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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49694
   :PG.Title: The Duke in the Suburbs
   :PG.Released: 2015-08-12
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Edgar Wallace
   :DC.Title: The Duke in the Suburbs
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1909
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE DUKE IN THE SUBURBS
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      :alt: "'It is useless arguing with you,' she said coldly." (Page 34)

      "'It is useless arguing with you,' she said coldly." (Page `34`_)

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      THE DUKE IN THE SUBURBS

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      By

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      EDGAR WALLACE

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      *Author of "Four Just Men," "The Council of Justice," etc*

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      LONDON
      WARD LOCK & CO LIMITED
      1909

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      Dedication
      TO
      MARION CALDECOTT
      WITH THE AUTHOR'S
      HOMAGE

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   Author's Apology

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The author, who is merely an inventor
of stories, may at little cost impress
his readers with the scope of his general
knowledge.  For he may place the scene of
his story in Milan at the Court of the Visconti
and throw back the action half a thousand
years, drawing across his stage splendid
figures slimly silked or sombrely satined, and
fill their mouths with such awsome oaths as
"By Bacchus!" or "Sapristi!" and the
like.  He may also, does the fine fancy seize
him, take for his villain no less a personage
than Monseigneur, for hero a Florentine
Count, as bright lady of the piece, a swooning
flower of the Renaissance, all pink and
white, with a bodice of plum velvet cut
square at the breast, and showing the
milk-white purity of her strong young throat.

It is indeed a more difficult matter when
one is less of an inventor, than a painstaking
recorder of facts.

When our characters are conventionally
attired in trousers of the latest fashion, and
ransacking mythology the oath-makers can
accept no god worthier of witness than High
Jove.

Greatest of all disabilities consider this
fact: that the scene must be laid in
Brockley, S.E., a respectable suburb of London,
and you realize the apparent hopelessness
of the self-imposed task of the writer who
would weave romance from such unpromising
material.

It would indeed seem well-nigh hopeless
to extract the exact proportions of tragedy
and farce from Kymott Crescent that go
to make your true comedy, were it not for
the intervention of the Duke, of Hank,
his friend, of Mr. Roderick Nape, of Big
Bill Slewer of Four Ways, Texas, and last,
but by no means least, Miss Alicia Terrill of
"The Ferns," 66, Kymott Crescent.

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   Contents

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   *PART I*

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   `THE DUKE ARRIVES`_

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   *PART II*

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   `THE DUKE DEPARTS`_

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   *PART III*

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   `THE DUKE RETURNS`_

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   *PART IV*

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   `THE DUKE REMAINS`_

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   *PART V*

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   `THE DUKE ADVENTURES`_

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.. _`THE DUKE ARRIVES`:

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   Part I

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   THE DUKE ARRIVES

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   \I

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The local directory is a useful institution
to the stranger, but the intimate directory
of suburbia, the libellous "Who's Who,"
has never and will never be printed.  Set
in parallel columns, it must be clear to the
meanest intelligence that, given a free hand,
the directory editor could produce a volume
which for sparkle and interest, would surpass
the finest work that author has produced, or
free library put into circulation.  Thus:—

::

  AUTHORIZED STATEMENT.     PRIVATE AMENDMENT.
  KYMOTT CRESCENT.

  44. Mr. A. B. Wilkes.     Wilkes drinks: comes home
      Merchant.             in cabs which he can ill
                            afford.  Young George
                            Wilkes is a most insufferable
                            little beast, uses scent
                            in large quantities.  Mrs.
                            W. has not had a new dress
                            for years.

  56. Mr. T. B. Coyter.     Coyter has three stories which
  Accountant.               he *will* insist upon repeating.
                            Mrs. C. smokes and is
                            considered a little fast.
                            No children: two cats,
                            which Mrs. C. calls "her
                            darlings."  C. lost a lot of
                            money in a ginger beer
                            enterprise.

  66. Mrs. Terrill.         Very close, not sociable, in
                            fact, "stuck up."  Daughter
                            rather pretty, but
                            stand-offish—believed to have
                            lived in great style before
                            Mr. T. died, but now
                            scraping along on £200 a
                            year.  Never give parties
                            and seldom go out.

  74. Mr. Nape              Retired civil servant.  Son
                            Roderick supposed to be
                            very clever; never cuts his
                            hair: a great brooder,
                            reads too many trashy
                            detective stories.

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And so on *ad infinitum*, or rather until the
portentous and grave pronouncement "Here
is Kymott Terrace" shuts off the Crescent,
its constitution and history.  There are
hundreds of Kymott Crescents in London
Suburbia, populated by immaculate youths of a
certain set and rigid pattern, of girls who
affect open-worked blouses and short sleeves,
of deliberate old gentlemen who water their
gardens and set crude traps for the devastating
caterpillar.  And the young men play cricket
in snowy flannels, and the girls get hot and
messy at tennis, and the old gentlemen foregather
in the evening at the nearest open space
to play bowls with some labour and no little
dignity.  So it was with the Crescent.

In this pretty thoroughfare with its
£100 p.a. houses (detached), its tiny carriage
drives, its white muslin curtains hanging
stiffly from glittering brass bands, its window
boxes of clustering geraniums and its neat
lawns, it was a tradition that no one house
knew anything about its next-door neighbour—*or
wanted to know*.  You might imagine,
did you find yourself deficient in charity,
that such a praiseworthy attitude was in
the nature of a polite fiction, but you may
judge for yourself.

The news that No. 64, for so long standing
empty, and bearing on its blank windows
the legend "To Let—apply caretaker," had
at length found a tenant was general property
on September 6.  The information that the
new people would move in on the 17th was
not so widespread until two days before that
date.

Master Willie Outram (of 65, "Fairlawn ")
announced his intention of "seeing what
they'd got," and was very promptly and
properly reproved by his mother.

"You will be good enough to remember
that only rude people stare at other people's
furniture when it is being carried into the
house," she admonished icily; "be good
enough to keep away, and if I see you near
64 when the van comes I shall be very
cross."

Which gives the lie to the detractors of
Kymott Crescent.

Her next words were not so happily chosen.

"You might tell me what She's like," she
added thoughtfully.

To the disgust of Willie, the van did not
arrive at 64 until dusk.  He had kept the
vigil the whole day to no purpose.  It was
a small van, damnably small, and I do not
use the adverb as an expletive, but to indicate
how this little pantechnicon, might easily
have ineffaceably stamped the penury of the
new tenants.

And there was no She.

Two men came after the van had arrived.

They were both tall, both dressed in grey,
but one was older than the other.

The younger man was clean-shaven, with
a keen brown face and steady grey eyes that
had a trick of laughing of themselves.  The
other might have been ten years older.  He
too was clean-shaven, and his skin was the
hue of mahogany.

A close observer would not have failed
to notice, that the hands of both were big,
as the hands of men used to manual labour.

They stood on either side of the tiled
path that led through the strip of front garden
to the door, and watched in silence, the rapid
unloading of their modest property.

Willie Outram, frankly a reporter, mentally
noted the absence of piano, whatnot, mirror
and all the paraphernalia peculiar to the
Kymott Crescent drawing-room.  He saw
bundles of skins, bundles of spears, tomahawks
(imagine his ecstasy!) war drums, guns,
shields and trophies of the chase.  Bedroom
furniture that would disgrace a servant's
attic, camp bedsteads, big lounge chairs and
divans.  Most notable absentee from the
furnishings was She—a fact which might have
served as food for discussion for weeks, but
for the more important discovery he made
later.

A man-servant busied himself directing the
removers, and the elder of the two tenants, at
last said—

"That's finished, Duke."

He spoke with a drawling, lazy, American
accent.

The young man nodded, and called the servant.

"We shall be back before ten," he said in
a pleasant voice.

"Very good, m'lord," replied the man with
the slightest of bows.

The man looked round and saw Willie.

"Hank," he said, "there's the information
bureau—find out things."

The elder jerked his head invitingly, and
Willie sidled into the garden.

"Bub," said Hank, with a hint of gloom
in his voice, "Where's the nearest saloon?"

He did not quite comprehend.

Willie gasped.

"Saloon, sir!"

"Pub," explained the young man, in a soft voice.

"Public-house, sir?" Willie faltered correctly.

Hank nodded, and the young man chuckled
softly.

"There is," said the outraged youth, "a
good-pull-up-for-carmen, at the far end of
Kymott Road, the *far* end," he emphasized
carefully.

"At the far end, eh?"  Hank looked round
at his companion, "Duke, shall we walk or
shall we take the pantechnicon?"

"Walk," said his grace promptly.

Willie saw the two walking away.  His
young brain was in a whirl.  Here was an
epoch-making happening, a tremendous
revolutionary and unprecedented
circumstance—nay, it was almost monstrous, that
there should come into the ordered life of
Kymott Crescent so disturbing a factor.

The agitated youth watched them disappearing,
and as the consciousness of his own
responsibility came to him, he sprinted after
them.

"I say!"

They turned round.

"You—here I say!—you're not a duke,
are you—not a real duke?" he floundered.

Hank surveyed him kindly.

"Sonny," he said impressively, "this is the
realest duke you've ever seen: canned in
the Dukeries an' bearin' the government
analyst's certificate."

"But—but," said the bewildered boy, "no
larks—I say, are you truly a duke?"

He looked appealingly at the younger man
whose eyes were dancing.

He nodded his head and became instantly
grave.

"I'm a truly duke," he said sadly, "keep
it dark."

He put his hand in his pocket, and produced
with elaborate deliberation a small card case.
From this he extracted a piece of paste-board,
and handed to Willie who read—

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   "THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER,"

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and in a corner "San Pio Ranch, Tex."

"I'm not," continued the young man
modestly, "I'm not an English duke: if
anything I'm rather superior to the average
English duke: I've got royal blood in my
veins, and I shall be very pleased to see you
at No. 64."

"From 10 till 4," interposed the grave Hank.

"From 10 till 4," accepted the other,
"which are my office hours."

"For duking," explained Hank.

"Exactly—for duking," said his grace.

Willie looked from one to the other.

"I say!" he blurted, "you're pulling my
leg, aren't you?  I say! you're rotting me."

"I told you so," murmured the Duke
resentfully, "Hank, he thinks I'm rotting—he's
certain I'm pulling his leg, Hank."

Hank said nothing.

Only he shook his head despairingly, and
taking the other's arm, they continued their
walk, their bowed shoulders eloquent of their
dejection.

Willie watched them for a moment, then
turned and sped homeward with the news.

