follow me."

The convict glanced at him.  There was no need
to question.  He crossed the room on tip-toe, holding
his breath.  His expression was that of a hunted
animal, his movements the same.

The door closed and Marjorie was alone.  An
hour passed, but now she was unconscious of time.
She sat on the Chesterfield staring into space.  She
was only conscious of Jim's presence when she felt
his arms around her.

"Father may return any moment," he said.
She heard a sob of fear in his voice, it had changed.
She did not recognise it as the voice of her lover.
"I'm afraid you must go.  Before you go I must tell
you what I've done and what I hope to do.  Listen,
dear—and remember."

"I am listening, Jim."

"You know my workroom at the back of the
house, just underneath my bedroom?  It was
built out for me just before I joined the R.F.C.
Underneath it is a cellar where I keep a few things
stored—plant, bits of machinery, petrol, and so
forth.  Some of the plant I want for my experiments
is there and a small furnace.  The entrance to
my workroom is always locked and the way to the
cellar bolted and padlocked, too.  I've hidden him
there, in the cellar.  Binks, my bull terrier, always
sleeps in the workroom.  He knows Rupert,
remembered him and made friends at once.  He
would give warning if anyone approached....  I've
given Rupert a change of clothes and food—enough
of the latter to last him twenty-four hours in case
of need.  I spend half the day in my workroom
always, so—he won't feel lonely.  A fortnight or
three weeks at least must pass before we can dream
of escape.  He can change his appearance in that
time, too."

He waited a moment.  Marjorie said nothing,
but he felt her body tremble.  He held her
tighter.

"I've thought of a way.  It seems the only
way, but, at the same time, it means the greatest
risk.  I'll tell you now in case there's not another
opportunity.  We may want your help.  In about
three weeks' time I'm doing a special flight—a
long distance flight from Netheravon to Plymouth,
carrying a passenger.  It isn't long enough to attract
public attention.  As an experiment I am using
a new engine and trying a little invention of my
own which the Government may take up.  A certain
amount of secrecy will, therefore, be observed.
I shall be free to make whatever arrangements I
like, take whatever course I choose, and so forth.
My idea, hazy at present, is that Rupert shall be
my passenger.  If I can pick him up and land him
at Plymouth he'll stand a chance, a fairly good one,
perhaps.  Luckily, he knows every inch of
Dartmoor, so do I.  A monoplane doesn't attract as much
attention as it used to, and if the public doesn't
know anything about the flight or the direction I'm
taking, I may manage to pass over the wildest
part of Dartmoor, Cranmere Pool, for example,
come down there unnoticed, and pick up Rupert....
Don't say anything, dear, and now go.  If you're
asked, don't hesitate to say where you've spent
this evening.  Hide nothing—except the fact that
you've seen your brother.  Any distress you may
show would be perfectly natural.  Blackthorn Farm
is sure to be watched day and night.  You and your
father will be watched and followed, probably, but
that needn't prevent your coming up here if you
want to see me.  I won't announce our engagement
until Rupert is safe, in case it arouses suspicion."  He
led her to the door.  "Good-night, dear.  God
bless you."

"God bless you," she stammered.  "It is mean
to ask now, but tell me one thing more before I
go.  You don't hate me?  I've asked the
impossible, and you have done it—you won't hate me
when you realise what you've done?"

He forced her eyes to meet his and he smiled
bravely.  "I realised what I was doing before I
did it, dear.  It's a big thing.  It's like war.  That's
all now.  I love you better than——"

The sentence was unfinished.  He kissed her
lips, and opening the door led her through the hall
out into the garden.  There he wished her
good-night again, loudly, in a cheery tone of voice, and
watched her until she was out of sight.

The fog had quite disappeared.  The million
eyes of the night shone from a cloudless sky.  An
owl hooted from a wood on the right.  Down
in the valley the East Dart sang its way to the sea.

Jim Crichton looked up at the sky.  And
presently he smiled.  It was good to be a soldier
and to fight.  It was better to be a man, and to love.





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.. _`READY FOR FLIGHT`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium

   READY FOR FLIGHT.

.. vspace:: 2

Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for
the sudden fame into which Blackthorn
Farm had sprung owing to the discovery
of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition
contained in the expert's report that radium would
undoubtedly be found.  For the county was far too
excited—even though still sceptical—over this
discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the
escape of two convicts.

No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly
deceived the warders into believing they had killed
him, was, of course, eventually caught, though
not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.

Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported
to be still at large.  The police and warders
scoured the county.  Plain-clothes detectives were
at every seaport town and village on the coast.
Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth
was searched.  Hotels and common lodging houses
were kept under constant surveillance.  Occasionally
an arrest was reported—but 381 was not found.

The police confessed themselves baffled at last.
The authorities at Princetown were at their wits
end.  That a convict should escape at all was bad
enough, but that fourteen days should pass without
his being captured was almost without precedent.

At first the moorland dwellers and village folk
all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they
grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at
the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture
381.  Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round,
and soon a wish was openly expressed that the
convict would really make good his escape and
never be caught.

"He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves
to get off.  Dang me! if I came across him now
I'm not sure I'd give him up."

The police decided that he had safely got out of
the county, probably out of England.  Up at
Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the
man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor.
And they had good reason for thinking this.  The
news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than
Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm.  A moorman,
one who knew every inch of the country, born and
bred on Dartmoor.  Such a one, provided he could
get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek
with his would-be captors for many weeks.

When the best part of three weeks had passed,
when every scrap of country had been searched
and no stone left unturned—indeed, there was not a
cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped
examination—then the officials began to look rather
ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert
Dale, though he had not left the country, had at
least got out of Devonshire.

The moorlands resumed their normal aspect
and were no longer dotted about with detectives,
constables and armed warders.  But the police
increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring
towns.

Old John Dale had done his best to help in the
search and aid the warders.  It was only natural
that at first he should be suspected of knowing
where his son was hiding, in spite of the character
he bore for straightforwardness and honesty.  A
very careful account was kept of the workmen
employed in erecting the plant of what was already
known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.

Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were
terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no
more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and
welfare than was to be naturally expected in such
a case.

Curiously enough, with each passing day
confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt
no fear at all that he would be discovered and
taken back to Princetown.  While he was hidden
in Jim's workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe.
Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her
sake ceased to worry her.

She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled
herself at the cool, deliberate way in which
she played it.

The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert
Despard.  Before Rupert's escape she had avoided
him on every possible occasion.  Now, she no longer
dared do so.  For she felt he suspected
her—suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he
was hiding.  His work kept him so busy that he
had not much time to persecute her.  Still, she knew
he was at watch—and when he was not watching
her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that
whenever he left the farm he would bend his
footsteps towards the Hall.

She had only seen Jim once since the night of
Rupert's escape, when he had called at the farm with
some message from Sir Reginald for her father.
They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance
at his face told her all was well.

There were moments, of course, when she repented
of what she had done.  She told herself she
was a coward.  For repentance meant that she
was putting her own happiness and future before
that of her brother.  Being a woman, she argued
that since her brother was innocent it was her duty
to help him to escape.  It was criminal for an
innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another,
even though, by speaking, he could have cleared
himself.  In her eyes, his silence gave him an
added nobility.  Her soul revolted when she thought
of the long years he might still have to endure shut
up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors.
For the first time in her life she realised what it
meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal.

She knew now that these men she had sometimes
seen working in the fields and quarries were treated
worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and
night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom;
doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit
obedience of every order given them.  Just enough
food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them
alive.

No risk could be too great to save her brother.
She knew a chance would never occur again.  And
if he were caught and sent back until he had served
his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer
be a man but really and truly a criminal—something
distorted, hideous, unnatural.  A human being
at war with humanity.

It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim
Crichton presented himself at the farm to say
good-bye before going back to Netheravon to join
his corps.  Rupert's escape had never been spoken
of in the farmhouse.  Dale had forbidden his name
to be mentioned, and Marjorie sometimes wondered
if her father had lost all feeling for his only son.
She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his
hiding-place he would instantly inform the police
and give him up.

"I suppose when we meet again you will be
millionaires," Crichton said cheerily.  "I see a
prospectus is being issued next week of The Blackthorn
Development Company.  I shall apply for a
few shares—just for luck."

"I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard
answered.  "The Company will be subscribed two
or three times over.  You go back to Netheravon
to-morrow?"

Jim nodded.

"Alone?"

There was a moment's silence.  Marjorie caught
her breath.  There seemed to be a challenge in
Despard's voice.

"Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh.  "Unfortunately,
I can't take Marjorie with me—yet.
Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall
fly off together, man and wife."

Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room.
"Perhaps," he murmured under his breath.

Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man
held his hand a few moments longer than was
necessary.

"It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the
promise you gave Marjorie; but if you insist on
making her your wife, you'll break your father's
heart, Mr. Crichton."

"I hope not.  I hope he'll come to see things
my way.  But if I had to make a choice, Mr. Dale,
I'd rather break his than hers."

Dale sighed and nodded his head.  "I suppose
youth must be served," he whispered.  "Perhaps
it's just that the old should suffer.  My boy has
broken my heart—that's why I feel for your father."

"You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?"
Jim said.

"Of course I am.  Why, he confessed it!"

Jim turned away.  "Perhaps one day his
innocence may be proved, Mr. Dale.  Oh, I don't want
to raise false hopes in your breast.  But I'm
beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent
of the crime of which he was convicted.  While
there's life there's hope, remember."

He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far
as Post Bridge with me, will you?  We will say
good-bye at the place where we first confessed
our love."

Once they were alone it was not of love they
spoke.  They walked side by side, and now and
then Marjorie laughed.  If anyone had overheard,
if anyone had been watching them, they would never
have guessed of what these two lovers were talking.

Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape.
He outlined them in detail to Marjorie.  Her help
would be wanted; and her task, he said, would
perhaps be the most difficult task.

On Monday evening she would receive a telegram
from him telling her of the flight he was going to
make from Netheravon to Plymouth.  On receipt
of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall,
ostensibly at a request the telegram would contain,
to show the message to Jim's father.  But she would
find Sir Reginald out.  Jim knew he would be at
Moretonhampstead on business.  She was to wait
for him, and Jim gave her the keys of his workroom
and cellar.  Rupert already had duplicates.  The
telegram would contain certain code words, of which
Jim gave her the translation.  She was to find some
way of giving her brother the message they
contained—the exact hour he was to leave his
hiding-place and make his way across Dartmoor to a
certain spot already decided on.

"If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said.  "But
as far as is humanly possible he can't fail.  No one
would recognise in the smart, soldierly-looking young
fellow the late Convict 381.  If he gets safely away
I shall send you a wire from Plymouth—just two
words: 'Flight successful,' that's all.  There's only
one man I fear: the man who would like to be my
rival—Despard.  Once or twice in the evening
lately I've seen him hanging around The Hall.
It's impossible he could suspect the plans we've
formed.  I don't believe for an instant he knows
where Rupert's hiding.  If he did, he'd speak, and
give him up, or only keep silence on condition
that you——"

Marjorie stopped him.  "You needn't fear, Jim.
He suspects something, I know.  On Monday night,
after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make it my
business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I
know that Rupert's safely away.  I can keep him—I'm
a woman."

They reached the bridge, and stood for a few
minutes gazing down into the foaming waters.
Presently Jim held out his hand:

"Au revoir," he said quietly.  And he lowered his
voice for a moment.  "Next time we meet I hope
I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket."

"Au revoir, my lover," she whispered.  "Remember,
whatever happens, I'm yours and only
yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."

He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding
cheerily, he strode away.  She watched him out of
sight.  He was risking his life, his honour, his
reputation, for her sake.  If he failed, she knew she
would never see him again.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIM STARTS OFF`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium

   JIM STARTS OFF.

.. vspace:: 2

The great plain stretched away in the sunlight,
broken only by the silver line of the little
Avon river and the Downs—like giant
molehills—to the north.

It was early morning, but all was activity and
bustle at Netheravon.

The great rows of "hangars" gleaming in the
bright sunshine were already open, and groups of
men—mechanics and cleaners—were busy on the
aeroplanes they contained.

A group of officers of the Royal Flying Corps was
gathered around a monoplane that had been run
outside, and was being tuned up by a number of
mechanics.

The two or three civilians with note-books in
their hands were evidently pressmen.  Something
unusual was afoot, for half a dozen horsemen had
just cantered into the aerodrome and, dismounting,
approached the little crowd round the monoplane.

Suddenly it opened out and the group of officers
saluted the smart, iron-featured, white-haired
veteran who approached with a slight limp, his
beribboned coat eloquent of hard service to the wealthy
citizens of a thankless nation who greedily devour
the spoils that they are too lazy in lending a hand
in obtaining.

"Good-morning, gentlemen.  Is Lieutenant
Crichton here?"

Jim stepped forward and saluted.  He was in
service dress, with a safety helmet in place of the
usual forage cap.

"Well, I hope the weather is satisfactory,
Crichton?" the Chief said.

"Yes, sir, thank you; it is a perfect day for
a flight."

The General then asked several technical questions
about the monoplane.  "You are taking a passenger
with you, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

The General turned away, and Crichton saluted.
Quite a number of people were arriving from every
direction, and it had evidently become generally
known that a special flight was about to be attempted.

Meanwhile the monoplane was ready.  Jim
climbed into his seat and started the engine.  In a
few moments he gave the signal to let go, and after
running along the ground for a short distance, it
gracefully rose in the air and was soon far over the
plain.  Suddenly it dipped and began to descend.

"By Jove, he's coming down.  Something wrong—look!
He's hit the ground—see the dust?"  And
similar exclamations rose from the crowd.

"Take my car, Johnson, and see what's wrong,
will you?" said the Flight Commander—and in a
moment the car was speeding across the plain.

"Look!  Look!" shouted some one.  "See the
dust he's making!"  In another moment the
monoplane was seen in the air.

"By Jove, he's up again.  Splendid!  That's the
first time this machine has left the ground
single-handed, I'll bet.  He's coming back."

In a minute or two the aeroplane began to descend.
It brought up nearly on the spot it had started from.

Jim clambered down, and to the volley of questions
from his brother officers merely explained that
he had dropped his note-book, and had descended
to pick it up.

"Look here, Major," Jim said to the Commandant.
"I want to take my servant, Jackson, instead of
young Hayward, but I don't like to tell him myself.
Will you break it to him gently?"

"Good lord, Crichton, why on earth did you not
say so before?  Why do you prefer Jackson?"

"I shall have a much better chance with Jackson
if I have to descend with engine trouble, because
he's a trained mechanic, as you know, while young
Hayward would be practically useless.  I don't want
to be stuck in the middle of Dartmoor, you know!"

"All right, I'll tell him; but it's rather rough
on him, all the same."

The Commandant strolled over to where Lieutenant
Hayward was talking to a few friends.  As soon
as he had gone, Crichton beckoned to his servant.

"Jackson, have you put the things I told you
in my kit-bag?"

"Yes, sir, and two of everything, sir.  Shall I
strap the bag on?"

"Yes, and you are to come with me; so get your
helmet, quick."

Soon all was bustle and commotion.  The crowd
of officers and soldiers and few civilians present made
a wide semi-circle in the rear of the monoplane.

"Good luck, old chap!"  "Don't lose your
way!"  "Got your maps?"  "Wire us time of
arrival!"—and a host of other remarks, mingled
with chaff, were drowned in the roar of the propeller
as Jim started the engine.  He raised his hand and
the great, bird-like aeroplane rushed forward and
almost at once began to rise.

Soon it grew smaller and smaller as the distance
increased, and began to curve to West as Jim set
his course for Exeter.

The roar made by the engine of an aeroplane
renders it impossible to hear one's own voice, much
less to speak to another; but all military
"two-seaters" are equipped with 'phones to enable the
pilot and observer to converse with ease.

Jim now pulled down the receiver and adjusted
it over his helmet.  "Look here, Jackson!  Do
you know why I've taken you instead of Mr. Hayward?"

"No, sir."

"I'm going to trust you with a secret which, if
you blab, will get me into a big row."

"Very good, sir.  I shan't talk, you know that, sir."

"Well, I have promised a great friend at home
to give him a flight, and I'm going to take him up
to-day in your place—only as it is strictly against
the Royal Flying Corps regulations to take anyone
on a Corps machine, you must play up and not
give the show away."

"Trust me for that, sir."

"My friend knows that he is to take your place—that
is why I've put in a second suit of clothes—and
he has asked me to give you a fiver."

"Very much obliged, I am sure, sir."

"All right.  That is why I told you to put a
suit of your own uniform in my bag.  My friend
will put on your uniform and will take your place.
You will have to be careful not to be seen in Plymouth
till he has changed at the hotel.  I shall drop you
at Exeter and you must go on to Plymouth by
train; take two rooms for me at the 'Duke of
Cornwall,' which is right against the station, and then
hang about the place till I arrive.  If anyone
questions you—which is unlikely—you must only
say that you are my mechanic from Salisbury.
But don't you go near Crownhill Barracks till after
we have arrived; then you may go to the canteen
and 'gas' as much about the flight as you like."

"Very good, sir; I quite understand.  I'll slip
off quietly at Exeter so as not to be noticed."

For the next hour the steady hum of the great
propeller was the only sound heard by the airmen,
but just as Crewkerne had been passed a new note
sounded—a steady umph! umph! umph! like the
distant throbbing of a drum.

"Jackson, do you hear that?"

"Yes, sir—cylinder misfiring?"

"We shall have to come down.  What's that ahead?"

"Looks like another railway line, sir; and there
is a town there, too—I can make out houses with
the glasses."

"That must be Chard.  I shall come down when
I see a good field."

The monoplane began to drop.  Fields and hedges
were plainly visible.

"Just put your glasses on to that big, green
patch away to the right."

"Racecourse, sir.  First-class landing by the
looks of it."

The aeroplane banked steeply as Jim swung round
to the right and commenced to descend.  He
stopped the engine and the machine dived down
steeply, only to be checked as it neared the ground
by a sudden rush of the propeller again, which
stopped when it had given the necessary momentum.
Now the wheels touched the turf as lightly as a
bird, and after running along the ground for a short
distance, it stopped nearly opposite the grand
stand.  Already people were running towards the
racecourse from every direction, and Jim realised
that the chance of his servant getting away
unreported would be small.

"Look here, Jackson, you must go by the South
Western to Exeter, then change to the Great Western
and book to Millbay station, Plymouth.  When I
order you to meet me at Exeter, remember that is
only a 'blind' for any reporters who may see you
go, so you must stick to the story that you are
meeting me there with more petrol.  Understand?"

"All right, sir."

People began to arrive and questions were
showered on Jim, who replied good-humouredly, and
warned each newcomer not to come too near as he
was about to start the engine again—a warning which
was immediately emphasised by the throb of the
engine itself, as Jackson tested the ignition.

"All right, sir."

Jim lit a cigarette, and taking a telegraph form
from his pocket, wrote out a message to his
Commanding Officer and handed it to Jackson.

"Send this off at once and go on to Exeter by
train.  Have the petrol ready there for me, and I'll
pick you up at the place of which I told you."

Jim said this in a voice which could be heard by
every one present.  Then he climbed into his seat
again.

"Stand back, please!"  The crowd scattered,
leaving a free run up the course.  A minute later
the monoplane was speeding away over the
tree-tops and was soon lost to sight in the West.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SUCCESS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium

   SUCCESS.

.. vspace:: 2

Cranmere Pool!  The most desolate spot
on Dartmoor.  Here rise seven rivers—born
in the quaking morass, itself the result of the
drainage of the giant tors which shut it in on every
hand.  A lonely spot encircled by the everlasting
hills, without a road or cart-track—inaccessible,
isolated.  In summer visited by tourists who boast
of having made the pilgrimage on the hardy little
moorland ponies; in winter as solitary and forsaken
as the Great Sahara itself.

Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau
from which the hills slope upwards, and half-way
up is the remains of a ruined house—the walls of
which are only a few feet high, and are level with
the ground in many places.

A strange place for a house until one notices the
hummocks and depressions in the rock-strewn
heather, and then one realises that once in far-off
times this was a primitive tin mine.

The silence is intense—the hillside, save for the
heather, bare and lifeless.  Suddenly a clump of
heather stirs, and a man's head appears thrust out
of the hillside itself—followed by his body—as it
emerges from a hole hidden by the heather.  He
raises a pair of Zeiss glasses and carefully sweeps
the country—first the foot hills, then the more
distant tors.  Then having satisfied himself that he
is the sole human being on that wild moorland, he
throws himself into the heather—and fills and
lights a pipe.

Rupert's waiting place had been well chosen.
For anyone but a born moorman it would have been
impossible.  Dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair
of decent length, and a decent moustache, it would
have been difficult to recognise in him Convict 381!
He lay on his back and nervously blew smoke rings
into the blue vault above him.  Presently he ceased
smoking and sat up.  A faint humming greeted
his ears!

He rose to his feet and faced the north; his
glasses swept round the skyline east and west—then
he took them down and gazed slowly round the
visible horizon.  Nothing in sight, and yet the hum
increased.

Now it stopped suddenly.  He looked up, and
there, right above him, was a monoplane, far up in
the blue heavens, circling round and descending in
great spiral swoops till he could see the figure of
the pilot.

With a strangled cry of joy he ran down the steep
hillside to the grassy plain, and presently the
monoplane swooped down and bounded along the rough turf.

Rupert raced after it, and as gradually, almost
imperceptibly, it slackened speed, he seized hold of
it and used his weight to help bring it to a standstill,
Crichton eventually jumping from his seat and
doing the same.

Then Jim took off his safety helmet and the
two men faced one another.  Rupert held out his
hand.  He tried to speak, but he could not trust
himself.  Jim Crichton understood; he, too, had
a queer sensation of choking in his throat.

He turned away and commenced to examine the
machine, to see that it had not been damaged
in alighting—and to give Rupert a chance of
recovering himself.  The latter was trembling from
head to foot.  He had been brave enough when he
had been hunted by armed men through the fog,
and his nerve had not deserted him when he came
out from his place of concealment at Post Bridge
Hall and begged to be given a chance to fight for
his life.  And all the time he had been hidden in
the semi-darkness of the cellar adjoining Jim
Crichton's workroom at the Hall he had felt
confident that he would eventually obtain his freedom.
But now that the hour had come, now that he
stood on the vast moorland beneath the glorious
blue sky, no longer wearing the badge of shame,
to all intents and purposes free, his nerve failed
him and his courage suddenly oozed through his feet.

He started at every sound—the call of a curlew,
a distant sheep bell, the rattle of a stone beneath
his boot.  Jim unstrapped a parcel from the front
seat of the monoplane and threw it on to the turf.

"Now then, Dale, you've got to be quick," he
said brusquely, as if giving orders to one of his own
men.  "Undo that suit case.  You'll find a uniform;
take off the suit you're wearing and get into it.
You mustn't waste a moment.  I may have been
seen descending, but I don't think it's likely from
the height I was up."

Again Rupert tried to speak, but the words rattled
incoherently in his throat.  He commenced to
change his clothes in a way that would have won
the approval of a quick-change music-hall artist.
When he had finished he packed up the blue suit
of clothes and Jim strapped the case on to the
monoplane again.  Then he looked at Rupert critically.

"Yes, you'll do.  You had better brush your
moustache up a bit—so."  He gave a little laugh.
"Gad, you would make a very good soldier.  Let's
see you salute."

Rupert cast an anxious eye round the horizon.
"You said there wasn't a moment to lose—some one
may have seen you descend—this means life or death
to me! ... and for you, the risk——"

Jim stepped forward and laid his hand on Rupert's
shoulder.  "Come, pull yourself together, man.
You'll want all your courage in an hour's time when
we land at Plymouth.  You haven't forgotten
what I've told you? ... I started from Netheravon
with my soldier servant, Jackson.  Dropped him
at Chard, and he went on by rail to Exeter, where I
picked him up again—you're Jackson!"

"Yes, I remember all that," Rupert replied hastily.

"Now, when we arrive at Plymouth be careful
not to speak a word.  Yes or no will be quite enough.
Go straight to the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, and refuse
all invitations to the canteen or mess.  You know
what to do at the hotel?  Now, try that salute
again, the first was rotten.  It's more important
than you think.  We mustn't take the slightest
risk of failure now."

Eventually Crichton was satisfied.  They had
some little difficulty in starting the engine.
Altogether, scarcely half an hour passed since the
monoplane alighted before it was once more in the air
making great spirals as it climbed steeply into the
clouds.  Rupert scanned the moorlands surrounding
the pool with his glasses.  To his relief no human
being was in sight.  They had not been observed.

Jim contrived to keep Cranmere Pool as the centre
and avoided even sighting Okehampton Camp, nor
was Princetown visible till they sailed swiftly over
it—a mere speck thousands of feet below.

It seemed only a few moments before the gleam
of water and a pall of smoke showed Rupert that
Plymouth was just ahead.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

The monoplane began to descend in great spirals,
till woods and houses were clearly visible.  Jim
did not approach the town, but circled round a
large down.  Now crowds of people could be seen
running towards an open green space with a great
white cross on it, directly below them.

Rupert noticed that many were soldiers.  More
soldiers poured out of the line of huts to the south.
The engine stopped.  Now the cross was right
ahead, and the ground appeared to Rupert to be
rushing towards them.  He clutched the supports
on each side and realised they were falling at a
frightful rate.  Suddenly the engines started
again—but only for a moment.  Before he knew how it
happened the monoplane was rushing along the
ground with great leaps, till it stopped just beyond
the canvas cross.  In a moment a cordon of soldiers
formed round the monoplane.  Jim jumped from
his seat and was shaking hands with a group of
eager officers.

Rupert also climbed down and was instantly
surrounded by soldiers, who plied him with questions.
Before he could reply Jim pushed through them.

"Now, Jackson, don't stand gossiping there!
Take my suit-case down to the 'Duke of Cornwall'
at once.  Ask for the rooms I've engaged.  I shall
want a bath and change immediately."

"Yes, sir."  And Rupert gave his best military salute.

"Here, take that safety helmet off and put on
your cap," Jim commanded, "or you'll be mobbed
outside....  Now, men, don't interfere with him,
he will be back in an hour.  Just help to wheel the
'plane opposite the polo pavilion."