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   \II

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The Earl of Windermere wrote to the
Rev. Arthur Stayne, M.A., vicar of St. Magnus,
Brockley—

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"I have just heard that your unfortunate
parish is to be inflicted with young de
Montvillier.  What process of reasoning led him to
fix upon Brockley I cannot, dare not, fathom.
You may be sure that this freak of his has some
devilishly subtle cause—don't let him worry
your good parishioners.  He was at Eton
with my boy Jim.  I met him cow punching
in Texas a few years ago when I was visiting
the States, and he was of some service to me.
He belongs to one of the oldest families in
France, but his people were chucked out at the
time of the Revolution.  He is as good as
gold, as plucky as they make 'em, and, thanks
to his father (the only one of the family to
settle anywhere for long), thoroughly Anglicized
in sympathies and in language.  He is
quite 'the compleat philosopher,' flippant,
audacious and casual.  His pal Hank, who is
with him, is George Hankey, the man who
discovered silver in Los Madeges.  Both
of them have made and lost fortunes, but I
believe they have come back to England with
something like a competence.  Call on them.
They will probably be very casual with you,
but they are both worth cultivating."

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The Rev. Arthur Stayne called and was
admitted into the barely-furnished hall by the
deferential man-servant.

"His grace will see you in the common-room,"
he said, and ushered the clergyman
into the back parlour.

The Duke rose with a smile, and came
toward him with outstretched hand.

Hank got up from his lounge chair, and
waved away the cloud of smoke that hovered
about his head.

"Glad to see you, sir," said the Duke,
with a note of respect in his voice, "this is
Mr. Hankey."

The vicar, on his guard against a possibility
of brusqueness, returned Hank's friendly
grin with relief.

"I've had a letter from Windermere," he
explained.  The Duke looked puzzled for a
moment and he turned to his companion.

"That's the guy that fell off the bronco,"
Hank said with a calm politeness, totally at
variance with his disrespectful language.

The vicar looked at him sharply.

"Oh yes!" said the Duke eagerly, "of
course.  I picked him up."

There came to the vicar's mind a recollection
that this young man had been "of
some service to me."  He smiled.

This broke the ice, and soon there was a
three-cornered conversation in progress, which
embraced subjects, as far apart as cattle
ranching, and gardening.

"Now look here, you people," said the
vicar, growing serious after a while, "I've
got something to say to you—why have you
come to Brockley?"

The two men exchanged glances.

"Well," said the Duke slowly, "there
were several considerations that helped us
to decide—first of all the death-rate is very
low."

"And the gravel soil," murmured Hank
encouragingly.

"*And* the gravel soil," the Duke went on,
nodding his head wisely, "and the rates, you
know——"

The vicar raised his hand laughingly.

"Three hundred feet above sea level," he
smiled, "yes, I know all about the advertised
glories of Brockley—but really?"

Again they looked at each other.

"Shall I?" asked the Duke.

"Ye-es," hesitated Hank; "you'd better."

The young man sighed.

"Have you ever been a duke on a ranch,"
he asked innocently, "a cattle punching
duke, rounding in, branding, roping and
earmarking cattle—no?  I thought not.  Have
you ever been a duke prospecting silver or
searching for diamonds in the bad lands of
Brazil?"

"That's got him," said Hank in a stage whisper.

The vicar waited.

"Have you ever been a duke under
conditions and in circumstances where you were
addressed by your title in much the same
way as you call your gardener 'Jim'?"

The vicar shook his head.

"I knew he hadn't," said Hank triumphantly.

"If you had," said the young man with
severity, "if your ears had ached with,
'Here, Duke, get up and light the fire,' or
'Where's that fool Duke,' or 'Say, Dukey,
lend me a chaw of tobacco'—if you had had
any of these experiences, would you not"—he
tapped the chest of the vicar with solemn
emphasis—"would you not pine for a life,
and a land where dukes were treated as dukes
ought to be treated, where any man saying
'Jukey' can be tried for High Treason, and
brought to the rack?"

"By Magna Charta," murmured Hank.

"And the Declaration of Rights," added
the Duke indignantly.

The vicar rose, his lips twitching.

"You will not complain of a lack of
worship here," he said.

He was a little relieved by the conversation,
for he saw behind the extravagance a
glimmer of truth, "only please don't shock
my people too much," he smiled, as he stood
at the door.

"I hope," said the Duke with dignity,
"that we shall not shock your people at all.
After all, we are gentlefolk."

"We buy our beer by the keg," murmured
Hank proudly.

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There were other callers.

There is, I believe, a game called "Snip,
Snap, Snorum," where if you call "Snap"
too soon you are penalised, and if you call
"Snap" too late you pay forfeit.  Calling
on the duke was a sort of game of social snap,
for Kymott Crescent vacillated in an agony
of apprehension between the bad form of
calling too soon, and the terrible disadvantage
that might accrue through calling too late
and finding some hated social rival installed
as confidential adviser and *Fides Achates*.

The Coyters were the first to call, thus
endorsing the Crescent's opinion of Mrs. C.

Coyter fired off his three stories:—

(\1) What the parrot said to the policeman.

(\2) What the County Court judge said to
the obdurate creditor who wanted time to
pay (can you guess the story?).

(\3) What the parson said to the couple
who wanted to be married without banns.

Duke and Co. laughed politely.

Mrs. C., who had a reputation for archness
to sustain, told them that they mustn't
believe all the dreadful stories they heard
about her, and even if she *did* smoke, well
what of it?

"Ah," murmured the Duke with sympathetic
resentment of the world's censure,
"what of it?"

"There was a lady in Montana," said
Hank courteously, "a charming lady she
was too, who smoked morning, noon and
night, and nobody thought any worse of her."

The lady basked in the approval.  Of
course, she only smoked very occasionally, a
teeny weeny cigarette.

"That woman," said Hank solemnly,
"was never without a pipe or a see-gar.
Smoked Old Union plug—do you remember
her, Duke?"

"Let me see," pondered the Duke, "the
lady with the one eye or——"

"Oh, no," corrected Hank, "she died in
delirium tremens—no, don't you remember
the woman that ran away with Bill Suggley
to Denver, she got tried for poisonin' him
in '99."

"Oh, yes!"  The Duke's face lit up, but
Mrs. C. coughed dubiously.

Mr. Roderick Nape called.  He was
mysterious and shot quick glances round the
room and permitted himself to smile quietly.

They had the conventional opening.  The
Duke was very glad to see him, and he was
delighted to make the acquaintance of the
Duke.  What extraordinary weather they
had been having!

Indeed, agreed the Duke, it was extraordinary.

"You've been to America," said Mr. Roderick
Nape suddenly and abruptly.

The Duke looked surprised.

"Yes," he admitted.

"West, of course," said the young
Mr. Nape carelessly.

"However did you know?" said the
astonished nobleman.

Young Mr. Nape shrugged his shoulders.

"One has the gift of observation and
deduction—born with it," he said
disparagingly.  He indicated with a wave of his hand
two Mexican saddles that hung on the wall.

"Where did *they* come from?" he asked,
with an indulgent smile.

"I bought 'em at a curiosity shop in
Bond Street," said the Duke innocently,
"but you're right, we have lived in America."

"I thought so," said the young Mr. Nape,
and pushed back his long black hair.

"Of course," he went on, "one models
one's system on certain lines, I have already
had two or three little cases not without
interest.  There was the Episode of the
Housemaid's brooch, and the Adventure of the
Black Dog——"

"What was that?" asked the Duke eagerly.

"A mere trifle," said the amateur
detective with an airy wave of his hand.  "I'd
noticed the dog hanging about our kitchen;
as we have no dogs I knew it was a stranger,
as it stuck to the kitchen, knew it must be
hungry.  Looked on its collar, discovered it
belonged to a Colonel B——, took it back and
restored it to its owner, and told him within a
day or so, how long it was, since he had lost it."

Hank shook his head in speechless admiration.

"Any time you happen to be passing,"
said young Mr. Nape rising to go, "call in
and see my little laboratory; I've fixed it up
in the greenhouse; if you ever want a blood
stain analysed I shall be there."

"Sitting in your dressing gown, I suppose,"
said the Duke with awe, "playing your
violin and smoking shag?"

Young Mr. Nape frowned.

"Somebody has been talking about me,"
he said severely.



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   \III

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"63 has to call, 51 is out of town, and 35
has measles in the house," reported the Duke
one morning at breakfast.

Hank helped himself to a fried egg with
the flat of his knife.

"What about next door!" he asked.

"Next door won't call," said the Duke
sadly.  "Next door used to live in Portland
Place, where dukes are so thick that you
have to fix wire netting to prevent them
coming in at the window—no, mark off 66
as a non-starter."

Hank ate his egg in silence.

"She's very pretty," he said at length.

"66?"

Hank nodded.

"I saw her yesterday, straight and slim,
with a complexion like snow——"

"Cut it out!" said the Duke brutally.

"And eyes as blue as a winter sky in Texas."

"Haw!" murmured his disgusted grace.

"And a walk——" apostrophized the
other dreamily.

The Duke raised his hands.

"I surrender, colonel," he pleaded; "you've
been patronizing the free library.  I recognize
the bit about the sky over little old Texas."

"What happened——?"  Hank jerked his
head in the direction of No. 66.

The Duke was serious when he replied.

"Africans, Siberians, Old Nevada Silver
and all the rotten stock that a decent,
easy-going white man could be lured into buying,"
he said quietly; "that was the father.  When
the smash came he obligingly died."

Hank pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"It's fairly tragic," he said, "poor girl."

The Duke was deep in thought again.

"I must meet her," he said briskly.

Hank looked at the ceiling.

"In a way," he said slowly, "fate has
brought you together, and before the day is
over, I've no doubt you will have much to
discuss in common."

The Duke looked at him with suspicion.

"Have you been taking a few private
lessons from young Sherlock Nape?" he asked.

Hank shook his head.

"There was a certain tabby cat that patronized
our back garden," he said mysteriously.

"True, O seer!"

"She ate our flowers."

"She did," said the Duke complacently.
"I caught her at it this very morning."

"And plugged her with an air-gun?"

"*Your* air-gun," expostulated the Duke hastily.

"Your plug," said Hank calmly, "well,
that cat——"

"Don't tell me," said the Duke, rising in
his agitation—"don't tell me that this poor
unoffending feline, which your gun——"

"Your shot," murmured Hank.

"Which your wretched air-gun so ruthlessly
destroyed," continued the Duke sternly,
"don't tell me it is the faithful dumb friend
of 66?"

"It *was*," corrected Hank.

"The devil it was!" said his grace,
subsiding into gloom.



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   \IV

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The situation was a tragic one.  Alicia
Terrill trembling with indignation, a faint flush
on her pretty face, and her forehead wrinkled
in an angry frown, kept her voice steady
with an effort, and looked down from the step
ladder on which she stood, at the urbane
young man on the other side of the wall.

He stood with his hands respectfully clasped
behind his back, balancing himself on the edge
of his tiny lawn, and regarded her without
emotion.  The grim evidence of the tragedy
was hidden from his view, but he accepted
her estimate of his action with disconcerting
calmness.

Hank, discreetly hidden in the conservatory,
was an interested eavesdropper.

The girl had time to notice that the Duke
had a pleasant face, burnt and tanned by
sun and wind, that he was clean-shaven, with
a square, determined jaw and clear grey eyes
that were steadfastly fixed on hers.  In a
way he was good looking, though she was
too angry to observe the fact, and the loose
flannel suit he wore did not hide the athletic
construction of the man beneath.

"It is monstrous of you!" she said hotly,
"you, a stranger here——"

"I know your cat," he said calmly.

"And very likely it wasn't poor Tibs at all
that ate your wretched flowers."

"Then poor Tibs isn't hurt," said the
Duke with a sigh of relief, "for the cat I shot
at was making a hearty meal of my young
chrysanthemums and——"

"How dare you say that!" she demanded
wrathfully, "when the poor thing is flying
round the house with a—with a wounded tail?"

The young man grinned.

"If I've only shot a bit off her tail," he said
cheerfully, "I am relieved.  I thought she
was down and out."

She was too indignant to make any reply.

"After all," mused the Duke with
admirable philosophy, "a tail isn't one thing
or another with a cat—now a horse or a cow
needs a tail to keep the flies away, a dog needs
a tail to wag when he's happy, but a cat's
tail——"

She stopped him with a majestic gesture.
She was still atop of the ladder, and was too
pretty to be ridiculous.

.. _`34`:

"It is useless arguing with you," she said
coldly; "my mother will take steps to secure
us freedom from a repetition of this annoyance."

"Send me a lawyer's letter," he suggested,
"that is the thing one does in the suburbs,
isn't it?"

He did not see her when she answered, for
she had made a dignified descent from her
shaky perch.

"Our acquaintance with suburban
etiquette," said her voice coldly, "is probably
more limited than your own."

"Indeed?" with polite incredulity.

"Even in Brockley," said the angry voice,
"one expects to meet people——"

She broke off abruptly.

"Yes," he suggested with an air of interest.
"People——?"

He waited a little for her reply.  He heard
a smothered exclamation of annoyance and
beckoned Hank.  That splendid lieutenant
produce a step ladder and steadied it as the
Duke made a rapid ascent.

"You were saying?" he said politely.

She was holding the hem of her dress and
examining ruefully the havoc wrought on a
flounce by a projecting nail.

"You were about to say——?"

She looked up at him with an angry frown.

"Even in Brockley it is considered an
outrageous piece of bad manners to thrust
oneself upon people who do not wish to know
one!"

"Keep to the subject, please," he said
severely; "we were discussing the cat."

She favoured him with the faintest shrug.

"I'm afraid I cannot discuss any matter
with you," she said coldly, "you have taken
a most unwarrantable liberty."  She turned
to walk into the house.

"You forget," he said gently, "I am a
duke.  I have certain feudal privileges,
conferred by a grateful dynasty, one of which,
I believe, is to shoot cats."

"I can only regret," she fired back at him,
from the door of the little conservatory that
led into the house, "that I cannot accept
your generous estimate of yourself.  The
ridiculous court that is being paid to you
by the wretched people in this road must
have turned your head.  I should prefer
the evidence of De Gotha before I even
accepted your miserable title."

Slam!

She had banged the door behind her.

"Here I say!" called the alarmed Duke,
"please come back!  Aren't I in De Gotha?"

He looked down on Hank.

"Hank," he said soberly, "did you hear
that tremendous charge?  She don't
believe there is no Mrs. Harris!"



.. vspace:: 3

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   \V

.. vspace:: 2

Two days later he ascended the step ladder
again.

With leather gloves, a gardening apron,
and with the aid of a stick she was coaxing
some drooping Chinese daisies into the upright life.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly, "what
extraordinary weather we are having."

She made the most distant acknowledgment
and continued in her attentions to the
flowers.

"And how is the cat?" he asked with all
the bland benevolence of an Episcopalian
bench.  She made no reply.

"Poor Tibby," he said with gentle melancholy—

   |  "Poor quiet soul, poor modest lass,
   |  Thine is a tale that shall not pass."
   |

The girl made no response.

"On the subject of De Gotha," he went
on with an apologetic hesitation, "I——"

The girl straightened her back and turned a
flushed face towards him.  A strand of hair
had loosened and hung limply over her
forehead, and this she brushed back quickly.

"As you insist upon humiliating me," she
said, "let me add to my self abasement by
apologizing for the injustice I did you.  My
copy of the Almanac De Gotha is an old one
and the page on which your name occurs
has been torn out evidently by one of my
maids——"

"For curling paper, I'll be bound," he
wagged his head wisely.

   |  "Immortal Caesar, dead and turned to clay,
   |  Might stop a hole to keep the wind away;
   |  The Duke's ancestral records well may share
   |  The curly splendours of the housemaid's hair."
   |

As he improvised she turned impatiently to
the flower bed.

"Miss Terrill!" he called, and when she
looked up with a resigned air, he said—

"Cannot we be friends?"

Her glance was withering.

"Don't sniff," he entreated earnestly,
"don't despise me because I'm a duke.
Whatever I am, I am a gentleman."

"You're a most pertinacious and impertinent
person," said the exasperated girl.

"Alliteration's artful aid," quoth the Duke
admiringly.  "Listen——"

He was standing on the top step of the
ladder balancing himself rather cleverly, for
Hank was away shopping.

"Miss Terrill," he began.  There was no
mistaking the earnestness of his voice, and
the girl listened in spite of herself.

"Miss Terrill, will you marry me?"

The shock of the proposal took away her
breath.

"I am young and of good family; fairly
good looking and sound in limb.  I have a
steady income of £1,200 a year and a silver
property in Nevada that may very easily
bring in ten thousand a year more.  Also,"
he added, "I love you."

No woman can receive a proposal of
marriage, even from an eccentric young man
perched on the top of a step ladder, without
the tremor of agitation peculiar to the occasion.

Alicia Terrill went hot and cold, flushed
and paled with the intensity of her various
emotions, but made no reply.

"Very well then!" said the triumphant
Duke, "we will take it as settled.  I will
call——"

"Stop!"  She had found her voice.  Sifting
her emotions indignation had bulked
overwhelmingly and she faced him with
flaming cheek and the lightning of scorn in her
eyes.

"Did you dare think that your impudent
proposal had met with any other success than
the success it deserved?" she blazed.  "Did
you imagine because you are so lost to
decency, and persecute a girl into listening
to your odious offer, that you could bully her
into acceptance?"

"Yes," he confessed without shame.

"If you were the last man in the world,"
she stormed, "I would not accept you.  If you
were a prince of the blood royal instead of
being a wretched little continental duke with
a purchased title"—she permitted herself
the inaccuracy—"if you were a millionaire
twenty times over, I would not marry you!"

"Thank you," said the Duke politely.

"You come here with your egotism and your
braggadocio to play triton to our minnows,
but I for one do not intend to be bullied
into grovelling to your dukeship."

"Thank you," said the Duke again.

"But for the fact that I think you have
been led away by your conceit into making
this proposal, and that you did not intend
it to be the insult that it is, I would make
you pay dearly for your impertinence."

The Duke straightened himself.

"Do I understand that you will not marry
me?" he demanded.

"You may most emphatically understand
that," she almost snapped.

"Then," said the Duke bitterly, "perhaps
if you cannot love me you can be
neighbourly enough to recommend me a good
laundry."

This was too much for the girl.  She collapsed
on to the lawn, and, sitting with her face
in her hands, she rocked in a paroxysm of
uncontrollable laughter.

The Duke, after a glance at her, descended
the steps in his stateliest manner.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \VI

.. vspace:: 2

It was the desire of the Tanneur house,
that "Hydeholm" should keep alive the
traditions of its Georgian squiredom.  Sir
Harry Tanneur spoke vaguely of "feudal
customs" and was wont to stand dejectedly
before a suit of fifteen century armour that
stood in the great hall, shaking his head with
some despondence at a pernicious modernity
which allowed no scope for steel-clad robbery
with violence.  The quarterings that glowed
in the great windows of the hall were eloquent
of departed glories.  There was a charge,
*on a field vert, goutte de sang, parted per fusil*,
with I know not what lions rampant and
lions sejant, boars heads, cinquefoils and
water budgets, all of which, as Sir Harry
would tell you, formed a blazing memento of
the deeds of Sir Folk de Tanneur (1142-1197).
Putting aside the family portraits, the
historical documents, and other misleading data, I
speak the truth when I say that the founder
of the Tanneur family was Isaac Tanner,
a Canterbury curer of hides, who acquired
a great fortune at the time of the Crimean
war, and having purchased a beautiful estate
in Kent, christened the historic mansion where
he had taken up his residence "Hyde House,"
at once a challenge to the fastidious county,
and an honest tribute to the source of his
wealth.  It is a fact that no Tanner—or
Tanneur as they style the name—has reached
nearer the patents of nobility than Sir Harry
himself acquired, when he was knighted in
1897 in connexion with the erection of the
Jubilee Alms-Houses.

Sir Harry's son and heir was a heavily
built young man, with a big vacant face and a
small black moustache.  He was military
in the militia sense of the word, holding the
rank of captain in the 9th battalion of the
Royal West Kent Regiment.

"Hal has a devil of a lot more in him than
people give him credit for," was his father's
favourite appreciation, and indeed it was
popularly supposed that in Mr. Harry
Tanneur's big frame was revived the ancient
courage of Sir Folk, the wisdom of Sir Peter
(a contemporary of Falstaff and one of the
Judges who sent Prince Henry to prison),
the subtlety of Sir George (ambassador at the
Court of Louis of France), and the eminently
practical cent. per cent. acumen of his father.

They were seated at breakfast at "Hydeholm,"
Sir Harry, his son and the faded lady
of the house.  Sir Harry read a letter and
tossed it to his wife.

"Laura's in trouble again," he said testily,
"really, my dear, your sister is a trial!  First
of all her husband loses his money and blames
me for putting him into the Siberian Gold
Recovery Syndicate, then he dies, and now
his wife expects me to interest myself in a
petty suburban squabble."

The meek lady read the letter carefully.

"The man seems to have annoyed Alicia,"
she commented mildly, "and even though
he is a duke—and it seems strange for a duke
to be living in Brockley——"

"Duke?" frowned Sir Harry, "I didn't
see anything about dukes.  Let me see the
letter again, my love."

"Duke," muttered Sir Harry, "I can't see
any word that looks like 'duke'—ah, here
it is, I suppose, I thought it was 'dude';
really Laura writes an abominable hand.
H'm," he said, "I see she suggests that Hal
should spend a week or so with them—how
does that strike you, my boy?"

It struck Hal as an unusually brilliant idea.
He had views about Alicia, inclinations that
were held in check by his father's frequent
pronouncements on the subject of mesalliances.

So it came about that Hal went on a visit
to his aunt and cousin.