Rupert, bag in hand, hurried to the gate, glad
to escape further questions from his supposed
comrades.

At the gate he met a cavalcade, and had to stand
aside to let it pass.  Just as he was hurrying down
the road again, he heard a horse behind him, and a
voice hailed him.

"Hi!  You there!  Why don't you salute the
General, eh?  Here, sergeant, take this man's name
and regiment."  And the young officer turned his
horse and galloped after the General again.

Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout,
red-faced man in a red tunic with three gold stripes
on his arm.

"Name and regiment?" he snapped.

Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at
once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying
Corps."

"What's your number?"

"Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise.

"Come on, now—don't you let me 'ave none of
your ... nonsense.  Out with it!"

Rupert went hot and cold all over.  His number!
So he was discovered, after all.  He gave it in a
low voice.  "No. 381.  I'll go quietly with you,
but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first."

"I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the
sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any
more of your blooming cheek.  But you're for the
orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for
not saluting the General Officer Commanding the
Western District—and don't you forget it, or you'll
find yourself in 'clink.'  Now, fly off, and don't
give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."

Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely
without further adventure.  But on his way there,
when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden
panic seized him.  He felt his body alternately
grow hot and cold.  He was overcome by an
overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the
people who thronged the pavements, to fight a
passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere,
anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone.

Alone in the darkness again!

Ever since his escape from prison he had lived
the life of an underground animal.  Always in
the darkness.  And at night, when he had dared
sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness
still surrounded him and the silence and the mystery
of the night.

For the best part of a year he had been shut
off from human intercourse and converse with his
fellow men.

Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders
with them.  He was jostled to and fro; laughter
echoed in his ears.  The noise of the traffic
threatened to deafen him.

He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he
knew he would have bolted—like a thief.

Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned
and he found he was not molested, fear left him
and was replaced by a tremendous excitement.
He began to feel like a child who has run away
from home, or a schoolboy who has escaped the
vigilance of his masters.  The noise of the streets
began to have a meaning for him: colour and
movement.  The motors and tram-cars and the
splendid shops.

And, overhead, the great blue sky.  He was free,
really a free man again.

At liberty!  He mouthed the word lovingly.
And he stood still on the pavement and gaped at
the men and women who passed to and fro.  How
easily they took their liberty; how unconscious
they seemed of it.  They had never known what
it was to be imprisoned.  They had never known
what it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a
narrow cell in the everlasting twilight, without even
a window through which one might gaze and be
reminded that God's in His heaven, all's well with
the world.

Again he laughed.  At that moment a policeman
passed him and turning his head looked at him.
Rupert was standing just outside a shop.  Hardly
knowing what he was doing he bolted into it.  The
next moment he cursed himself for a fool and a
coward.  A huge glass mirror showed him his
reflection.  He stared at it fascinated.  He looked
no more like a convict than he looked like the old
Rupert Dale he had once known.

An assistant's voice behind the counter asking
him what he wanted brought him back to the needs
of the moment.  By good fortune the shop was a
tobacconist's—and Rupert knew he did want
something very badly.  A smoke.  He bought a
four-penny cigar, and the chink of money gave him
another strange thrill.  He spent an unconscionable
time in lighting it, but when he ventured into the
street again he found to his relief the policeman
had gone.

And so eventually he reached the hotel safely and
sat down at the open window of the private sitting-room
reserved for Lieutenant James Crichton.

And there an hour or two later Jim found him.

The two men shook hands silently.  It was
difficult to find words.  They had both gone through
big ordeals.  They had both been fighting against
pretty stiff odds.  Victory seemed assured.

But they were not out of danger yet.

Jim had a hot bath and changed, then he told
Rupert to do the same.

"You will have to get into mufti," he explained
to him.  "I've had a kit-bag sent here, and it
contains everything you'll want for your journey.
You remember all I've told you?  Well, I've had
to change our plans slightly.  You sail to-night on a
small boat, about a thousand tons, that's going
East.  I've booked you as a coffee planter—thanks
to working in the fields at Princetown you've got a
good tan on your face.  Your name is John Cotton—which
fits in with the initials on my bag.  I
thought it out as I was filling my 'baccy pouch——"  He
laughed.  "For heaven's sake, remember—*John
Cotton*!  You'll find a book amongst your
kit dealing with coffee planting.  You'd better
study it in case you're tackled on the subject.  The
captain of the ship's a pal of mine.  He's got a box
for the theatre to-night, and is bringing a friend.
We're going to join him there, and after the show,
in the middle of supper, we're all to walk down
to the Barbican Steps, where the captain's dinghy
will be waiting....  Captain Sparkes is a decent
chap, and a sportsman.  He knows you're under
a cloud, that's all he knows.  I would have told him
the truth, but I couldn't, for his sake; for if he knew
and anything went wrong he would get into no
end of a mess.  He won't question you.  And
once you're outside Plymouth Sound you'll know
you're safe."

Rupert nodded his head.  He could not thank
Crichton.  Mere words would not convey what
he felt.

Perhaps Jim knew what was passing in his mind,
for he laid his hand on his shoulder a moment,
giving it a friendly grip.

"That's all right," he said steadily.  "Now,
from this moment I want you to blot out the past.
You told your sister you were innocent.  I didn't
believe it at first.  I believe it now."

Rupert raised his head and looked straight into
Jim's face.  "Thank God for that."

"Forget everything," Jim continued.  "Only
remember John Cotton, the coffee planter, en route
for Singapore."

He took out a note-book from his pocket and
handed Rupert a wad of notes.  "There's a hundred
pounds there, half in English, half in dollar notes.
When the radium mine booms you'll have more
money than you know what to do with.  Now
then, just before you close the door on the past and
lock it, is there anything I can do for you in
England?"

Rupert walked round to the window and gazed out.
Down below the bustle and business of life; the
buying and selling, the loving and hating of the
streets.  Beyond, the shimmer of the blue sea,
which for him meant safety.  And, above, the
dome of the blue sky, which for him meant liberty!

He wondered when he would grow accustomed to it.

"You will take care of Marjorie.  Whatever
happens, whether you marry her or not, don't let
Despard get hold of her."

"You need have no fear on that score, old man."

There was a short silence.  Rupert was still
standing with his back to Jim, staring out of the
window.

"There's a letter I'd like to write—to some one;
some one very dear to me.  I don't know where she
is now.  But I daresay you could find her.
Perhaps you can guess——"

"You mean Miss Strode?"

Rupert nodded.  He gave Jim her address and
the name of the theatre where she had last played.
"I want her to know that I'm well and safe—and—happy.
Don't forget to emphasize the fact that
I'm happy—because, perhaps it would be safer
not to write—if you would see her and give her the
message instead."

"I'll see her and give her your message.  You
mustn't write."

Again there was a short silence.  Rupert took
out the bundle of notes Jim had given him and
fingered them thoughtfully.  "I shan't want all
this money.  Ruby may be out of an engagement.
I wish you would find a way of sending her half
the amount you've given me."

"You stick to them.  I'll see that she wants for
nothing.  That is the first thing I'll do when I
get back.  I daren't tell her even that you've
escaped out of England, though of course, she'll
guess.  But I'll give her your message.  Is
that all?"

"I think that's all," Rupert replied.  He found
it very difficult to keep his voice under control.
"Tell her—tell her I love her—and am grateful,
always grateful."

Jim started.  He made a movement towards
Rupert, his lips framing a question.  He checked
it, and, turning away, rang the bell.

"And now for dinner and then the theatre.
You had better go into the other room, Cotton,
while I give my orders to the waiter, in case he saw
you coming in with my bag—he might wonder
what sort of game I was playing with my servant."

Rupert nodded and crossed the room.  "I see
you've got your name all right."  Jim smiled.

As soon as dinner was ordered the two men
strolled down to the lounge, and then Rupert
remembered to tell Jim the incident of the General
he had forgotten to salute, and the scene he had
had with the sergeant.

Crichton laughed.  "By jove, you might have got
poor Jackson into a nice mess!  But as you were
carrying my bag and men are not supposed to
salute when they're carrying things, I'll make it
all right for you."

At eight o'clock they made their way to the theatre
and found Captain Sparkes and his friend already
occupying one of the boxes.

Four hours later they were walking beneath
the starlit sky towards the Barbican.  The captain
was in a rare good humour with himself.  They
found the dinghy waiting for them at the appointed
place.  Sparkes and his passenger tumbled in
unquestioned.  The final farewells were shouted, the
oars struck the water.  The little boat pulled out
and was soon lost to view.

Jim Crichton gave a slight sigh of relief, and,
turning on his heel, walked back to the hotel.  At
the bureau he asked for a telegraph form, and,
writing out a message, handed it to the porter with
instructions that it should be sent off the first thing
in the morning.

It contained three words.  "Flight quite successful,"
and was addressed to "Marjorie Dale, Blackthorn
Farm, Post Bridge."

Jim turned in at once.  For the first time he
realised that he was thoroughly exhausted.  But
sleep did not come.  A dreadful fear seized him lest
he had written his message a little previously.
Captain Sparkes' boat was not due to sail until
daybreak.  Rupert would not be really safe until
she was out of the Channel.

Long before sunrise Jim Crichton was standing
at his bedroom window gazing with anxious eyes
over Plymouth Sound.

A black speck on the blue horizon; a thin line
of slowly drifting smoke!  His glasses told him
that the boat had sailed, and that Rupert Dale was safe.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RUBY'S DECLARATION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium

   RUBY'S DECLARATION.

.. vspace:: 2

The first thing Jim Crichton did—after he had
made a successful return flight to
Netheravon—was, on getting five days' special
leave, to run up to London and search for Ruby
Strode that he might keep his promise to Rupert.
He resisted the temptation to pay a flying visit to
Blackthorn Farm.  Rupert was safe, a thousand
miles or more away on his journey.  But that
made Jim the more anxious not to take the
faintest risk.

Despard had been suspicious.  Despard
disliked him, and was in love with Marjorie.  Jim
had received a letter from her—short, carefully
worded.  It dealt principally with the doings of
Post Bridge and the radium mine.  The company
would soon be floated, the prospectus was prepared,
and, she stated, it was confidently expected that
when it came out the capital would be over-subscribed.

Jim smiled to himself, for he read between the
lines.  He had little faith in the venture, perhaps,
because he had no faith in Despard, though he
hoped for John Dale's sake it would turn out
successfully.

Soon after reaching London he discovered that
his father was in town, and Jim frankly told him
the object of his visit—to see Miss Strode and
give her a message.  Sir Reginald congratulated
his son on his flight, but Jim did not dare tell him yet
how successful it really had been, nor its real object.

"I think I'd like to meet this Miss Strode," Sir
Reginald said, somewhat to Jim's surprise.
"Though, I'm afraid, I still feel convinced of young
Dale's guilt, I've never been able to eradicate
from my mind the part she played at the trial—the
strange outburst when she confessed it was
she who altered the cheque.  It seems, too, that
when the solicitors saw her she said that Mr. Despard
could, if he chose, prove the truth of her assertion.
Of course, it's very possible that she and Rupert
were equally guilty.  Perhaps the suggestion came
from her....  The woman tempted and the man
fell.  I'd like to know if Despard did keep anything
back at the trial."

Jim nodded.  "I'll see what I can do.  But I
should think the kindest thing would be to let Miss
Strode forget all about it, if that's possible.  Guilty
or innocent, she must have been very fond of Rupert."

His father's suggestion came as a surprise to him.
He had, during the last few weeks, cultivated
Despard's acquaintance and seen a great deal more
of him than Jim liked.  But, as a rule, Sir Reginald
never made a mistake in his judgment of men.

"Supposing Miss Strode could prove that Rupert
is innocent, what then?" Jim asked.

"I don't think she can do that," Sir Reginald
said quickly.  "I'd like to discover what part she
played in the unfortunate business.  And perhaps
she could enlighten us as to Despard's past history,
his character—and so forth."

Jim smiled.  "You're beginning to feel suspicious
of this brilliant company promoter who is
playing the Good Samaritan at Blackthorn Farm and
trying to feather his own nest at the same time."

Sir Reginald did not reply at once, and looking
more closely at him, Jim noticed that he looked
worried.  A heavy frown furrowed his brows.
Presently he took Jim's arm and asked him where
he was going.

"Well, my first visit is to the Ingenue Theatre.
It seems rather too much to expect that I shall
find Miss Strode there, but it's the obvious place
to look."

"I'll walk with you," Sir Reginald said.  "I've
something I want to say to you."

Jim almost suggested that the best place to
talk would be the sitting-room of Sir Reginald's
hotel, in which they found themselves.  But he
refrained.  He felt as if he had suddenly changed
places with his father, and that it was the older
man who wanted to unburden his mind and make
a confession.  Not until they were in the bustle
and turmoil of the streets did Sir Reginald speak.

"I was talking to my solicitors to-day, and,
of course, Mr. Despard's name cropped up."

"Why of course?" Jim asked.

There was a moment's hesitation before his
father replied.  "I had instructed my brokers
to apply for a rather large number of shares in
this—this radium mine when it is floated.  I found it
necessary to realise certain securities.  My solicitors
did not seem to have a very good opinion of
Mr. Despard.  They confessed they did not know
much about him.  They seemed to think him a
man of straw.  He has already been connected
with one or two companies—rubber and oil, I believe,
both of which went into liquidation shortly after they
had been promoted.  As you know, I'm one of the
syndicate of this radium mine."

"I don't know anything about the game," Jim
admitted.  "But I didn't know that Despard
had convinced you there was anything but water
in the old Blackthorn mine.  I'm sure he's a rotter.
You're not worried, are you?  I mean, he hasn't
done you for any amount?"

"He hasn't done me at all," Sir Reginald replied
testily.  "He started by forming a little
syndicate, and I—but you wouldn't understand.  You
mustn't forget we had expert opinion, and the
reports read so well.  If by any chance the venture
fails—well, it would hit us rather badly.  You
must not forget," he added hastily, "that property
has been depreciating lately, and that, in
consequence, my income has been dwindling, and just
when this fellow Despard came along I was looking
about for a good investment."

Jim laughed and pressed his father's arm.  He
knew that Sir Reginald had been thinking of his
future more than of himself.  "The desire for
wealth has never troubled me, guv'nor.  Love in a
cottage sounds sentimental rot, I know; but one's
got to live somewhere, and as long as I've got work
and the woman I want, a cottage will be good enough
for me.  Here's the Ingenue Theatre, so you had
better leave me now unless you want to lose your
reputation!"

Sir Reginald laughed.  "I understand that the
stage-door of a London theatre is a damned sight
more respectable than the most fashionable matrimonial
office, and that unless a man can produce a
marriage licence he don't stand a chance of getting
inside nowadays."

In answer to Jim's question the doorkeeper
told him Miss Strode was playing, and that she
generally left the theatre about eleven o'clock.
Jim left his card, and said he would return at that
hour.  He arrived punctually, and had not to wait
long before Ruby made her appearance.

He had never met her before, and at first he was
not impressed.  She treated him brusquely, and
asked him plainly to state his business.  He
explained who he was and told her he had brought her
a message from a friend.  She looked him up and
down, and he read mistrust in her eyes.

"Perhaps you'll walk as far as the end of the
street with me," he suggested.  She nodded.  He
told her he was engaged to be married to Rupert
Dale's sister.  "Can you guess from whom I bring
a message?"

She started then, and her face grew deadly pale.
She hesitated a moment, looking steadily into his
face.  Then she asked him to call a cab.

"Do you mind driving back to my flat with
me?  Yes, I live alone at present, but you needn't
bother about the conventions.  What people thought
and said never troubled me much, and now it
doesn't trouble me at all."

They scarcely spoke until her flat was reached.
Ruby led the way into her sitting-room, mixed a
whisky and soda for Jim and made one for herself.

"Would it shock you if I smoked?" she asked.
"I can't help it if it does."

"I smoke myself," he replied quietly.

He saw a tinge of colour touch her cheeks.  She
apologised, and handed him the case.  "Forgive
me; but you're a soldier, aren't you?"

Jim nodded.

"I suppose you think women who earn their
living at second-rate theatres, who smoke cigarettes,
drink whisky instead of aniseed, and live alone, lose
caste, don't you?"

He laughed and shook his head.  "No.  Why should I?"

"The Ingenue Theatre is largely patronised
by the army, the navy, and the House of Lords.
I've found that the youthful members of the
aristocracy want to marry us, naval men want to amuse
us, the army men expect us to amuse them—Aunt
Sally up to date, six shies a penny!"  She turned
her back on him.  "Will you tell me your message?"

"It's from a man called Cotton, John Cotton.
You knew him under another name.  He left
Devonshire a week ago en route for Singapore.
He wanted me to tell you that he was safe, that he
loved you, and was deeply grateful for all you had
done for him."

He waited, but Ruby Strode did not move.  She
still stood with her back to him.  It was a long
time before he dared break the silence.

"You understand?" he whispered.

Then at last she turned round and stood beside
him.  The expression on her face had changed.
It was no longer hard and cold.  Her eyes were
tender and beautiful: the eyes of a woman who has
loved.  She stretched out her hand and Jim took it.

"You mean that Rupert has really escaped?
That there's no chance of his being captured and
taken back to prison?"

He bowed his head.

"Who helped him escape?  Who got him out of England?"

"That doesn't matter," Jim replied.  "It's
enough for you to know that he's safe.  He's bound
for Singapore, where he'll find work—a man's
work, under the British flag.  He will, as the
Americans say, make good yet."

He tried to withdraw his hand, but Ruby held
it tightly.  "You helped him.  I daresay you
didn't do it for his sake but for his sister's, the
woman you love.  But you helped him."

Jim did not reply.  Bending down Ruby kissed
his hand again and again.  He snatched it away
and turned on his heel.

"God bless you!" she whispered hoarsely.  "Don't
go yet, Mr. Crichton.  Tell me—tell me that you
believe he's innocent?"

He looked at her then.  And in her eyes he read
her secret.  If he had had any doubts as to Rupert's
innocence they went now.

"I believe he is innocent.  But—why couldn't
he prove his innocence?  If you did it, unknown
to him——"

"Of course it was unknown to him," she interrupted.
"He never suspected for a moment—how
could he?  That's why I did it.  Oh, I was mad
at the moment, but I loved him so!  His life was in
danger.  He was going to kill himself.  Why won't
anyone believe—why can't anyone understand?
Ruin, dishonour, faced him.  When a woman
loves nothing in the world matters but the honour,
safety, and life of the man she loves.  Being a man
you may not have much of an opinion of women—the
Lord knows why we love them so!  Just as a
man will die for his country, just as a soldier will
kill, spy, suffer indignities, be tortured, rather than
betray his trust, rather than see his country shamed
or his flag hauled down, so will a woman do just the
same rather than see her man hurt or the flag he
carries dishonoured.  Oh, I suppose it's only an
idea that each fights for—the flag for the soldier,
the man for the woman.  The flag is his country and
its future.  The man is her mate and the children
he will give her....  Can't you understand?  I'm
not defending myself; but they wouldn't believe me
when I confessed, because they couldn't see why I
should do it.  The fools!"

"Surely you didn't think when you did this
thing your crime would remain undetected?"

"A woman doesn't think when the man she loves
is in danger.  I tell you, if I hadn't found the
money for him he would have taken his life.  I had
to find the money.  The cheque was lying on the
floor, he had forgotten it.  The idea came.  I
acted on it.  I didn't think.  It was a crime, I
daresay.  One day, when you're at war, perhaps,
and you capture a spy you'll shoot him.  You
know he's a brave man and a soldier doing a job
you might have been deputed to do for your country.
But you'll shoot him.  That's a crime in its way,
but you'll do it because it's your duty to your flag.
If you stopped to reason, to think it out, you
wouldn't do it.  When I committed my crime I
obeyed the orders of my heart—instinct—call it
what you will.  I wanted to save my man—who
was to be the father of my children.  That's all
I knew or remembered.  I didn't save him.  It's
not too late now—if only they would listen to me,
if only they'd believe me."

"They will believe you if you can find proof."

"The man who can prove it won't speak.  I
believe he could prove my guilt and Rupert's
innocence absolutely if he would speak.  Several things
have come to my knowledge since the trial.  That
man is Robert Despard.  He has disappeared from
London and I can't find him."

Ruby was walking up and down the room now, her
head thrown back, her fists tightly clenched.  She
looked magnificent, terrible.

"If I could find him," she cried between her teeth,
"I would accuse him of perjury.  For he did
perjure himself.  He came into Rupert's sitting-room
just after I had altered the cheque.  I was holding
it in my hand just underneath my glove, and he
saw it there and asked what it was.  I believe after
I left the room he must have seen the marks on the
blotting-pad.  Things I had forgotten at the time,
things he said, returned to me afterwards when it
was too late.  He knows, but he won't speak."

"Gently, gently," Jim said, taking her arm and
making her sit down.  "We must help you, my
father and I.  We'll force Mr. Despard to
speak—we must clear Rupert's name if——"

"There's no if!" she cried.

"You realise that if we clear him it means that
you take his place?  You will be sent to prison."

She seized his hands and looked into his eyes.
"For me, the day I enter prison and he is pardoned,
will be the first happy day I shall have known
since Rupert was arrested.  I love him."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN EXCITING TIME`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium

   AN EXCITING TIME.

.. vspace:: 2

Singapore!

The chain rattled through the hausehole
with a deafening roar, and the great
ship swung at anchor in the Roads.

A tropical sun beat fiercely down on the awnings,
and Rupert Dale, leaning over the rail, gazed
shorewards at the great plain framed in cocoanut
palms—the Cathedral spire rising white and dazzling
out of the green, fan-like leaves.  To the left the
brown slopes of Fort Canning, crowned with its giant
flagstaff and fluttering flags.  Round the ship a
score or more of sampans tossed and jostled each
other in the sparkling sea, their copper-skinned
owners—naked to the loins—gesticulating and
shouting in a language which sounded harsh and
vehement to his unaccustomed ears.  A strong,
pungent odour of hot spice in which cinnamon
predominated filled the air, while kites and eagles
wheeled and swooped round him above the dancing waves.

Singapore!  The gate of mystic, far Cathay!
China—Japan—Siam—Borneo!  Lovely Java,
sea-girt Celebes.  The spice islands!  Lands of wonder
and romance.  The great Unknown, his future Home!

What a revelation it had been to him—the
wonderful voyage.  He had never been abroad before,
and "foreign parts"—as anywhere out of England
was called in Devonshire—were still a closed book.

Egypt!  The Desert seen from the Suez Canal
had impressed him.  The Red Sea, with a distant
glimpse of Mount Ararat, had brought the Bible
story of the Israelite wanderings right before his
eyes, for was not that the very "Wilderness"
all round him?  What was he but a wanderer in a
strange land, surrounded by the desert of the
sea—the promised land a mere speck on the chart—a
tiny island away in the far north-west.  The dear
homeland, his home which he would never see again.

Then the miracle happened.  First at Gib, then
at Malta, Aden, Colombo, Penang, and now here.
All along the vast ocean journey, four weeks long,
wherever the great ship touched, there ashore
flew the old flag, his flag.  There stood his own
countrymen on guard beneath its folds.  Home?
Why, he had brought it with him.  There it was
ashore now, and there stood his blood brother,
white-helmeted, his bayonet flashing in the sun
for witness of his birthright.

Rupert could hear a band playing somewhere
ashore, and as though in answer to his thoughts
across the water there floated the heart-swelling
strain of "Home, Sweet Home."  He listened
entranced till the air died away and all was silent.
Then came the stirring crash of the National Anthem.
He remembered the last time he had heard it.  At
the Moreton flower-show.  It brought back in a
flash to him the faint damp scent of moss and roses.
That happy summer day.  Home and all it stood
for was here!  It was good to be a Briton and
feel this glorious freedom, this great sense of
fellowship, of ownership.

"You will be getting sunstroke if you stand
there with your helmet off, Cotton."

He started—the spell was broken.  His
fellow-passenger, a grey-haired, clean-shaven man of
fifty, with whom he had struck up a friendship
during the voyage, stood behind him with a smile
on his kindly face, which was lighted by a pair of
keen, grey eyes.

"It sounds good to us exiles—the old
tune—doesn't it?  'What does he know of England
who only England knows?'  Eh?  The chap
who wrote that must have known something of
our Empire—what?  And yet there are millions
of fools in the old country this moment who neither
know nor care whether the Empire exists or not;
while the very bread they eat is bought with the
blood of those who created it!  Look at that long
wharf over there.  See those piles of bales?  That
is cotton pieces from Manchester.  See those chests
piled under that big shed?  Tea—cheap 'Straits'
tea—shilling a pound in any little grocer's shop at
home!  See that steamer loading those sacks,
there, that black-funnelled one?  That's sago,
that the kiddies eat at home."

"Wonderful!" Rupert echoed, and then he sighed.
He had left the old country—a felon.  He had
found a new world, a free man!—with his country's
flag flying a welcome.  And yet——

"Do you see that little cruiser over there?"
Patterson continued excitedly.  "It's hard to
realise that she's the only British warship within a
thousand miles of this—the most important
trade-route in the world.  No, that's not a British
ship—that big battleship over there is a German, and
that other with four big black funnels is a Jap,
and the one beyond is a Russian.  Bit of a shock,
isn't it, when you recognise what a tiny thing the
British Navy is compared to the Colonial Empire
it has to defend?"

Rupert nodded.  His head was in a whirl—and
his heart.  He had reached the end of his
journey.  He was free!  And yet——

"By the by, have you decided what you're
going to do?  My offer is still open.  Your mining
knowledge would be very useful to me in Borneo,
although you haven't got the certificate of the
School of Mines.  It will be rough work—dangerous
work at times, as I told you, for we are going up
to the unknown interior where the Head-hunting
Muruts live, and you may not see civilisation again
for twelve months."

Rupert looked him in the face.  Patterson was a
"white man" he knew.  A straight man.

"I have thought it all over, and I decided last
night to accept your offer if you are still willing
to take me after you have heard why I am here.
I can't explain everything, but what I shall tell
you is only what you ought to know.  Come down
to my cabin and I will tell you who I am."

In the saloon of the boat—deserted now—where
they had spent so many happy weeks, sharing
storm and sunshine, dangers and pleasures,
unconsciously growing to know one another, as men
ashore never can.