"He's probably one of these insignificant
continental noblemen," said his father at
parting, "you must put a stop to his nonsense.
I have a young man in my eye who would suit
Alicia, a rising young jobber who does
business for me.  If the duke or whatever he is
persists in his attentions, a word from you will
bring him to his senses.

"I shall punch the beggar's head," promised
Hal, and Sir Harry smiled indulgently.

"If, on the other hand," he said thoughtfully,
"you find he is the genuine article
the thing might be arranged amicably—you
might make friends with him and bring
him along to Hydeholm.  He is either no
good at all or too good for Alicia—it's about
time Winnie was off my hands."

Miss Winnie Tanneur was aged about
twenty-eight and looked every year of it.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \VII

.. vspace:: 2

"66 has a visitor," reported Hank.

The Duke took his feet from the mantel-shelf
and reached for his tobacco.

A spell of silence had fallen upon him that
morning, that had been broken only by a brief
encounter with the butcher on the quality of a
leg of mutton, supplied on the day previous.

"Has she?" he said absently.

"I said '66,' which is of neither sex," said
Hank.  "This fellow——"

"Oh, it's a man, is it?" said the
Duke—brightening up; "what sort of a man, who is
he?"

Hank touched a bell and the grave man
servant appeared.

"Who is the visitor next door?" demanded
the Duke.

"A Captain Tanneur, m'lord; militia;
and the son of Sir Harry Tanneur who is
related to No. 66."

"You've been gossiping with the servants,"
accused the Duke.

"Yes, m'lord," said the man without hesitation.

"Quite right," said the duke approvingly.
When the servant was gone he asked—

"Do you ever pine for the wilds, Hank,
the limitless spread of the prairies, and the
twinkling stars at night?"

"Come off, Pegasus," begged Hank.

"The fierce floods of white sunlight and
the quivering skyline ahead," mused the
Duke dreamily, "the innocent days and the
dreamless nights."

"No fierce floods in mine," said Hank
decisively; "me for the flesh pots of Egypt,
the sinful life."

"Do you ever——"

"Take a walk—*you*," said Hank rudely.
"Say your love-sick piece to the shop windows.
What are you going to do about Captain
Tanneur—the bold militia man?"

"I suppose," said his grace, "he's been sent
for to protect the innocent girl from the
unwelcome addresses of the wicked duke.  I'll
have a talk with him."

He strolled into the garden, dragging the
step ladder with him.  He planted it against
the wall this time, and mounting slowly
surveyed the next garden.

His luck was in, for the object of his search sat
in a big basket chair reading the *Sporting Life*.

"Hullo," said the Duke.

Hal looked up and scowled.  So this was the
persecutor.

"Hullo," said the Duke again.

"What the devil do you want?" demanded
Hal with studied ferocity.

"What have you got?" asked the Duke
obligingly.

"Look here, my friend," said Hal, rising
and fixing his eye-glass with a terrible calm,
"I'm not in the habit of receiving visitors
over the garden wall——"

"Talking about the militia," said the Duke
easily, "how is this Territorial scheme going
to affect you?"

"My friend——" began Hal.

"He calls me his friend," the young man
on the wall meditated aloud, "he is ominously
polite: he rises from his chair: he is going
to begin—help!"

He raised his voice and kept his eye on the
conservatory door of 66.

"What's wrong?" inquired Hank's voice
from the house.

"Come quickly!" called the Duke extravagantly
nervous, "here's a young gentleman,
a stout young gentleman in the military line
of business, who is taking off his coat to me."

"Don't talk such utter damn nonsense," said
the angry Hal, "I've done nothing yet."

"Help!" cried the lounging figure at the
top of the wall.  "He's done nothing
*yet*—but——!"

"Will you be quiet, sir," roared Hal
desperately red in the face; "you'll alarm the
neighbourhood and make yourself a laughing
stock——"

The Duke had seen the flutter of a white
dress coming through the little glass house,
and as the girl with an alarmed face ran into
the garden he made his appeal to her.

"Miss Terrill," he said brokenly, "as one
human being to another, I beg you to save me
from this savage and I fear reckless young
man.  Call him off!  Chain him up!  Let him
turn from me the basilisk fires of his vengeful eyes."

"I thought—I thought," faltered the girl.

"Not yet," said the Duke cheerfully, "you
have arrived in the nick of time to save one
who is your ever grateful servant, from a
terrible and, I cannot help thinking, untimely end."

She turned with an angry stamp of her
foot to her cousin.

"Will you please take me into the house,
Hal," she said ignoring the young man on
the wall, and his exaggerated expression of
relief.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \VIII

.. vspace:: 2

"On behalf of the organ fund," read Hank
and regarded the pink tickets that accompanied
the vicar's letter with suspicion.

"It's a curious fact," said the Duke, "that
of all people and things in this wide world,
there is no class so consistently insolvent as
the organ class.  There isn't a single organ
in England that can pay its way.  It's broke
to the world from its infancy; its youth is a
hand-to-mouth struggle, and it reaches its
maturity up to the eyes in debt.  It has
benefit sermons and Sunday-school matinées,
garden parties, bazaars and soirées, but nothing
seems to put the poor old dear on his legs;
he just goes wheezing on, and ends his miserable
existence in the hands of the official receiver.
What is this by the way?"

"A soirée," said Hank moodily, "and will
we help."

The Duke sprang up.

"Rather!" he said jubilantly "will we
help?  Why, this is the very opportunity I've
been waiting for!  I'll sing a sentimental
song, and you can say a little piece about a
poor child dying in the snow."

"Snow nothing," said Hank, "you can sing
if you want, and I'll go outside so that folk's
shan't see I'm ashamed of you."

He took a turn or two up and down the
apartment, then came to an abrupt stop before
the Duke.

"Say," he said quickly, "Bill Slewer's out."

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

"The amiable William?" he asked with
mild astonishment, "not Bad Man Bill?"

Hank nodded gravely.

"I got a letter from Judge Morris.  Bill
had a pull in the state and the remainder
of his sentence has been remitted by the
new governor."

"Well?" asked the Duke with a yawn.
Hank was searching his pocket for a letter.
He opened one and read—

"... hope you are having a good time
... m—m your Nevada properties are booming
... (oh, here we are).  By the way Big
Bill Slewer's loose, the man the Duke ran
out of Tycer country and jailed for shooting
Ed. Carter the foreman.

"Bill says he is going gunning for Jukey—"

"Ugh!" shuddered the Duke.

"—and reckons to leave for Europe soon.
Japhet in search of his pa will be a quaker
picnic compared with Bill on the sleuth.
Tell Jukey——"

The Duke groaned.

"Tell Jukey to watch out for his loving little
friend Bill.  Bill is going to have a big send
off and a bad citizens' committee has
presented the hero with a silver plate Colt's
revolver and has passed a special resolution
deprecating the artificial social barriers of an
effete and degenerate aristocracy."

The Duke smiled.

"If Bill turns up in Brockley I'll run the
military gentleman loose on him," he
announced calmly; "in the meantime let us
address ourselves to the soirée."

It was announced from the pulpit on the
next Sunday that amongst the kind friends
who has promised to help was "our
neighbour the Duc de Montvillier" and the next
morning Miss Alicia Terrill sought out the
vicar and asked to be relieved of a certain
promise she had made.

"But, my dear Miss Terrill, it's quite
impossible," protested the amazed cleric;
"you were so very keen on the soirée, and your
name has been sent to the printer with the
rest of the good people who are singing.
Here's the proof."  He fussed at his desk and
produced a sheet of paper.

"Here we are," he said, and she read:—

"No. 5 (song), 'Tell me, where is fancy
bred'—Miss A. Terrill.

"No. 6 (song), 'In my quiet garden'—The
Duc de Montvillier."

"And here again in Part II," said the
vicar.  She took the papers with an unsteady
hand.

"No. 11 (song), 'I heard a voice'—Miss A. Terrill.

"No. 12 (song), 'Alice, where art thou'—The
Duc de Montvillier."

She looked at the vicar helplessly.

"Why—why does the Duke follow me?"
she asked weakly.

"It was his special wish," explained the
other.  "He said his voice would serve to
emphasize the sweetness of your singing and
coming, as it would, immediately after your
song—these are his own words—*his* feeble
efforts would bring the audience to a——"

"Oh yes," she interrupted impatiently, "I
can well imagine all that he said, and I'm
*thoroughly* decided that the programme *must*
be rearranged."

In the end she had her way.

For some reason she omitted to convey to
her mother the gist of the conversation.  If
the truth must be told, she had already
regretted having spoken of the matter at all
to her family, for her mother's letter to the
Tanneurs had brought to her a greater
infliction than her impetuous suitor.  Whatever
opinion might be held of the genius of Hal
Tanneur at Hydeholm, in the expressive
language of the 9th's mess, he was "no
flier."  The girl had learnt of his coming
with dismay, and the gleam of hope that
perhaps after all, he *might* be able to effectively
snub the young man of the step ladder, was
quickly extinguished as the result of the brief
skirmish she had witnessed.  And Hal was
attentive in his heavy way, and had tricks
of elephantine gallantry that caused her
more annoyance than alarm.

On the evening of the day she had seen the
vicar, Mr. Hal Tanneur decided upon making
a diplomatic offer, so set about with reservations
and contingencies, that it was somewhat
in the nature of a familiar stock exchange
transaction.  In other words he set himself
the task of securing an option on her hand,
with the understanding that in the event of
his father's refusal to endorse the contract,
the option was to be secretly renewed for an
indefinite period.  He did not put the matter
in so few words as I, because he was not such
a clever juggler of words as I am, but after he
had been talking, with innumerable "d'ye
see what I mean Alic's" and "of course you
understand's," she got a dim idea of what he
was driving at.  She let him go on.  "Of
course the governor's got pots of money, and I
don't want to get in his bad books.  Just now
he's a bit worried over some Nevada property
he's trying to do a chap out of—in quite a
business-like way of course.  The other
chap—the chap who has the property now has
got a big flaw in his title and he doesn't know
it.  See?  Well, unless he renews his claim
and gets some kind of an order from the court,
or something of that sort, the governor and
the governor's friends can throw him out, d'ye
see what I mean?"

"I really don't see what this is to do with
me," said Alicia frankly bored, "you said
you wanted to tell me something of the greatest
importance, and I really ought to be seeing
about mother's supper."

"Wait a bit," he pleaded, "this is where
the whole thing comes in: if the governor
pulls this deal off, he'll be as pleased as Punch,
and I can say out plump and plain how I feel
about you."

It was on the tip of her tongue to inform
him that "plump and plain" was ludicrously
descriptive of himself, but she forbore.
Instead she plunged him into a state of
embarrassed incoherence by demanding coolly—

"Do I understand, Hal, that you have been
proposing to me?"

She cut short his explanations with a smile.

"Please don't wound my vanity by telling
me this is only a tentative offer—anyway I'll
put your mind at rest.  Under no circumstances
could I marry you: there are thousands
of reasons for that decision, but the main
one is, that I do not love you, and I cannot
imagine anything short of a miracle that would
make me love you."

She left him speechless.

The greater part of the next day he sulked
in the garden, but towards the evening he
grew cheerful.  After all, a woman's No
was not necessarily final.

He got most of his ideas from the comic papers.

Only for an instant had he entertained the
suspicion that there might be Another Man,
but this he dismissed as ridiculous.  Alicia's
refusal was very natural.  She had been
piqued by the fact that he had not been able
to make her a definite offer.  He resolved to
bide his time, and come to his father on the
crest of that prosperous wave which was to
hand the Denver Silver Streak Mine into the
lap of his astute progenitor.  Then he would
speak out boldly, trusting to the generosity of
his father.  Constructing these pleasant dreams,
he found himself discussing the coming
concert with Alicia, and the girl pleasantly
relieved that her refusal had had so little effect
upon his spirits, was a little sorry she had been
so severe.

They were talking over the songs Alicia
was to sing, when there was the sound of a
carriage stopping outside the door, followed
by an important rat-tat.

"Whoever can it be?" wondered Alicia.

She had not to wait in suspense for very long.
In a few seconds the servant announced—

"Sir Harry Tanneur and Mr. Slewer."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DUKE DEPARTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   Part II

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   THE DUKE DEPARTS

.. class:: center large bold

   \I

.. vspace:: 2

Years ago I discovered that truth was
indeed stranger than fiction—that
curious and amazing things happened daily
that caused one to say, "If I had read this
in a book I should have said that it was
impossible."  Following upon this discovery,
I have observed that all the best chroniclers,
exercise unusual caution in dealing with
unexpected situations, carefully and
laboriously laying solid foundations on which to
build their literary coincidences.  Fortunately
Sir Harry saves me the trouble, for his first
words explained his presence.

"Ah, Alicia," he pecked at her, "let me
introduce our good friend Slewer—just
arrived from the United States of America with
a letter of introduction from the gentleman
in charge of my affairs in Denver."

Alicia regarded the new arrival with polite
interest.

Mr. Bill Slewer, in a ready-made suit of
clothing that fitted him badly, in a soft grey
shirt and a ready-made tie, shuffled uneasily
under the scrutiny.

He was a tall man, with shoulders a trifle
bowed and long arms that hung awkwardly.
But it was his face that fascinated the girl.
Scarred and seamed and furrowed till it
seemed askew, what held her, were his eyes.
They were pale blue and large, and in the
setting of his mahogany skin he looked for
all the world like one sightless.  Two white
discs that shifted here and there when she
spoke, but which never once looked toward
her.

"Mr. Slewer," Sir Harry went on, with
an air of quiet triumph, "can serve you,
Alicia."

"Me?"  The girl's eyes opened in astonishment.

Sir Harry nodded and chuckled.

"I don't think you are likely to be annoyed
with your neighbour after to-day," he said,
"eh, Mr. Slewer?"

Mr. Slewer, seated on the edge of a settee,
twisting his hat awkwardly by the brim and
staring at a gilt clock on the mantelpiece,
shifted something he had in his mouth from
one cheek to the other, and said huskily and
laconically—

"Naw."

"This gentleman"—Sir Harry waved his
hand like a showman indicating his prize
exhibit—"has been most disgracefully treated
by—er—the Duke."

Alicia regarded Mr. Slewer with renewed
interest and an unaccountable feeling of
irritation.

"The Duke in fact," the magnate went
on impressively, "fled from America to avoid
the—er—just retribution that awaited him.
Fled in a most cowardly fashion, eh, Mr. Slewer?"

"Yep," said the other, fingering his long
yellow moustache.

"Mr. Slewer came to Denver knowing
this—er—duke has property or," corrected Sir
Harry carefully, "thinks he has property
there, and found him gone.  As I have large
interests in the mining industry in that city,
it was only natural that Mr. Slewer should be
directed to me as being likely to know the
whereabouts of—this chartered libertine."

There was a grain of truth in this story,
for the astute lawyer, who was Sir Harry's
agent in Denver city, had most excellent
reason for wishing to know the Duke's present
address.  The coming of Big Bill Slewer,
ripe for murder and with the hatred he had
accumulated during his five years' imprisonment,
played splendidly into his hands.

The girl had risen at Sir Harry's last words,
and stood with a perplexed frown facing
her uncle.

"Chartered libertine?"  She was used to
Sir Harry's hackneyed figures of speech and
usually attached no importance to them.

"What has he done to this man?"

Sir Harry glanced at Mr. Slewer and that
worthy gentleman shifted awkwardly.  He
did not immediately reply, then—

"This Jukey," he said, "went an' run away
wid me wife."

She took a step backward.

"Ran away with your wife?" she repeated.

"Sure," said Mr. Slewer.

"You see?" said Sir Harry enjoying the
sensation.

The girl nodded slowly.

"I see," she replied simply.

"I'm going to fix up Mr. Slewer for the
night," said Sir Harry, "and to-morrow I will
confront him with his victim."

Young Mr. Tanneur, an interested and
silent listener, had an inspiration, "I say,
governor," he blurted, "I've got a ripping
idea!"

His father smiled.

"Trust you, Hal," he said admiringly.

"There's a soirée or concert to-morrow
night," said the ingenious Hal, "this fellow
is going to sing, why not wait till then?  I
can get you a couple of seats in the first
row—it would be awful fun to see his face
when he spots Mr. Slewer."

"Oh no!" protested the girl.

"Why not?" demanded Sir Harry?  "I
think it is an excellent idea."

"But——"

"Please don't interfere, Alicia," said the
knight testily, "we are doing all this for your
sake: there will be no fuss.  As soon as the
man sees this poor fellow he will skip and there
will be no bother or disturbance—isn't that
so, Mr. Slewer?"

"Yep," said the untruthful Bill, who had
followed the conversation with interest.  Such
a finale was in harmony with his tastes.  He
wanted an audience for the act he
contemplated.  His ideas about the English law
were of the haziest, but he did not doubt his
ability to escape the consequence of his vengeance.

One question the girl put to him before his
departure.

She found a surprising difficulty in putting
it into words.

"Where—where is the wom—your wife now,
Mr. Slewer?" she asked in a low voice.

This well-nigh proved the undoing of
Mr. Slewer, whose inventive faculty was not the
strongest part of his intellectual equipment.
He was standing on the doorstep when she
put the question, and she saw him wriggle a
little in his embarrassment.

"She," he hesitated, "oh, I guess he's
got her with him all right, all right."  Then
he remembered that this could not be so
without her knowledge, and he hastened to add,
"or else he's put her down and out."

"Killed her?" comprehended the girl
with a gasp.

"Yep," said Mr. Slewer nodding his head.
"Jukey's a mighty bad man—yes, sir."

Sir Harry was at the gate directing the
cabman and young Mr. Tanneur was with him.
Bill looked round and then edged closer to the
girl.

"Say," he whispered, "dat Jukey feller—do
youse wanter do him dirt?"

"I—I don't understand," she faltered.

He nodded his head sagely did this product
of Cherry Hill, who had gone West in '93.

"To-morrer," he said, "I'm goin' to put it
outer him—proper!"

He left her as a novelist would say, a prey
to conflicting emotions.



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   \II

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I do not profess to understand anything
about the legal procedure of the United
States Courts, or for the matter of that of
English Courts either.  Occasionally there
comes to me a document beginning "Edward,
by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain."  I
have noticed idly enough that it used to be
subscribed "Halsbury"; and that lately
it has borne the name of "Loreburn," so I
gather there have been changes made, and
that the other man has lost his job.

When Sir Harry's business-like agent in
Denver decided to contest the title of the
Silver Mine, he acted in a perfectly straightforward
manner and issued a writ or its equivalent,
calling upon the holder of the title to
immediately surrender the same.  There was
a difficulty in serving this notice on the
defendant, and there was also a great danger.
For the appearance of the defendant in court
would have established beyond any doubt
whatever that Sir Harry's friends were no
more entitled to the property than the
mythical man in the moon.  Therefore the
clever lawyer in Denver made no attempt to
serve it, indeed he was anxious to preserve as
a secret the fact that such a writ was contemplated.

It was therefore strange that he decided
to take the course he did; which was to
advertise, in other words, affect substituted
service, in three daily newspapers.

The advertisement came to the *Minnehaha
Magnet* in the ordinary way of business,
accompanied by a treasury note for fifty
dollars.  An hour previous to the paper
being issued, an alert young man interviewed
the editor and proprietor.

He wished to purchase the whole issue of
the paper, a simple proposition, but an
awkward one for the proprietor of a mining camp
newspaper, for there were subscribers to be
considered.  The young man persisted and
offered a price.  No one ever saw a copy of
that day's issue except the young man who
carried away a few copies after superintending
the distribution of the whole of the type.

The next day the editor announced that
owing to a break down after 2,000 copies of
the journal had been printed, many of his
subscribers had been disappointed etc. etc.  The
normal circulation of the *Minnehaha Magnet*
is 1,200, but the editorial bluff may be allowed
to pass.

There is little doubt that a similar explanation
may be offered for the non-appearance,
for one day only, of the *Silver Syren*, and the
*Paddly Post Herald*.  This much is certain:
the proprietor of the Silver Streak Mine had,
in the eyes of the law, been as successfully
"writted" as though a process server had
placed the document in his hands.  And
there was the advantage that he knew nothing
about it.

Sir Harry was informed of the progress
made by the capable gentleman of Denver
on the morning of the day of the concert.

He had found his letters waiting for him
at No. 66 when he called that morning—he
always stayed at an hotel in town—it had
been forwarded from Hydeholm.

It may be doubted that he knew the means
adopted by his representative; it may safely
be assumed that he made no inquiries.  He
took the newspaper cuttings from the
suppressed editions and read them carefully.
Then he whistled.

"Oho!" he said, for until now the Silver
Streak had had the inanimate existence of a
corporation; of the names of its controllers
he had been ignorant.  He whistled again
and folded the cutting.

He was so thoughtful during his short
stay, and moreover so absent-minded that
Alicia, who had made up her mind to dissuade
her uncle from including Mr. Slewer in his
party, could get no opportunity of speaking
to him.  When he had left with Hal, she went
into the garden to think.



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   \III

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"Good morning," said a cheerful voice.

She looked up to meet the smiling eyes of
the Duke.

A recollection of this man's despicable
crime gave her a feeling akin to sickness but
she kept her eyes fixed on him.

"Getting ready for the concert?" he
asked, but she made up her mind quickly and
cut his pleasantly short.

"I would advise you to forget about
to-night's concert," she said.

He looked a little surprised.

"It's a strange thing you should say
that," he replied, "for the fact is I've been
trying to forget about it—I'm in an awful
funk."