A genuine friendship, backed by respect, had been
formed between Rupert and Patterson.  The former
had only just realised what this friendship had done
for him.

What it meant for him now!  He, who had been
for so many months a convict, cut off from all
communications with his fellows—a mere machine, a
cypher!  Number 381!

Patterson had offered him a job.  Work after his
own heart.  It was only now, at the last moment,
that Rupert realised he could not accept it,
could not continue the friendship that had
commenced, and which meant so much to him, unless
he told Patterson who *and what he was*!

An escaped convict, a felon with a price on his head!

A nice companion for this straight, clean Englishman,
who proposed to take him, alone, in the vast
interior of wild Borneo.

To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only
friend.  It meant losing the chance of work.  It
might mean that he would be arrested and sent
back to England and prison!

But he had to play the game!  It is curious how
little things affect one at a great crisis of one's life.
Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson
and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell
him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had
decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing
his offer and just leave Singapore, alone.

It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from
the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home,
Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales
and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson's
hands.

He thought of his father, of little Marjorie,
his sister.  And last of Ruby, the woman he loved!

They would have asked him to play the game.

So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert
told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim
Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and
escape from Dartmoor.  He refrained from mentioning
any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.

When he had finished Patterson ordered another
drink, and then lit a cheroot.  Having got his
"smoke" well under way he rose and held out his
hand.

Rupert took it hesitatingly.  "I'm glad you
told me, Cotton," Patterson said.  "I rather flatter
myself that I'm a judge of character.  I knew the
moment I saw you that you had a 'history.'  I
didn't want to know it, but I guess you feel better
for having told me.  A man who has gone through
the fires and has got his fingers burnt is worth
twice as much as the fellow who has never fought
and blundered, suffered and gone on fighting.
Now then, shut down on the past and ... get ashore!"

"You—you still want me to come with you?"
Rupert stammered.  "You still trust me?"

Patterson laughed.  "Now, more than ever."

Half an hour later Rupert's bag was put into a
long boat with Mr. Patterson's more bulky luggage.
There was a choppy sea on and it was not an easy
task to get into the boat as it rose and fell at the
ship's gangway.  At last they pushed off, Patterson
sitting beside Rupert in the stern, with their baggage
piled in front of them.  The six Malays bent to their
long, thin paddles with short, jerky strokes, and the
light boat flew through the white-topped waves
towards the shore beneath the slopes of Fort Canning,
where the Union Jack still fluttered a welcome.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

A long canoe cut out of a single giant tree, with a
palm leaf awning covering the stern portion, under
which two white men inclined on a mat, while
eight brawny Malays, sitting crossed-legged with
their backs to them, bent their bronze-coloured
bodies from which the sweat poured in streams
to the regular strokes of their paddles.  In the stern,
behind the awning, sat the steersman, an old,
parchment-faced Dyak with a small white goatee
beard, fierce, pig-like eyes, and a broad slit of a
mouth which dripped a blood-red juice as he chewed
his betelnut quid.

He was the guide, an old "Gutta-hunter" who
knew this trackless forest, these giant mountains
through which the great river flowed three long
weeks' journey to the sea.  Here, in the far interior,
where no white men had been before, it had become
a clear, swift stream, with constant rapids, up which
the narrow canoe had to be dragged by the crew
waist-deep in the rushing white-foamed water as it
swirled and tumbled over the jagged rocks.

Tropical vegetation hung in thick green masses
to the water's edge, while the blacker mass of foliage
of colossal trees whose huge trunks shot up a hundred
feet or more without a branch, shut in the landscape
on every hand.

"'This is the forest primeval, only more so,'"
Patterson quoted gaily, "and, if it wasn't for the
leeches, not a bad place after all."

These pests hung on every leaf and blade of grass
and, with outstretched head, waited the passer-by
on whom they instantly fixed, to worm through
puttie or breeches, through coat and shirt, until
the flesh was reached and the blood-sucking head
inserted beneath.

For nearly nine months now Patterson and Rupert
had been travelling—prospecting and working—in
this wild and dangerous region.  For Rupert,
nine months of keen excitement, which had almost
wiped out the dreadful past.  But, deep in his heart,
was embedded the memory of the woman he still
loved; and the memory of his father and the little
homestead among the Devonshire moorlands.

The one thing he could never forget was that he
would, perhaps for ever, remain an exile.  Yet
he dreamed of returning home one day, of
seeing his loved ones again—if only for a few brief
hours.

The sun was below the mountain tops, and it
was almost time to think of selecting a camping-place
for the night.  Patterson stretched himself and
sat up.

"Where shall we land?" he asked in Malay.

"I don't know—wherever your honour wishes,"
the helmsman replied.  "Your honour knows best."

Before Patterson could reply a huge tree on the
right bank, not twenty yards ahead, crashed down
right across the stream, its great branches throwing
up a column of water, while its dense top was locked
in the foliage of the other bank.

"Murut!  Murut!" shouted the Malays.  "Turn
quick!  Quick!"

The water swirled beneath the swift strokes of
the paddles as they turned the canoe in its own
length.  A sudden crack with the rending sound
of a falling tree caused them to pause with paddles
in the air, as another giant of the forest crashed
down the stream below them.  Instantly a shot
rang out from the jungle and the air was filled
with yells of "Hoot-ka-Poot," the dread war-cry
of the Head-hunting Muruts.

Naked figures climbed over the fallen trees that
hemmed them in, and musket shots from both
banks added to the din, though the bullets
whizzed high overhead or harmlessly struck the water.

At the first alarm Rupert and Patterson had
seized their rifles and opened fire, Patterson shouting
orders to keep the canoe in mid-stream.

"Fire at the men on the tree ahead, Cotton,"
he said.  "We must force a passage up stream....
Good shot!" as a Murut who had reached the
middle of the tree threw up his arms and toppled
face down into the stream.

Two more were lying limp in the tangle of branches
and another went splashing and spluttering past
the canoe, the swift running current red with his
blood.  Suddenly the man in the bows leaped
up with a shriek that ran high above the noise of
the fight, his eyes starting from his head with horror,
as he stared at a tiny bamboo shaft that he held
in his left hand, while his right plucked convulsively
at his side, from which a few drops of blood
were oozing.  Slowly he sank to his knees, while his
fellow paddlemen huddled away from him, muttering
the dread words, "Upas, Upas poison!  He's hit!"

As the cruel poison began to work, the poor fellow's
face became livid and his limbs contorted with
agony, and soon he lay a knotted and inanimate
mass of twisted limbs in the bottom of the canoe.

The deadly blow-pipe is the Murut's chief weapon,
for guns are few and only obtained where the Arab
trader has penetrated to buy "gutta" and other
jungle produce.  The blow-pipe is about six feet
long and is bored with wonderful skill from a
perfectly straight piece of seasoned hard wood.  Its
darts are made from bamboo, thin as a knitting
needle, and with a very sharp point, which is nearly
cut through, so that it breaks off in the wound
before the dart can be withdrawn.  A piece of pith
that exactly fits the bore of the tube is fixed to the
other end of the dart, and so powerful is this primitive
weapon that a skilled warrior can blow a dart with
extreme accuracy to forty or even fifty yards range.

The Malay next Rupert dropped his paddle,
which floated away, and when he looked at him
he saw a thin line of blood running down his face
from a hole in his left temple.  He was stone dead,
but still squatted in his place.  A bullet now broke
the steersman's, Unju's, paddle, and the canoe
began to drift towards the bank.

It had all happened so quickly that they had
scarcely time to realise their danger, and it was
not till a shower of spears had wounded Unju and
killed the other two Malays, that Patterson saw
they were almost ashore.

"Quick, Cotton, paddle for your life!" he shouted,
and, seizing a paddle, he tried to turn the bow of the
canoe to the stream again.

But it was too late, a score of naked forms leapt
from the bank and threw themselves upon the
canoe, which filled with water, and surrounded by
shrieking savages was soon fast wedged in the
undergrowth on the wear side.

It would have gone hard with the two white men,
for a dozen spears were poised against them, when
Unju, the Dyack, yelling his war-cry, leapt into the
midst of the Muruts, his heavy parang swung by an
arm of steel, cleaving through skull and shoulder,
breast or back, and sending death and destruction on
every side.  In a moment he had cleared a circle
round the canoe.  Suddenly a shot rang out, and
Unju collapsed into Rupert's arms, and an instant
later a tall native with a Winchester repeating
rifle in his hand, stepped from behind a tree, and,
signing to the Muruts to keep back, approached
the canoe.

He wore a short Arab coat, a pair of tight-fitting
"sluar," and a small handkerchief turban of stiff
gold embroidery round his head.  An acquiline
nose, two piercing black eyes set very close together,
and a small black moustache that covered but did
not hide a thin, cruel mouth, showed that the
newcomer was not a Murut.  He addressed Patterson
in Malay with the peculiar drawl of the Brunie
noble.

"Surrender, and the Muruts shall not kill
you.  Touch not your guns but step up upon the land."

He then turned to the Muruts and gave some
orders in their own language.  Unju had sat up,
and Rupert was trying to staunch the bullet wound
in his left shoulder.  With Patterson's assistance
they lifted him from the canoe and laid him against
a tree on the river bank.  The Muruts were cutting
branches of trees and with a few rattans soon
constructed a rough litter.

What fate awaited them Rupert hardly dared
to guess.  That their lives had been spared was
evidently due to the presence of the Brunie chief,
whom they learnt later on was an outlaw and a
desperado called Mat Salleh, who, in his young
days, had been a pirate and was a native of Suloo,
an island of the north coast.  Old Unju knew him
well by reputation, and seemed to fear him far
more than he did the Muruts, whom he really
despised.  Mat Salleh had obtained a great influence
over the Muruts of the interior, who believed him to
be invulnerable and possessed with supernatural power.

When the litter was ready, Mat Salleh ordered
them to march behind it, and surrounded by armed
Muruts and preceded by others carrying the gory
heads of the poor Malays, they started up a steep
mountain track through the gloom of the dark jungle.
After about an hour's march they emerged from
the forest into a large clearing, where paddy and
sweet potatoes were planted.  At the top of a conical
hill in the centre of the clearing was a high stockade
of bamboo enclosing some dozen houses on piles
and thatched with palm leaves.  As the long
procession entered the clearing, a great hubbub arose
out in the village.  The deep notes of a big war
gong mingled with the shrill cries of the women,
who poured out of a gateway and danced down
towards the approaching warriors.  The sun had
set and it was nearly dark, though a bright moon
lighted up the clearing, throwing the stockade
and houses into black relief against the opal sky.

Rupert glanced at Patterson.  The latter shrugged
his shoulders.  "We're in for it, I'm afraid, Cotton.
Sorry, old man, but while there's life there's hope!"

As they entered the stockade flames shot up from
a huge fire that had just been lit inside, and the
ruddy glow thrown on the bronze figures of the men
and the naked bodies of the women who surrounded
them, made a scene so weird and eerie that Rupert's
blood ran cold with dread of what was about to
happen in this devils' cauldron.  At one end of
the enclosure was a long house with an open
verandah about six feet above the ground, against which
was placed a single bamboo in which notches had
been cut to form steps.

By this Mat Salleh and the Murut chiefs mounted,
and squatting round a huge jar began to refresh
themselves by sucking a reed that was inserted
in the top.  Similar jars were placed near the fire,
and groups of warriors quickly surrounded them.
Patterson and Rupert were dragged to the fire, and
poor wounded Unju was also dragged there by a
horrible old hag, who appeared to be the mistress
of the ceremonies.  The women now took the heads,
still dripping with blood, and began to slowly
dance round the fire, chanting a deep song with a
high wailing note at the end of each stave.  Their
long black hair hung straight to their waists, they
were naked save for a dark cloth of bark round
their loins.  The great wooden gong beat time
and throbbed on the still night air.  Gradually the
time became faster, and men and women from the
drinking jars joined in the dance.  The gory heads
were tossed from hand to hand, and it was evident
to the unfortunate prisoners that the drink was
beginning to inflame the dancers.

Spears and parangs flashed in the firelight, and
old Unju, who had hitherto remained motionless,
stirred uneasily and at last spoke to Patterson in a
low voice.

"Beware, O chief, for they will take our heads
presently when their blood is fired by drink."

Patterson nodded.  "I'm afraid I've given you
a poor run for your money, Cotton," he whispered.
Rupert smiled.  "I'm all right.  Glad we're
together."

At this moment a band of women were seen
advancing from the chief's house, leading two youths
who were to be initiated as warriors.  They each
carried a head by the hair and were led into the
circle of dancers.  The same old hag who had
conducted the dance now smeared the youths with
blood, shrieking an invocation, to which the crowd
replied at intervals with a shout of "Augh!"  Next
an old warrior stepped forward and broke
off their two front teeth with the aid of a stone
and a short iron instrument, afterwards filing the
stumps off to the gums.

This was done to enable the sumpitan or blowpipe
to be used with greater facility and is the sign
of manhood.  More jars of tapi (rice spirit) were
broached, and every one gave themselves up to
drinking.

Patterson whispered to Unju and asked him if he
was able to walk, to which the old man replied that
he could walk all night if his head remained on his
shoulders—about which he expressed some misgivings.