Should she warn him?

"Is that unusual experience for you?"
she questioned drily.  She marvelled to find
herself engaged in a conversation with
him.

"Unusual?  Rather!  I am as brave as a
lion," he said frankly.  "Hank says I am
about three ounces short of a hero."

He met her scornful gaze unwillingly.

"And a gallant also, I hear!" she retorted
with a curl of her lip.  He made no reply to
this charge, and she misread his silence.

"You do not deny *that*, M'sieur le Duc,"
she went on, "and why should you?  You
must be aware that the reputation of as great
a man as yourself is more or less public
property.  The greatness that excuses his
eccentricities and turns his impertinences into
amusing foibles may perhaps leniently gloss
over his sordid *affaires*, and give them the
value of romance."

All the time she spoke the lines between
his eyes were deepening into a frown, but
he made no attempt at replying until she had
finished.

"May I respectfully demand which of my
*affaires* you are referring to at the moment?"
he asked.

"Are they so many," she flamed.

"Hundreds," he said sadly, "was it the
*affaire* with the Princess de Gallisitru, or the
*affaire* of the premiere denseuse, or the *affaire*
of—who else does one have *affaires* with?"

"You cannot laugh this away," she said, and
then before she could stop herself she
demanded with an emphasis that was almost
brutal—

"What have you done with Mrs. Slewer?"

If she expected her question to create a
sensation, she must have been satisfied, for
at the name he started back so that he almost
lost his balance.  Then he recovered himself
and for a moment only was silent.

"Mrs. Slewer," he repeated softly, "what
have I done with Mrs. Slewer—Mrs. Bill Slewer,
of course?" he asked.

She did not speak.

"Of Four Ways, Texas?"

Still she made no response.

"A big bent chap with white eyes"—his
voice had recovered its flippancy—"and hands
that hang like a 'rang-a-tang?"

She recognized the description.

"So I ran away—do you mind if I consult
a friend?  You'll admit that this is a crisis in
my affairs?"

She affected not to hear him and strolled
to the other side of the garden.

"Hank!"  She heard his voice and another
responding from the house.  "Hank," said
the muffled voice of the duke.  "I ran away
with Mrs. Slewer—Big Bill's wife."

"Eh?"

"I ran away with Mrs. Bill, and Bill is
naturally annoyed, so Bill is looking me
up—in fact Bill——"

She could not catch the rest; she thought
she heard Hank make a reference to "hell,"
but she hoped she was mistaken.

By and by the Duke's head appeared above
the wall.

"I suppose," he said, "now that you know
the worst, you will tell me this—when is
Mr. Slewer going to call?"

She spoke over her shoulder, a convenient
chrysanthemum with a pathetic droop claiming
her attention.

"I know nothing of Mr. Slewer's plans,"
said she distantly.

It was such a long time before he spoke
again that she thought he must have gone
away, and she ventured a swift glance at the
wall.

But he was still there with his mocking
eyes fixed on hers.

"Perhaps we shall see him at the concert?"
he suggested, "sitting in the front row with
his tragic and accusing eyes reproaching me?"

"How can you jest?"—she turned on him
in a fury—"how can you turn this terrible
wrong into a subject for amusement?
Surely you are not completely lost to shame."

He rested his elbow on the top of the wall
and dropped his chin between his hands.
When he spoke, it was less to her than to
himself.

"Ran away with his wife, eh?  Come,
that's not so bad, but Bill couldn't have
thought of that himself.  He's got a scar
along the side of his head—did you notice
that Miss Terrill?  No?  Well, I did that,"
he said complacently.  "Yet Bill didn't
mention it, that's his forgiving nature.  Did
he tell you I jailed him for promiscuous
shooting?  Well, I did, and when the governor
revised the sentence of death passed upon
him, I organized a lynching party to settle
with Bill for keeps.

"They smuggled him out of the gaol before
my procession arrived.  Bill never told you
about that episode.  H'm! that's his modesty.
I suppose he's forgotten all these little acts of
unfriendliness on my part.  The only thing
that worries him now is—*put up your
hands—quick*!"

She saw the Duke's face suddenly harden,
his eyes narrow, and heard his lazy drawl
change in an instant to a sharp metallic
command.  Most important of all his right
hand held a wicked looking revolver.  She
was standing before the conservatory door
as the duke was speaking and apparently
the revolver was pointed at her.  A voice
behind her reassured her.

"Say, Jukey," it drawled, "put down your
gun—there's nothin' doin'."

She turned to face Mr. Slewer with his
hands raised protestingly above his head,
injured innocence in every line of his face,
and hanging forward from the inside pocket
of his jacket the butt of a Colt's revolver,
half drawn.



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   \IV

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"Come further into the garden," invited
the Duke with his most winning smile,
"that's right, Bill.  Now just take that gun
out of your pocket and drop it into the grass.
If the muzzle comes this way poor Mrs. Slewer
will be a widow.  Thank you.  You
heard what I said about Mrs. Slewer?" he
asked.

Bill, unabashed, made no reply, but looked
up at the smiling face of the man he hated,
with passionless calm.

The girl, fascinated by the deadly play,
watched.

"How long have you been married?"
asked the Duke.  "Can these things be
arranged in State's prison?"

"Say," said the unperturbed Mr. Slewer,
"you're fresh ain't ye,—what's the use of
gay talk anyways—I'm layin' for you, Jukey."

"And I ran away, did I?" said the other,
ignoring Mr. Slewer's speech, and dropping
his voice, "scared of Bill Slewer of Four Ways?"

"Seems like it," said the man coolly.

"Are you the only cattle thief I ever
jailed?" asked the Duke; then of a sudden he
let go the mask of languor and the words
came like the passionless click of machinery.

"Get out of England, you Bill!" he
breathed, "because I'm going to kill you else!
What! you threaten me?  Why, man, I'd
have given a thousand dollars to know you
were shoot-at-able!  Do you think we've
forgotten Ed. Carter——"

He stopped short looking at the girl.  Her
eyes had not left his face.  Astonishment,
interest and fear were written plainly, and
these checked the bitter stream of words that
sprang to his lips.  For her part she marvelled
at the intensity of this insolent young man,
who could so suddenly drop the pretence of
badinage, into whose face had come the
pallor of wrath and whose laughing eyes
had grown of a sudden so stern and
remorseless.  He recovered himself quickly and
laughed.

"Hey, Bill," he said, "it is no use your
coming to Brockley, S.E. with any fool
bad-man tricks.  You're out of the picture
here.  Just wait till we're both back again
in the land of Freedom and Firearms.  Is it
a bet?"

"Sure," said Bill and stooped leisurely to
pick up his revolver.

He stood for a moment toying with it,
looking at the Duke with sidelong glances.
The Duke's pistol had disappeared into his
pocket.

"Jukey," drawled Bill, polishing the slim
barrel of his weapon on the sleeve of his
coat, "you'se has lost your dash."

"Think so?"

"Yes, sir," said the confident Bill,
"because why?  It stands for sense I didn't
come all the way from God's country to do
cross talk—don't it?"

The Duke nodded and ostentatiously
examined his empty hands.

"Say," said Bill, "them's nice pretty hands
of your'n, Jukey, you just keep 'em right there
where we—all can admire 'em—see?  I've
gotten a few words to say to you'se, an' there's
plenty of time to say 'em."

Alicia saw the snaky glitter in the man's
cruel eyes, and took an involuntary step
forward.  Slewer did not look at her, but his
left hand shot out and arrested her progress.

"You'se ain't in this, Cissy," he said
gruffly, "it's me and Jukey."  He pushed
her backward with such force that she nearly
fell.  When she looked at the Duke again
his face was grey and old-looking, but he
made no comment.

"I guess I've not been thinkin' of this
particular occasion for some years, no, *sir*!"
said Bill carefully, "not been sitting in me
stripes, thinkin' out what I'd say to
Mr. Jukey when me an' him hit the same lot."

The man on the wall chuckled, but his face
was still pale.  Bill observed this fact.

"You'se can be the laughin' coon all
right," he sneered, "but I guess two inches
o' looking glass'd put you wise to yourself."

"Am I pale?" drawled the man on the
wall; "it's this fear of you Bill, the fear of
you that made me sick.  Oh, please don't
wag your gun.  You don't suppose I'd have
trusted you with it, unless I was absolutely
sure of you."

Bill scowled suspiciously and thumbed
back the hammer of the revolver.

"Sure?" he grated.  "By God, Jukey——"

The Duke turned his head never so slightly.
Bill followed the direction of his eyes, then he
dropped his pistol like a hot coal and threw
up his hands.  At an upper window of the
Duke's house stood the watchful Hank.  In
the corner of the American's mouth was a
cigar, in his hands was a Winchester rifle
and its business-like muzzle covered Bill
unwaveringly, as it had for the past ten minutes.



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   \V

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All this happened in Brockley, S.E. on one
bright autumn morning whilst Kymott Crescent
(exclusive of numbers 64 and 66) pursued its
placid course.  Whilst milkmen yelled in the
streets and neat butcher's carts stood waiting
at servants' entrances, whilst Mrs. Coyter
practised most assiduously the pianoforte
solo that was against her name in the
programme of the evening, and Mr. Roderick
Nape paced the concrete floor of his study
delivering to an imaginary audience a
monologue (specially written by a friend not
unconnected with *The Lewisham Borough News*)
entitled "The Murder of Fairleigh Grange."

That rehearsal will ever be remembered by
Mr. Roderick Nape, because it was whilst
he was in the middle of it that there came
to him his First Case.

In this monologue, the character, a detective
of supernatural perception, is engaged
in hounding down a clever and ruthless
criminal.  Mr. Roderick Nape had got to the
part where an "agony" in the *Morning
Post* had aroused the suspicion of the
detective genius.  Perhaps it would be best to
give the extract.


   "Can it be Hubert Wallingford?  No,
   perish the thought!  Yet—come let me
   read the paper again (*takes newspaper
   cutting from his pocket and reads*)—

   'To whom it may concern: information
   regarding P.L. is anxiously awaited by H.W.'

   Can it be Hubert! (*sombrely*)—It would
   seem a voice from the grave that
   says——"

   "The gent from 66 wants to see you, sir."


Mr. Nape stopped short and faced the
diminutive maid of all work.

"Is it a case?  he asked severely.

"I shouldn't wonder, sir," replied the
cheerful little girl.

It was the invariable question and answer,
as invariable as Philip of Spain's morning
inquiry in relation to Gibraltar—"Is it
taken?"

"Show him in."

The greenhouse which an indulgent parent
had converted into a study for the scientific
investigations of crime, admitted of no
extravagant furnishing.  A big basket chair
in which the detective might meditate, a
genuine Persian rug where he might squat
and smoke shag (it was birds-eye, really), a
short bench littered with test tubes and
Bunsen burners, these were the main features
of Mr. Nape's laboratory.

Mr. Hal Tanneur was visibly impressed
by the test tubes, and accepted the one chair
the apartment boasted with the comforting
thought that Mr. Nape might not be the silly
young fool that people thought him.  Happily
Mr. Nape was no thought-reader.

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   \VI

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"You wish to consult me," suggested the
amateur detective wearily.  You might have
thought Mr. Nape was so weighed with the
secret investigations and the detection of
crime that he regarded any new case with
resentment.

"Ye-es," confessed Hal: he was not
overburdened with tact.  "You see I wanted
a chap to do something for me, and I didn't
want to go to one of those rotten detective
agencies—their charges are so devilishly high."

Mr. Nape dismissed the assumption of his
cheapness with a mystical smile.

"Alicia—that's my cousin ye know—was
talking about you the other night, and it
struck me you were the very chap for me."

Half the art of detection lies in preserving
a discreet silence at the right moment and
allow the other man to talk: this much
Mr. Nape had learnt.

"Now what I want to know is this: can
you find out something about this Duke
fellow—the man at 64?  I'm pretty sure
he's a rotter, and I'm absolutely certain that
he has documents in his house that would
prove, beyond any doubt, what an out and
out rotter he is."

It was a task after the detective's heart:
internally he was ecstatically jubilant;
outwardly he was seemingly unaffected.  He
walked to his little desk, and with a great
display of keys opened a drawer, taking
therefrom a locked book.  Again the flourish
of keys and the volume was opened.

A fluttering of leaves and——

"Ha! here it is," said the detective gravely,
"I have already noted him: George Francisco
Louis Duc de Montvillier, Marquis Poissant
Lens, Baron (of the Roman Empire) de
Piento——"

"Oh, I know all that," interrupted the
practical Hal, "you've copied it out of the
Almanac de Gotha."

Mr. Nape was disconcerted, but dignified.
He tried to think of some crushing rejoinder,
but, failing, he contented himself with a
slight bow.

"It isn't the question of who he was or
who his father was," said Hal testily, "any
fool could find that out."

Mr. Nape bowed again.

"What we—I, do want information about
is"—Hal hesitated—"well, as a matter of fact,
this is how the matter stands.  We want
to know what he is *going* to do—that's it!"

Mr. Nape looked thoughtful as this tribute
to his prescience was paid.

"For a week or two at any rate we would
like him watched, and if he shows any attempt
at leaving the country I wish to be immediately
informed."

Mr. Nape was relieved that the services
required did not verge upon the practice of
black magic, for Mr. Nape was a strict
churchman.

"We thought," continued Hal, "of employing
an ordinary detective but, as I say,
their charges are so high, and this duke person
would be pretty sure to notice a strange man
hanging about, so we have decided to ask
you to take on the job.  He would never
suspect you."

Mr. Roderick Nape was on the point of
indignantly refuting this suggestion of his
obscurity: it was at the tip of his tongue
to inform Mr. Hal Tanneur that his fame
was widespread through Brockley, Lewisham,
Eltham, Lee, to the utmost limits of Catford,
and it was next to impossible for him to walk
along the Lewisham High Road without
somebody nudging somebody else, and saying
audibly, if ungrammatically, "That's him!"  But
he forbore.

"Here's my address."  Hal pulled a handful
of letters from his pocket in his search for a
card case.  "If you see this chap getting
ready to bolt, send me a wire, and you had
better have some money for expenses."

Mr. Nape closed his eyes pleasantly, and
waited for the conventional bag of gold to
fall heavily upon the desk, or to hear the
thud of a thick roll of notes.

"Here's ten shillings," said Hal generously;
"you won't want all that, but I don't want
you to stint yourself.  Take a cab if you
want to, but motor buses go almost
everywhere nowadays."

Mr. Nape had had visions of special trains,
but no matter.

He picked up the ten shillings with a
contemptuous smile, and flicked it carelessly into
the air, catching it again with no mean skill.

"You'll remember," said Hal at parting,
"I want him watched so that he cannot get
out of the country without my knowing."

"It shall be done," said Mr. Nape coldly
and professionally.  He said "good-bye,"
to his visitor on the doorstep and walked
back to his "laboratory" slowly and importantly.

He found the scattered manuscript of his
monologue and mechanically tidied it
together.  He missed the dummy newspaper
"agony" and looked round for it.  He
saw a cutting on the floor, picked it up and
put it away with the manuscript.  Then he
sat down to plan out his campaign.

He had a number of disguises in his room
upstairs....

Two hours later a grimy workman with a
heavy moustache and a bag of tools called, at
64 "to examine the gas fittings."



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   \VII

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The Duke looked at the workman tinkering
awkwardly with a pendant.  The
"workman" in his inmost soul was fervently
praying that this would be the last job.  For
an hour and a half he had sweated and toiled.
The Duke had received him on his arrival,
figuratively speaking, with open arms.

"You are just the man we want," he said
enthusiastically, and had put him through a
short catechism.  Did he know anything about
plumbing?  Yes, said the workman doubtfully;
and glazing and fixing water pipes,
and gardening? added Hank.

The workman who was not quite sure
whether all these accomplishments were
comprehended in the profession of gas-fitter,
thought however that it would be wisest to
be on the safe side, and had answered "Yes."

So the Duke had led him to the little cellar,
where he laboured hotly at a refractory
electric battery, and Hank had pushed him
up through a trap door out of the roof, where
he, trembling, fixed a misplaced slate, and
the Duke had insisted upon the ground being
opened in the garden so that a defective
drain-pipe might be repaired.  After digging
industriously, if unskilfully, for half an hour,
it was discovered that the drain-pipe was in
another part of the garden altogether.

Then he was taken into the common-room
to fix the gas.  Between the fear that his
excessive exertions and their attendant
perspiration, would melt the wax that affixed
his noble moustache and the desire for
information, Mr. Nape was more than ordinarily
embarrassed.  For there is little one may
learn in a four-foot excavation, and the news
whispered abroad on suburban housetops is
scarcely worth remembering.  Therefore he
welcomed the adjournment to the common-room.
Whilst he tinkered, the men talked,
and at their first words Roderick pricked
up his ears.

"Duke," said Hank, "I want to ask you
something."

"Wait till the man is out of the room,"
said the Duke warningly.

Hank shrugged his broad shoulders.

"He's too interested in his work," he said,
"and besides——"

He shrugged again.

"Well, what is it you want?"

"Isn't it time," asked Hank with sinister
emphasis, "that you and I shared out the swag?"

The Duke rose and agitatedly paced up and down.

"Let us go into the next room," he said.

The front drawing-room, from the back
was divided by a pair of light folding doors.
Mr. Nape descended from the chair, and crept
noiselessly towards the partition.

"Duke," said Hank's voice, "or 'Jim Duke,'
to give you your right name——"

"Hush," said the Duke's voice appealingly.

"Jim Duke," continued the other callously,
"as you are known in Pentonville and Sing
Sing, it's time for a share out."

"How much do you want," sullenly.

"I don't know," said Hank's voice, "it
ought to be considerable.  There's the Countess
of B——'s diamond necklace, the Princess
of Saxony's tiara, and the proceeds of the
Hoxton Bank robbery."

Mr. Nape could scarcely contain himself.

He heard the Duke's footfall as he strode up
and down the room, then he heard him speak,

"I will give you twenty thousand pounds,"
he said shortly.

Mr. Nape heard a sharp laugh.

"Twenty thousand! why I'll get that for
turning King's evidence—about the Lylham
Hall affair!"

There was a pause.

"If I killed him, you were an accessory,"
said the Duke.

"I helped to bury him, if that's what you
mean," said Hank coolly, "and that was against
my wishes; you will remember that I suggested
that he should be chucked into the river."

"True," said the Duke moodily, "it has
always been my cursed failing, this burying
business—you forget I was intended for
the Church."

"You didn't bury the Earl," said Hank
significantly, and they both laughed boisterously.

As for Mr. Nape, his blood froze and his
teeth started chattering.

He was left in doubt as to the dreadful
end of the unfortunate nobleman, for the
Duke changed the subject.

"Look here, Hank, will you be content if
I hand over the necklace, and the tiara, and
a cheque for £5,000?"

"A crossed cheque?" asked the cautious Hank.

"A crossed cheque," said the Duke firmly,
"on the London and South Western Bank."

There was another pause whilst Hank
considered the proposition.

"Yes," he agreed, "on condition you
give me a paper exonerating me from any
knowledge of the scuttling of the *Prideaux
Castle*."

"Oh, that," said the Duke carelessly, "that
was a private matter entirely between the
captain and myself, and I shall be very pleased
to give you the paper."

"Very good," said Hank's voice, "when
that paper is in my possession duly signed
and witnessed and stamped at Somerset
House, the partnership is dissolved."

Mr. Nape, almost fainting in his excitement,
had time to get back to his chair, when
the two men returned.

The Duke glanced at the pendant.

"Finished?" he asked politely.

"Yes, sir," muttered Mr. Nape unsteadily.

"Well, I don't think there is anything else
we want done—do we?"

Hank shook his head.

Mr. Nape stole a glance at him and saw
the gloomy frown.  "It was the face" (I quote
Mr. Nape's secret diary) "of a man haunted
with the memory of his black past."

With great solemnity the Duke tipped the
workman half a crown and led him to the
door.  When he returned he found Hank
doubled up on the divan.

"Ill?" he asked anxiously, "poisoned,
by any chance?"

But Hank continued to laugh till he
subsided into helpless chuckles.

Curiously enough the Duke, whose sense
of humour was of the keenest, did not share
in his friend's amusement.  He smiled once
or twice as he paced the room.  Then—

"Hank," he said seriously, "do you think
young Sherlock Raffles came here entirely
out of curiosity?"

"Sure," said the exhausted Hank.

The Duke shook his head doubtingly.

"There's some little game on that I do not
quite fathom.  Do you know that the
concert has been postponed?"

"No."

"Well, it has—and who do you think is
responsible?  Sir Harry Tanneur."

Hank jerked his head inquiringly in the
direction of 66.

"Yes," said the Duke seriously, "for
some unaccountable reason he has prevailed
upon the vicar to change the date.  I've
just had a note from the vicar to tell me this.
Tanneur is paying all the expenses incidental
to the change, the printing and the advertisements,
and that is not like Sir Harry, from
what I know of him."

"To-day is Tuesday," meditated, Hank,
"and to-morrow is Wednesday."

"You're a devil of a chap for finding things
out," said the Duke with amused irritation.
"You'd put Jacko out of business in a week."

In their less serious moments, the tenants
of 64 invariably referred to Roderick as
"Jacko Napes."

"I can see no connexion between Jacko
and the concert," said Hank, "can you?"

The Duke shook his head.

"It is an instinct," he said seriously, "a
premonition of some sort of danger—the
sort of thing that turns you creepy just before
cattle stampede."