"Listen," said Patterson, "in a short time the
moon will be down.  They have put green boughs
on the fires to smoke the heads while they drink.
It is pitch dark under the stockade, and most of the
men are already drunk.  If we can crawl one by
one to the stockade, without being seen, we can
overpower the man at the gate, and, once outside,
Unju must guide us to the river.  It is a desperate
venture, but to remain here is certain death."

Unju shook his head.  On the whole, he preferred
to remain where he was.  Their lives were
in the hands of fate.  To go or stay—it would come
to the same thing in the end.

Patterson turned impatiently to Rupert.  "What
do you say?  At least we shall be doing something,
and, anyway, get a fight for our lives.  This inaction
is getting on my nerves."

Rupert managed to laugh.  "It is a bit dull.
I almost feel as if I were watching my own head
being smoke-dried over that beastly fire."

It was agreed that at a signal from Patterson
each man should begin to creep towards the stockade,
keeping as far apart as possible.  If one was
discovered and caught the other two were to make a
dash for it, trusting to the excitement and drunken
confusion to get away.

Patterson drew a ring off his finger, a plain gold
band, and gave it to Rupert, asking him (in the event
of his getting away and Patterson being caught)
to give it to a certain person he named and whose
address Rupert would find at the National Bank,
Singapore.

"Anything I can do for you, old man, if—if you're
unlucky?"

Rupert thought for a moment.  "There is a
girl I love called Ruby Strode.  You will probably
find her at the Ingenue Theatre, London.  Tell her
that I understood and appreciated everything
she did on my behalf—tell her she was my last
thought."

"Right-ho," Patterson replied cheerily.  "Now,
crawl a few feet away and lie low until you hear
me whistle twice.  Then make for the stockade on
your hands and knees.  Each man for himself,
remember.  It's our only chance."

Rupert gripped his hand.  The next moment he
found himself alone.  By the faint light of the
flames from the fire he could see the hideous, naked
figures of the Muruts dancing to and fro, men
and women.  They reeled, leapt, staggered.  The
rice spirit was doing its deadly work, and already
they were mad with excitement.

Suddenly above the noise Rupert heard two long,
low whistles.  He turned over on his hands and
knees.  But, as he did so, he heard a wild yell.

The hag-like woman had seen him.  Patterson was
discovered, too.

A score of writhing, steel-coloured, blood-stained
bodies reeled towards them, closed round them,
cutting off all chance of escape.

Rupert saw Patterson rise to his feet.  He followed
his example, giving himself up for lost.  The flames
from the bough-fed fire leaped up brightly for a
moment, then died down again, making the night
inky-black.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ARGUMENT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium

   AN ARGUMENT.

.. vspace:: 2

Despard sat in the den, as he called it, of his
new chambers in Duke Street, London.  A
shaded electric light shone on his desk.  A
mass of papers and a private account-book lay
before him, a half-smoked Havana cigar was in
his mouth, a whisky and soda by his side.

The gold travelling clock on the mantelshelf
struck the hour.  Nine o'clock.  Despard pushed
back his chair, took a pull at his cigar, sighed,
and then, looking at the clock, frowned.  Evidently
the visitor he expected was not coming.

Nearly two years had passed since he successfully
floated the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.  For
several months his little venture had threatened
to sink.  It had been more difficult than he supposed
to get people to believe in radium.  The public
wanted something they could see and handle for
their money.  Radium was a little too elusive.

But Despard, for all his faults, was a fighter,
especially when he had something for which to
fight.  He had got two or three people with a small
amount of money to believe in him—and in radium.
Some of those people had influence.  So, after many
weary months of working up a slow but steady
boom, and by a brilliant system of advertisement,
the company had been successfully floated and
launched, and the public had come in at first slowly
and hesitatingly, but eventually with a rush which
was accelerated by an unexpected boom on the
Stock Exchange.

The one-pound shares in the radium mine, fully
paid up, mounted from five shillings to par.  From
this they suddenly boomed to twenty-five shillings,
and then gradually and steadily rose until they
were quoted at three pound ten.  Sir Reginald
Crichton and one or two other members of the
original syndicate, though honestly believing in
the venture, were surprised.  So far, no radium had
been extracted from the pitch-blende—though the
reports were excellent and full of encouragement.
But Crichton expected he would have
to wait some years before he got a return for
his money.

Now, if he chose to sell his shares he knew he
might realise a small fortune.  But Despard begged
him to wait.

"They'll touch five pounds yet," he said.

His nerve, which had never deserted him during
the early days of the venture, when people had
frankly laughed at the idea of radium being
discovered in Devonshire, when there was real danger
of utter failure, and rumours of fraud echoed in his
ears, now began to fail him.

He knew he could trust old Dale, Sir Reginald
Crichton, and a few other men who had been nothing
more nor less than his dupes.  It was his friends in
the City, sharks like himself, whom he could not
trust.  Men who had helped finance the company
and boom it; the men who had forced up the price
of shares originally when they were worth as many
pennies as they were quoted in shillings.

Gold had been the god at whose shrine Despard
had always worshipped.  For he believed that
money could purchase anything, even the love of
woman.

Even the love of the woman he had grown to
desire more than any other, more than anything
else in the world, save wealth—Marjorie Dale.

The frown on Despard's face deepened as the clock
ticked cheerfully on and the hands slowly but
inexorably pointed to the fleeting minutes.  In
spite of all opposition, in spite of all the influence
he had been able to bring to bear on her father
and on Jim's father; in spite of threats and promises
she still refused to listen to him or to consider
him for one moment as her lover or her future husband.

The announcement of her engagement to
Lieutenant James Crichton had been made, only to
be contradicted by Sir Reginald.  Her father had
sent her to London to stay with some wealthy
friends they had made—through Sir Reginald's
introduction and the fame the mine had brought
them.  He had hoped that a season in the great
city would help her to forget and make her more
amenable to his wishes.

But he did not know his own daughter.  It had
always been his boast that when a Dale gave his
word he never went back on it.  Perhaps he forgot
that though his daughter was a woman she nevertheless
inherited the same proud, obstinate spirit
that he and his forefathers possessed.

He had almost given her up as hopeless, had
frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.

Society has a conveniently short memory on
occasions, and those members of it, who knew
the history of the Dales and the story of the convict
brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and
successfully disappeared from the country, quickly
forgot all about him.  Those who had not heard
asked no questions.  Miss Dale was young, rich,
beautiful, and apparently well-bred.  That was
enough.  Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts
beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed
no signs of it.

But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him
to play his last card.  A desperate one and a
dangerous.

That was why he now glanced impatiently at
the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually
deepened.  That morning he had commenced to
unload—to sell his shares in the radium mine.
He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm
the public.  It was important that no one should
know that he was clearing out of the venture until
he had realised every penny he possibly could.  As
soon as the shares began to drop he knew there
would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell.
And eventually there would be a scramble by the
public to get rid of the shares that he believed
were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy
shillings.  By that time Despard hoped to be out
of the country—travelling for his health!  And he
fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with
him, too.  As his wife—or, if she proved obstinate,
he intended to try what force would do.

He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should
never have her.  For he hated him.  And he had
good reason.  Jim had kept his promise to Ruby
Strode and had left no stone unturned to try
and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.

But it had been of no avail.  Sir Reginald's
suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again.
Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder
man into the comfortable belief that things were
best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having
escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory
was best left in oblivion.

The clock on the mantelshelf struck the
half-hour.  Despard closed his books, folded up his
papers and put them away.  He had realised a tidy
little fortune, and for the moment the frown
disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction.
To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald
to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his
rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had
sent her, he would let her father be stranded with
a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin
mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.

He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent
her that unless she came to his rooms that evening
to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father,
ruin him utterly and irretrievably.

He crossed the room and opened the door which
led into his bedroom.  His trunk was packed,
everything was ready to start for the Continent at a
moment's notice.  It looked now as though that
start would be made within twelve hours.  For
he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter
in person, she would either send it to her father or
else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that
case—in Mr. Despard's own language—"the fat would
be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of
the country for a few months' change of air the better.

He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself.  Poverty
had no terror for her, and she had shown by her
loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face
disgrace.  But he believed that she would come for
her father's sake.

Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a
quarter to ten there was a knock at the front
door.  Despard started, and a smile flitted across
his thin lips.

She had come after all!

He closed the bedroom door and glanced round
the room.  There was a little too much light, so he
switched off the hanging lamp.  He glanced at himself
in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened
his tie.

She had come.  He knew, as he noiselessly crossed
the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he
had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing
that, until he had obtained a promise more certain
of fulfilment.

His fingers trembled a little as he turned the
Chubb lock and opened the door.

The woman standing outside entered quickly.
Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out
his hand.

"I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie——"

"You have made a mistake.  I am not Miss
Dale.  I am Ruby—Ruby Strode."

Despard's teeth met in his lip.  He repressed an
oath.  "You—what do you want with me?"

He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself
together and opened the sitting-room door.  Ruby
entered and he followed her.

"Won't you sit down?  Have a whisky and soda?"

She nodded.  "Thanks, I would like a drink."

While he mixed it she stared round the room.
"I've not been here before.  Rather a nice place.
You have made a lot of money, haven't you?"

She spoke nervously, in short, sharp sentences.
Despard realised something was wrong.  He
wondered what.  He looked at her more critically as he
handed her the tumbler.  She was smartly dressed.
Her face looked very white, her eyes large and
brilliant.  If anything, she was more beautiful than
when he had last seen her.  She had always attracted
him.  He remembered how once he had wanted
to marry her.

And the thought crossed his mind that if
Marjorie did not come Ruby Strode would not make a
bad travelling companion for an enforced holiday.

"It's a long time since we've met," he said easily.
"Though your friends have been busy on your
behalf—or perhaps I should say on behalf of your
quondam convict lover."

He saw her face grow scarlet for a moment, her
eyes flash, then she veiled them, and, shrugging
her shoulders, laughed easily.

"It's about my quondam lover, as you call him,
that I've come to see you."

Despard yawned, and, taking a fresh cigar, lit
it.  "How disappointing!  I thought you had come
to see me for myself alone.  You are just as
beautiful as ever you were, Ruby."

She emptied the glass he had given her, then
pulled her chair closer to his and looked at him
eagerly.

"Mr. Despard—Bob—you are rich now and
powerful.  You've got everything you want in the
world."

"Not quite," he said, leaning towards her.

"Nearly everything," she continued.  "You've
got money, and that buys most things."

"Yes," Despard grinned.  There was a moment's
pause, and again he leaned towards her.  "Have
you anything you want to sell?"

Once more the colour mounted her cheeks.

"Perhaps," she stammered.  "I'll tell you straight
out.  There's nothing I wouldn't do in order to
clear Rupert Dale's name."

Despard leaned back and flicked the ash off his
cigar.  "The same old subject.  Gad, one would
think you believed I altered the cheque, I'm the
guilty person.  I've told you and your pal, Jim
Crichton, that I can do nothing, that I know
nothing."

Ruby drew still a little closer to him.  In the
dimly-lit room she looked exceedingly beautiful.
Yes, he admitted that she still fascinated him as
she had done a year or two ago.

"Listen," she whispered.  "I know if you had
spoken at the trial you would have saved Rupert."

"Supposing for the sake of argument that I could
have.  What then?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RUBY'S HEROISM`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium

   RUBY'S HEROISM.

.. vspace:: 2

Despard knew exactly what Ruby Strode
had come to ask.  He saw his opportunity
"for getting a little of his own back," as he
would have put it.  He smiled to himself as he
watched her sitting there, nervously twisting up the
gloves she had taken off, and, obviously, at a loss
to continue.

A more generous man would have tried to make
it easier for her, to have helped her.  But Despard
was not that sort.  He merely calculated how
much he might ask, how far he might go without
meeting a rebuff.  The cards all seemed to be in his
hand.

Here he was in his own flat, alone, with a beautiful
woman who had come to ask, to beg, or to purchase
a favour of him!  He glanced at the clock; it was
now past ten o'clock.  In a few minutes the outer
door would be locked and the hall-porter gone!  He
rose, and, crossing over to the table, poured himself
out a stiff whisky.  As he placed his glass under
the syphon he broke the long silence.

"Won't you have another, Ruby?" he asked
in a soft voice.

Ruby started, and the blood rushed to her face.
Her courage oozed away.  Then she thought of her
mission—she must not fail.  She must keep cool
and play this man with his own game.  She must
fool him, deceive him—appear to give in to him;
permit him to make love to her, anything, everything
so long as she could persuade him to come forward
with the evidence that would save her lover from
the crime that now dishonoured his good name; that
had ruined his life and threatened to ruin his sister's.

"Thank you, I will have a tiny drop, please, with
plenty of soda."

Despard turned his back on her and half filled her
tumbler with spirit, he then frothed it over the brim
with soda.

"Now then, go ahead," he laughed.

"I have come to you to-night to throw myself on
your honour, to appeal to your generosity—to beg
you, to pray you, on my knees if necessary, to help
me to undo the great wrong that I have done to an
innocent man.  Oh, Mr. Despard, I know you don't
like him, but I do not ask a favour for him.  I ask
it for myself.  You once said you were fond of me,
that you loved me.  Think then what it means to
me when I love Rupert Dale more than life—more
than honour—more than anything in this world
or the next.  Think of my feelings—-night and day,
night and day, never a moment's rest—never a
moment's peace; always the same terrible thought
clutching my heart, tearing my very soul.  That
I—I, his chosen love, his future wife, have ruined him,
blasted his life, branded his name with dishonour,
made him an outcast, an outlaw, hiding in shame
from his fellow-men.  And Marjorie, his sister,
she is suffering, too.  I cannot bear it any longer.
I should have killed myself long ago if that would
have helped; but it would only end it for me,
while he would live on, never able to clear himself,
without hope, doomed to life-long suffering by my
act.  My statements were not believed.  Your
evidence contradicted mine, or, at least, threw doubt on
what I said.  The jury would not believe me, and
an innocent man was condemned to penal servitude
for my crime.  I know you saw the cheque in
my hand because you frightened me by asking
me if it was my winnings.  When I went out of
the room I turned as I reached the door and saw you
looking at the blotting-pad.  You looked up and
our eyes met.  I knew you had seen the figures on
it as surely as though you had told me.  For some
reason you denied all this in court.  I thought at the
time it was to screen me, I know now that you
had another motive.  I have been to my solicitors
and to Sir Reginald's; they both tell me that it is
quite useless appealing to the Home Secretary
for a re-hearing or a pardon or anything, unless there
is some new evidence that was not given at the
trial and that will conclusively prove my guilt.  You
can give that evidence—you can prove that what I
said at the trial was true—you can save the man
I love from worse than death.  God help me, but
you will, you will!"

She stopped.  Despard struck a match and lit his
cigar and puffed the smoke in rings to the ceiling.
When the silence had lasted till she could bear it
no longer Ruby's eyes fell upon her tumbler, and
with a trembling hand she raised and emptied it.
It burned her throat like fire, but her strained nerves
hardly noticed it.  She lay back in her chair and
closed her eyes.  She heard, as from a distance,
Despard's voice, soft and coaxing.

"My dear little girl, I had no idea you felt it
like that.  You have always treated me so harshly,
so coldly, I thought you had no heart, that you were
incapable of feeling the passion that consumed
me, or of understanding why I refused to speak.  I
will confess to you now that I did it because I love
you—there, don't move, hear me out.  I couldn't
bear to send you to prison, to make you suffer.  I
thought you would forget this fellow Dale, now that
he has gone out of your life for ever.  For remember,
that whatever happens, he can never marry you
after this.  Even if he was pardoned and returned
to England—yes, I know he's abroad—the proof
of his innocence is your condemnation, don't forget
that!  So it's not much good clearing his name
of crime only to tie him to a felonious wife.  Now,
I have a little proposal to make to you.  I have
made some money out of this mine in Devonshire.
I have a nice little flat here, a capital little car
round at the garage, but no one to share them."

He rose and crossed the room, standing behind her
chair so that he could see her face in the mirror
above the fireplace, but she could not see him.

"Now, in order to clear Rupert Dale's name,
to give him his freedom—which, by the way, he
has already taken—I shall have to confess that I
committed perjury two years ago.  And they
make it rather hot for perjurers.  They would
certainly send me to prison.  And you will get
there without a shadow of doubt.  Nobody knows
where Rupert is, nobody cares.  He has probably
married and settled down in some remote
corner of the earth perfectly happy and
content.  By raking up this wretched affair we shall
be merely making several people very uncomfortable,
do ourselves an incalculable amount of harm,
and benefit Rupert no whit whatever."

In the mirror he saw the colour mount to Ruby's
pale cheeks.  The suggestion that Rupert was
happily married had not been tactful.  He waited a
moment, but she did not speak.

"Now, supposing I make a statement for private
circulation only.  It can be witnessed and made quite
a legal document if you like, but only those
interested should see it—Rupert's father and sister, for
example; Sir Reginald, if you can guarantee that
he will hold his tongue."

"A statement which will absolutely exonerate
Rupert?"  Ruby's voice seemed to come with an effort.

"Of course."

"You admit, then, that you saw me alter the
cheque in Rupert's rooms that afternoon?"

Despard shrugged his shoulders.  "Well, as far as
I remember I was just coming into the room and
I saw you sitting at the bureau scribbling on a piece
of paper.  You blotted it and I saw it was a cheque.
I hesitated a moment, and as I entered you rolled
it up and put it in your glove.  There was a guilty
look on your face and I suspected something.  That
was why I questioned you.  I took the opportunity
of examining the blotting-pad with a little
hand-mirror—of course, I could not tell anything was
wrong, but I had a pretty shrewd suspicion.  You
may be a good actress, Ruby, but you gave yourself
away that afternoon."

He turned round as he spoke and looked straight
at her.  Her face was contorted with rage, her eyes
were flaming.

"You coward!  You actually saw me alter
the cheque and you examined the blotting-pad!
You knew Rupert was innocent.  You knew I did
it.  Yet, at the trial you would not speak.  You
let an innocent man, your friend, go to prison....
Why did you do it?  Why, answer me?  Why?"

Her sudden passion alarmed him.  She had risen
to her feet and was standing close to him, gazing
straight into his eyes.  He strained his ears fearing
lest some one had overheard her.

"I've got the truth at last," she cried.  "Every
one shall know it now."

Despard moved, placing himself between Ruby
and the door.  He was afraid what she might do in
her passion.

"You asked why I let an innocent man go
to prison?" he said softly, in a gentle, reassuring
voice.  It was almost wistful in its tenderness.
"I had to choose between my friend and—and the
woman I love.  You, Ruby."

"You never loved me," she cried.  "Rupert was
my lover and you know it.  You came between us.
You were jealous of him."

"That's true," he replied with a sigh.  "But I
would have been loyal to him if my love for you
had not been the strongest thing in my life."

Ruby laughed sarcastically, then checked herself.
What did it matter how Despard lied?  What did
it matter if she let him believe that he was fooling
her?  For two years she had been trying to get
the confession he now made.  She had tried every
means but one.  She had done everything but
come to him herself and plead with him, bargain
with him.  Nothing mattered if she could get him
to put in writing the confession he had just made.

She turned away as if overcome, and with an
unsteady hand poured some more whisky into her
tumbler and raised it to her lips.

"I laughed because I found it difficult to believe
you really loved me, Mr. Despard."

Stepping forward he seized her wrist and swung her
round.  He had just called her a bad actress, but
she acted well enough now to deceive him.

"You knew I wanted you," he said huskily.

The colour ebbed and flowed from her face.
"Oh, yes, I knew that, but——"

"I want you now," he whispered.

She pretended to try and drag her hand away.
"Why have you only just said so?"

"Because I knew Dale still stood between us.
Because you have done your best to avoid me, and
have tried to set Rupert's father and Sir Reginald
Crichton against me."

"Oh, can't you understand my feelings," she cried
piteously.  "I loved Rupert and I knew that he
loved me, and I had injured him in trying to save
him.  It was my duty before everything else to clear
his name....  And I was always a little afraid of
you—perhaps because I knew you were Rupert's rival."

Despard drew in his breath sharply as he inhaled
the perfume of her hair.  She raised her eyes an
instant, then lowered them.  In every way she was
the direct antithesis of Marjorie Dale.  The latter
was gentle, innocent.

Ruby knew how to love as she knew how to hate;
a woman with hot blood in her veins, a woman
with passion.  Her lips gleamed moist and red
in the dull light.

Suddenly he flung his arms around her and kissed
her.  She gave a little cry, struggled for a few
moments, then lay quite still and limp.

Despard bent over her, feasting his eyes on her
beauty.  Again he pressed his lips to hers.

"I'm leaving London to-morrow for a holiday
abroad.  I'm going where there's sunshine, flowers,
and music.  You'll come with me, Ruby—far away
from this dull, prosaic city.  We'll go where there's
life and colour and amusement.  I'm rich now,
there isn't a whim of yours I can't satisfy."

She started, stared, and wrenched herself free.
She was still acting superbly.  "No—you mustn't
tempt me.  I can't—not until Rupert's innocence
is proved....  Duty must come before love—though
I don't even know whether I do love you."

Despard advanced, but she retreated.  "I'll make
you love me," he whispered.

The clock struck.  He glanced at it.  Eleven!
Marjorie would not come now.  To-morrow she
would probably show his letter to her lover or her
father.  They would realise quickly enough the
threat it contained.  The sooner he got away the
better.

"I'll teach you to love me, Ruby.  Come, let
me kiss your lips again—they are sweeter than wine
and more intoxicating."

She laughed hysterically.  The spirit had gone to
her head, but she fought to keep her brain clear.

"Prove your love!" she cried, stretching out her
hands to keep him off.  "Prove it!"

"Gad, what an obstinate little vixen it is!" he
said between his teeth.  "What does this fellow
Rupert Dale matter to you?"

She forced herself to smile at him.  "Perhaps I'm
thinking of myself.  I told you I've been in hell
these two years.  My conscience has given me no
peace.  I can't rest, be happy, until I have at least
given his father proof of his innocence.  It would
be no use coming away with you; I couldn't love
you or make you happy."

A moment Despard hesitated.  He felt with the
fascination a return of the desire he had always
known for Ruby Strode.  She was worth winning—worth
purchasing.

"You want me to make a declaration that will
clear Rupert's name, should he ever return to
England?"

"Yes.  Write down what you said to me just
now.  It must be witnessed and sent to Mr. John
Dale."

Despard sat down at his table and picked up a
pen.  Rupert was never likely to show his face in
England again, he was sure of that.  But there was
a risk.  It was greater for Ruby than for himself.
He glanced at her over his shoulder.  He wanted her
now—but in six months' time he might tire of her.

Dipping his pen into the ink, he commenced to
write.  Ruby stood beside him and watched him.
When he had finished he signed his name with a
flourish and handed it to her.

"Will that do?"

She read it carefully.  "Yes, that's perfectly
clear," she said, and there was a trace of surprise
in her voice.  "It must be witnessed."

He rose and stood by her side.  "To-morrow
morning.  I'll get the hall-porter or some one.  By
the way, we'll have to catch the ten o'clock boat
train.  It's no use your going back to your flat.  It's
nearly midnight; you must stop here, dear."

He put his arm around her; she repressed a
shudder.  She commenced to fold up the statement
he had made.

"I must go back in order to pack," she said
with a little laugh.  "Besides, Iris Colyer—I share
a flat with her now—she'll be wondering what's
happening to me."

"That will be all right.  You can write and explain
from Paris.  And as for clothes, why, I'll buy
a trousseau there fit for a queen.  Come, Ruby, now
I've got you I'm not going to let you go."

She shrank back, and Despard held her closer.
He thought she was only a little frightened—and
her fear was fuel to the fire of his desire.

She slipped the statement she had now folded up
inside her blouse.  Despard kissed her again and
again.  Then suddenly with a quick movement she
escaped from his arms and ran to the door.

"Until to-morrow," she cried feverishly, trying to
fasten her coat.  "I must get back to-night——"

Despard followed her as she opened the door.  "Oh,
no, you don't," he cried grimly.  "You might
oversleep yourself or forget, my dear."

"I shall not do that," she replied boldly.  "I
love you."

In her anxiety she over-acted.  Suspicion flashed
in Despard's eyes.

"I don't trust you; I don't trust any woman
living.  To-morrow you might alter your mind.
Your love may change and leave you cold.  I want
you now.  I've kept my part of the bargain; you
must keep yours."

Exerting all her strength, she tried to wrench
herself free.  "Let me go—you are hurting me!"

Her voice rose shrilly.

Despard lost his temper.  "Very well—if you'll
swear to be here to-morrow by nine o'clock!"

"I swear!" she cried eagerly.

"And give me back that piece of paper—my
statement.  If I have it in my possession it will
help you to remember your promise."

Ruby ceased struggling and put her hands up to
his face caressingly.  "Don't you trust me, Bob?"

"I don't!" he grinned, and as he spoke he
caught the neck of her blouse with one hand and
with the other tried to snatch the folded sheet of
paper hidden there.

Ruby staggered back, and clenching her fists, hit
him in the face.  Her cheeks burned with shame
and indignation.  "You coward!  How dare you!
I hate you!"  She backed towards the door as she
spoke.  "I shan't come to you to-morrow, but I
shall take your statement straight to my solicitors,
who will show it to the police.  You thought I
would sell myself to you—you of all men in the
world!"

She flung open the door and ran across the hall.
Before she could escape Despard overtook her and
seized her left arm.  As he swung her round her
right hand slipped into the pocket of her coat.
She whipped out a tiny revolver and pointed it into
his face:

"Let me go, or I'll fire!"

Instinctively he stepped back.  Then, as he
recovered from his surprise he laughed: "You little
devil!  So that's the stuff you're made of.  Well, I
like it.  Put that toy away and come back immediately.
If you don't I'll take that paper from
you if I have to tear the clothes off your back."

"If you touch me, I'll shoot you!" she cried
between her teeth.

As she spoke Despard jumped forward and hit
up her arm.  But she kept a tight grip on the
revolver.  He tried to snatch it from her.  They
struggled.

"Let me go, or I'll shoot!" she panted.  "I warn
you!  I'll kill you!"

Neither of them heard footsteps outside, nor the
ringing of the front-door bell.

Despard seized the hand which held the revolver
and slowly forced it back.  A faint cry of agony
escaped Ruby as she felt her wrist twisting.

Suddenly there was a sharp report.  The revolver
rattled to the ground.  Ruby ceased struggling,
twirled round, then fell in a heap at Despard's
feet.

The front-door bell rang again.  There was a
loud knocking.  Despard stood staring at the limp
body at his feet.  Then he knelt down and seized
Ruby's hands—spoke to her.  He felt for her
heart—and his fingers touched something warm
and wet.

There were voices outside shouting for admittance.
He rose to his feet and gazed round.  There was no
help for it—he would have to open the door.

He did so.

"Quick—there has been an accident!"

His voice rattled in his throat as he found himself
face to face with a tall, bronzed, bearded man—a
man he did not recognise, yet whose features caused
a thrill of fear in his heart.

"An accident!" he mumbled thickly.  "Are you—who
are you?"

The man brushed past him and flung himself on
his knees at Ruby's side.  "I am Rupert Dale!"

Despard staggered back and almost fell.  The
hall-porter who was just behind put out his hand and
caught him by the arm.

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.. vspace:: 1

Ruby Strode opened her eyes and looked into the
bronzed face bending over her.  A little light came
into them as she gazed into the eyes watching her
so tenderly.

"I—he shot me—an accident, I think; but he
tried to steal——"  She moistened her lips and tried
to raise herself.  Her eyes grew brighter.  "Who
are you?" she whispered.

"Don't you know me, Ruby?" Rupert said
brokenly.  "I am your lover, dear.  I'm Rupert.
I've come for you—I've come back to take you
away with me, out to the home in the East I've
made for you....  Ruby!  Ruby!"

With an effort she raised her arms and fastened
them around his neck.  "Thank God you have
come!"  Her voice was growing very faint.  "Don't
believe what Mr. Despard tells you.  Here, inside
my blouse, there's a paper signed by him.  It
completely exonerates you.  It tells the truth
which he concealed at the trial.  Listen, Rupert,
don't speak.  You are free now—I've saved you
at last in spite of all.  Say you forgive me.
I did it because I loved you, dear.  Say you
forgive me."

He lifted her and rested her head on his breast.
He kissed her lips.  "I came back to take you with
me, Ruby.  I made good out in the East, dear.  A
home for you.  I only landed this morning.  I went
to your rooms.  Miss Colyer told me you had come
here.  Hush, don't speak, you'll be all right by
and by."

She shook her head.  "I'm dying.  But you'll
take me with you, Rupert?"

His lips trembled.  The words stuck in his throat,
"I came home for you.  I'll take you with me, Ruby
darling....  I'll take you with me."

A smile flitted across her lips.  Her eyes
closed—almost as if she were tired and falling asleep.
Then her head rolled and fell back.  Gently laying
her down, Rupert put his face close to hers.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

When he stood up there was a crumpled piece of
paper in his hand.  He turned and saw Robert
Despard standing in the centre of the sitting-room,
on either side of him a police constable.  An
inspector came forward and said something, but
Rupert scarcely heard.  He unfolded the paper and
handed it to him.

"I've just found this tucked inside the lady's
dress," he said, fighting for control of his voice.
"She told me ... it may throw some light ... on
the affair."

"You know her, sir?" the inspector said.

Rupert bowed his head.  He was silent a moment.
Down his tanned, weather-stained cheeks tears were
silently falling.

"She was my affianced wife."





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.. _`FINIS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium

   FINIS.

.. vspace:: 2

Robert Despard was taken before the
magistrate at Bow Street Police Court and
was remanded, bail being refused.  At the
inquest on Ruby Strode the jury returned a verdict
of manslaughter.  On Despard's next appearance
at the police court he was committed for trial.

This took place some weeks later, but in the
meantime something like a panic seized the
shareholders in the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.
There was a wild rush to "get out."  The early
birds in the City—those who were prepared and had
merely gambled—managed to do so, and to make
a small profit: others lost heavily.  Here and
there in Devonshire there were rumours of men and
women who had lost all their savings in the venture.

But the real sufferers who said nothing at all
were old John Dale and Sir Reginald Crichton.
They were utterly unprepared, and the tragedy that
had occurred at Despard's flat engaged their whole
attention.

They were too shocked and horrified to think of
themselves, and even when they knew what was
happening and saw the sudden drop in the shares,
which were eventually knocked down to nothing,
they made no attempt to save themselves.  The
thought of ruin never entered John Dale's head.
And when it was slowly born upon him that he
was ruined he merely shrugged his shoulders and
said no word.

For his son had come back—had risen, as it were,
from the dead.

Fate was kind, and they were allowed to meet for
a few brief moments before Rupert was re-arrested
and taken back to prison.  And though by the laws
of his country he was still guilty and a convict, yet
John Dale had the satisfaction of knowing that his
son had always been innocent.

And on his knees he thanked his God that he had
been spared.  And very humbly, too, he prayed for
forgiveness for having ever doubted his own flesh
and blood, for having, no matter what proof was
given him, believed that his son could have been
guilty of so mean and despicable a crime.

A fortnight before the trial of Robert Despard
took place, Sir Reginald arranged a meeting between
his son Jim, John Dale, and Marjorie.

"Repentance comes too late, I know," he said,
"and it's no use my trying to explain; but I hope
it's not too late to ask Miss Dale to forgive an old
man whose greatest crime after all has been a
foolish, unbending pride.  I know now that it was
false pride."

Marjorie shook her head, and when Sir Reginald
would have continued she stopped him.  "There's
no need to say anything.  Your attitude was
perfectly natural.  If I had been a woman instead of
merely a girl and Jim had been my son instead of
my lover I should have felt just the same, behaved
just the same.  So long as you and father
understand—and will forgive us if our love has made us
a little selfish sometimes—nothing else matters."  She
looked at her lover: "Does it, Jim?"

Sir Reginald glanced at John Dale.  But the old
yeoman farmer said nothing.

"Is it too late," the former said, "to ask you to
take my boy and make him happy?  Remember,
he hasn't a penny now to bless himself with, except
what he can earn.  I was never one to believe in
love in a cottage, but perhaps I've been converted.
Anyway Jim has brains, and I'm glad to say—I
hope it isn't false pride again—that his country has
already recognised it, and I think there's a big
career before him.  It will be still bigger, my dear,
if he has you beside him as his wife."

Marjorie's eyes filled with tears as Jim took her in
his arms and kissed her lips.

"When my brother's innocence has been completely
and legally proved and he is set free we will
be married, but not till then," she whispered.

And John Dale took his daughter's hand and kissed it.

Rupert was, of course, a most important witness
when Despard's trial took place.  The document
found on Ruby Strode which proved that Rupert
had been wrongfully convicted more than three
years ago was sufficient to convince the jury that
Despard, though he had not contemplated murder,
was nevertheless responsible for causing the woman's
death.  The fact that his trunks were packed and
that he was ready to leave the country at a moment's
notice without anyone being aware of his intention
to do so made the case look black against him.  It
was on his solicitor's advice that he made a perfectly
frank and complete confession of the part he had
played three years ago when Rupert Dale stood his
trial for tampering with Sir Reginald Crichton's
cheque.

But Despard's record was a black one, and the
Counsel for the Crown did not hesitate to show
him up in his true colours.

He was found guilty and sentenced to seven years'
penal servitude.

A fortnight later Rupert Dale received the King's
pardon and was set free.  As it happened the very
first man to greet him outside the prison doors was
his friend, Patterson.  He shook Rupert's hand
almost casually, then gave him a hearty pat on the
back.

"Gad, we've been in some tight corners together,
Dale," he laughed.  "But I thought when we got
back to the old country we should find things a bit
tame—no more fighting, no more narrow squeaks
for our lives, no more excitement.  I was wrong,
eh?  At any rate you stepped right into the
thick of it.  Glad I was here to see you come
out top dog."

And Rupert nodded and gripped Patterson's hand
tightly.  "You're the best friend I ever had," he
said huskily.

"I ought to be," Patterson grinned, "since I owe
you my life.  But for you I should never have got
away on that black night when the Muruts were
dancing round the fire ready to cut our heads off
and smoke 'em over the burning embers.  Lord,
what a fine game it is!  Think of it, this scalp of
mine might have adorned some chief's sword now;
or the old hag who played mistress of ceremonies
might be using it on state occasions as the latest
fashion in evening dress."

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.. vspace:: 1

It was on a warm, spring morning in April that
Marjorie Dale and Captain James Crichton were
quietly married at Princetown, within sight of the
prisons which had played such a strange and
important part in their lives.  Erstwhile Convict 381
was Captain Crichton's best man.

As soon as the happy pair had left for the
honeymoon—destination unknown—Patterson, Rupert,
and John Dale returned to Blackthorn Farm, and
over mugs of old brown ale again drank their health.

The farmhouse itself remained unchanged, but
outside there was a scene of desolation.  The mine,
which a few months ago had been a scene of activity,
was now deserted.  It was a blot on the beautiful
moorlands.  Though the great plant still remained,
silence now brooded.

"Best thing you can do, Dale," Patterson said,
"is to come out East again and bring your father
with you."

"Take my boy," the old man whispered, "he'll
succeed there, I know.  The old country's played
out, I'm afraid.  But I—I'm too old now.  I'd
only be a drag upon him."

But Rupert shook his head and laughed.  "I'm
not going to desert you, guv'nor.  We've been
parted long enough.  And, what's more, I'm not
going to desert the old farm, or the rotten old mine,
as far as that goes.  After all, I'm responsible,
for I made the discovery of pitch-blende and got the
radium idea in my head."

"What will happen to the property now?"
Patterson asked.

And old Dale explained just how matters stood.
He was the largest shareholder and he had not
parted with a single share.  They had been quoted
that day on the Stock Exchange at threepence!

"Seems to me the scare came at the very moment
that hope was held out that radium would be
extracted," Patterson said.  "I was talking to one
of the fellows who had made the first report on it
the other day, a German, I daresay you remember
him, Mr. Dale.  He backed out of it because he objected
to Mr. Despard and certain other men who were
behind the scenes.  He says he is perfectly certain
there is radium and that it can be extracted.  I
don't pretend to know much about the subject, but
I'd like to have a look round to-morrow morning,
and it wouldn't be a bad idea to get hold of this
fellow—Swartz is his name—and see what he has
to say.  By jove, I've put away a bit of money,
and I'd just like to gamble!  Think of picking
up a few thousand shares in a radium mine in
England at threepence a piece.  Gee whiz!"

And that is just what Mr. Patterson did.  Mr. Swartz
was called in, and on his advice the company
was reconstructed.  Sir Reginald Crichton and
John Dale held on to their shares and even bought
a few more.  The new company took over the
whole concern, buying it at a merely nominal price.

After six months of ceaseless work and research;
of hope and despair, a rich strain of pitch-blende
was discovered with radium emanations.  The
shares of the newly named "Blackthorn" Mine
were daily quoted on the Stock Exchange.  At
first their behaviour was erratic, jumping from
pence to shillings, shillings to pounds, and back again
in a way that suggested that the market was once
again being rigged.

But it was not.  Patterson, working quietly and
secretly with Mr. Swartz, discovered a new method
of extracting radium-ore, which reduced the cost
of production of the element by fifty per cent.

And shortly after Captain and Mrs. James Crichton
returned from a very prolonged honeymoon, the
Blackthorn Mine had produced enough radium to
assure them they need have no fear as to their
future—unless it were the fear that such great and
unexpected wealth might rob them of the simple love
and happiness they had found.  John Dale was
overwhelmed.

When, metaphorically, the rats had left the sinking
ship, he had found himself with several thousand
worthless shares.  These shares were soon quoted at
a hundred per cent. premium.

"I don't like it," he said in his old-fashioned
way, wagging his head.  "It don't seem right
somehow.  All I want now is a few pounds a week
and the old farm, my son by my side, and my girl
happily married."

"Well, you've got all that," Patterson laughed.
"And whenever you feel worried by your wealth,
you've only got to step outside your front door,
walk over the East Dart, buy five thousand pounds
worth of your own radium, and send it to one of the
great hospitals in London.  They'll know what to
do with it there.  Blackthorn Farm means life
for thousands of poor creatures who have abandoned
hope.  We can give 'em life, John Dale, so don't
worry about being rich.  Money's an awful nuisance
I know, but one always has the consolation that
one can get rid of it as quickly as one likes—which
is more than a poor man can do, anyway!"

Dale admitted that he had never thought of it
in that way.  But he has taken Patterson's advice,
and he finds that it answers very well.

And he is still to be found at Blackthorn Farm,
Dartmoor, living principally on old ale and brown
bread and cheese, and—so the gossips affirm at the
village inn—dividing his time between reclaiming
the waste land and turning it into pasture, and
signing cheques for the benefit of certain schemes
and institutions, which he keeps a secret from
everyone but his son Rupert.

Robert Despard is also living on Dartmoor—but
not at Blackthorn Farm.  His country keeps
him—for his country's good.  And he wears a very
pretty uniform and attends church-parade regularly.

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   THE END.

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   LONDON: WARD, LOCK & Co., LIMITED.

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