"Run away and play," said the unimaginative
Hank, "go into the garden and lasso
worms—you're losing your nerve."

The Duke stood undecided.

"I want something and yet I don't know
exactly what I want.  I need a moral tonic."

"You'll find the step ladder in the
greenhouse," suggested Hank.



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   \VIII

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A few moments later the Duke from his
accustomed elevation was conducting his
erratic courtship.

It was not perhaps so much of a coincidence,
that he seldom failed to discover Alicia in
the mornings.  She was an enthusiastic
gardener.  It was a hobby she had only
recently taken up.  It is said by the people
of 70—their back windows overlooked the
garden and they were notoriously uncharitable—that
the gardening craze, which rightly
should come with the spring, did not show
in her until after the Duke's arrival; that
until then her visits to the garden had been
few and far between, and her interest of a
perfunctory character.

This morning she was not as self-possessed
as usual.  Indeed she appeared to be a little
nervous, but she made no pretence of avoiding him.

"How is the cat?" he asked.

It was his gambit.

"Poor Tibs is as serviceable as the weather,"
she smiled.

She saw his eyes shift to the conservatory.

"Don't be afraid," she bantered, "Mr. Slewer
is not there; he came in the other day
without my knowledge," she hastened to add,
"the servant showed him into the drawing-room
and he took the unpardonable liberty
of walking through into the garden."

"Bill has no drawing-room manners,"
he said regretfully, "he heard my voice
and it lured him: you'd never suspect me
of being syrenish, would you?"

She raised her grave eyes to his.

"You frightened me dreadfully," she said.
"Were you men in earnest?"

"Not a bit," he lied cheerfully, "we were
just rehearsing a little play."

"But you were," she persisted, "you
looked dreadful and that wretched man's
face was devilish."

"S-sh!" he reproved, "the poor chap
was a bit upset, and very naturally.  One
cannot lose one's wife without——"

"Please don't be horrid," she begged,
flushing.  "I thought that you were not
looking as happy as you are usually," she
added with a touch of malice.

"I was in the bluest of funks," he confessed,
"especially when he pushed you back.
You see Hank was covering him and Hank
is a terribly short-tempered man.  I was
wondering how we could explain away Bill's
dead body without creating a scandal."

In spite of his matter-of-fact tone, she knew
he was offering a true explanation for his
pallor—only she substituted his name for
Hank's, and felt she was nearer the truth.

"You're a strange man"—her pretty
forehead was wrinkled with perplexity—"suppose
all this that happened here yesterday
had occurred in—Texas."

"It could not have occurred in Texas,"
he said instantly.  "You would have missed
the light flow of talk and the interplay of
pleasant compliments.  There would be only one
thing to do.  Down in Texas they recognize
that fact.  Don't you know the story of the
sheriff who tried to arrest Black Ike of
Montana?  The sheriff pulled a gun on Ike, but
Ike got first shot.  The sheriff was mightily
popular, and the folks were grieved but
philosophical.  They lynched Black Ike and
put a splendid monument over the sheriff.  In
one line they apostrophized his life, ambition
and splendid failure—and the inevitability of
it all.  It ran—

   |  "He did his damndest, angels could do no more."
   |

She was shocked but she laughed—

"So in Texas——"

"I should have killed him," he said with
confidence.

"Or else——?" she shivered.

"Or else—exactly," he said cheerfully.

"It's very dreadful," she said with a troubled
face.  "Thank goodness, that that sort of
thing cannot happen here."

"Thank goodness," he repeated without
heartiness.

"Do you think it can?"  She shot a
suspicious glance at him.

"Good heavens, no!" he denied, his vigour
a little overdone.

"You do!" she cried, "you believe he
will try, please, please tell me."

The eyes of the man were very tender, there
was a curious sadness in them when he looked
at her; she dropped hers before them.

"You must not think of such things," he
said gently, so unlike his usual self that she,
for some unfathomable reason, was near to
tears, "why, I scarcely deserve your thought.
I who have vexed you so, and hurt you so,
though God knows I only acted as I did in
an impetuosity that was born of a great
and an abiding love."

Her heart went racing, like the screw of a
liner, and she felt choking.  There were other
sensations which she had no time to analyse.
Her eyes sought the ground and her hands
plucked idly at the flowers within her
reach.

"Please remember that, Alicia."  With an
odd thrill she recognized the masterful touch
in this calm appropriation of her name.  "What
may have seemed impertinence, was really
sincerity.  The world would say that I have
not known you long enough, that the hideous
formalities and conventional preliminaries
were essential, and that to ask a girl to marry
you for no other reason than because you had
seen her and loved her, without balancing this
virtue against that failing, was an outrageous
and unprecedented thing."

She raised her eyes up shyly but did not speak.

The old look was coming back into his face.
The old mocking was in his voice when he went on.

"Alicia, I was prepared to take you without
a character—and do not forget that I am
a suburban householder—without even so
much as a line from your last place—did you
ever have a last place?" he added suspiciously.
She shook her head.

"You—you," she faltered, "are the only
master I have ever had!"

Then she fled into the house, and Hank,
looking through the back drawing-room
window, saw the duke turning somersaults on the
lawn—and drew his own conclusions.



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   \IX

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The postponement of a concert is a very
serious matter.  There are pretty certain
to be amongst the audience, those who could
come on Tuesday but find Wednesday impossible,
or Wednesday agreeable and Thursday
obnoxious.  Similarly with artistes, some
of whom cannot fix in the altered date, and
some, the more amateurish, who have screwed
their courage up for Tuesday's ordeal and
find it a physical and mental impossibility
to sustain the tension for another twenty-four
hours.  In this latter case we find Mr. Roderick
Nape, who, with the added mental burden
of his tremendous discovery, found no pleasure
in the fictitious trials of the hero of
"The Murder at Fairleigh Grange."

It was written in the book of fate that he
should be relieved of one half of his care.
On the day eventually fixed for the concert the
duke was "at home."

I pass over the propriety of a bachelor
being "at home."  There was no precedent
for the function, but then there was no
precedent for a duke living in Kymott
Crescent.  What the response would have been
in ordinary circumstances, need not be
discussed.  As it happened, the grave man-servant
was kept busy the whole of the afternoon
announcing new arrivals, and the two
waiters, hired for the day from Whiteley's,
distributed tea, thin bread and butter, and
ladylike sandwiches from 4 till 6.30.

The neighbourhood accepted the invitation
because it gave the neighbourhood an
opportunity of meeting and abusing the vicar
for postponing the soirée—and then of course
there was the Duke.

"Come?" said Hank answering that
gentleman's doubts, "of course they'll come:
you're a two headed donkey, an ancient ruin,
a *cause célèbre* and the scene of a tragedy."

"I take you, sir," said the Duke gratefully;
"in other words——"

"They will come out of morbid curiosity,"
said Hank.  "They'll come to the concert
to-night, but that's different.  You'll be
removed from most of 'em.  Here they can
get near you, prod you and guess what your
weight is, look at your teeth an' tell your age;
they'll come all right!"

Amongst those present, as the junior
reporter hath it, was Mr. Roderick Nape in his
private clothes, in other words without
disguise.  Yet in a sense he was there on
business.  He wanted to see how these men
behaved in public.

He pushed his way through the crowded
little room, little knowing that he stalked to
his professional doom.

"How do you do?" asked the Duke in his
most engaging manner, then he gave a
dramatic start and stepped back.

He looked at Hank, then again at Mr. Nape.

"Why, Mr. Nape," stammered the Duke,
"you quite startled me."

All eyes were riveted on Mr. Nape, and he
enjoyed it.

"What have you been doing to your face!"
asked the Duke.  It was a rude question, but
Mr. Nape saw nothing more significant in the
query than a hint of smut, and searched for his
handkerchief.

"What have you done with your moustache,"
asked the Duke reprovingly.

Mr. Nape looked his astonishment.

"I have never had a moustache," he said
haughtily, for he had heard a little titter.

"Strange," mused the Duke, "and yet I
could have sworn that the last time we
met—forgive me, I must have been mistaken."

"By the way, Mr. Nape," drawled the tired
voice of Hank, "that electric battery you
repaired don't work worth a cent."

The great and appalling truth came to
Mr. Nape slowly.  In a dazed way he managed to
reached the outskirts of the throng about his
host and sank into a chair.

His moustache! the electric battery! he
groaned in spirit.

"Say, Mr. Nape,"—Hank was by his
side—"you'll keep the matter dark—you know.
What you heard this morning—we'll split
the tiara or I'll toss you for the diamond
necklace."

Roderick rose with dignity.

"Mr. Hankey, you are an American and
you cannot understand my feelings, but I
consider I have been treated most——"

"Mrs. and Miss Terrill," announced the
grave man-servant, and Hank lost all
interest in Mr. Roderick Nape.

He gave a quick glance at the Duke and
grinned, for the scarlet-faced young man for
the first and last time in his life lost his head
and grew incoherent.

"Oh, yes, America is a lovely country—close
to New York you know, beautiful sunsets
every night at 10.  I mean fireworks in
Madison Square Gardens.  Yes, I knew
President Lincoln intimately.  How do you do,
Miss Terrill? this is very pluc—kind of you."

Mrs. Terrill has been treated with scant
courtesy in these pages, but the part she
played in this story is analogous to the part
she played in life.  She was one of those women
who live in the everlasting background—none
the worse for that, but no better.  The
Duke had looked forward to the meeting with
a vague dread.  When he saw her he
experienced a great relief, when she spoke he
was grateful.  He found an opportunity to
speak with her alone.

"My daughter has told me," she said
simply.  "I'm afraid I ought to be more
prejudiced against you than I am, and I'm
sure you were not looking forward with any
eagerness to meet me."

His smiling denial she waved aside.  She
was a pretty woman of fifty.  She looked no
less, yet she was pretty.  For beauty is not
of any age, any more than it is of any colour.
The Duke with his quick sympathies saw
behind the laughter in her eyes the shadow
of suffering.  He had lived too near to sorrow
to mistake its evidence.  Secretly, he
wondered why this woman with her ready wit and
her unquestionable charm had played no
greater part in life—for unerringly and
instinctively he had estimated her place in the
world.

She had an embarrassing way of reading
one's thoughts.

"You are wondering why I am the Shadowy
Lady," she asked with a glint of amusement in
her eyes, "yet you must remember a time—did
I not overhear you claiming acquaintance
with Lincoln?—when it was woman's
prerogative to retire: when her virtues were
concomitant with her obscurity.  Some women
rebelled and reached fame by way of the law
courts, some women rebelled and died, some
acquiesced, waiting for the fashion to change.
I was one of those, and when the fashion
changed I was satisfied with the old order
and remained behind the curtain, peaceably."

He looked at her and nodded.

"I understand," he said, for there was sufficient
of the woman in his heart to understand
sacrifice.  She walked away and sent him Alicia.

They were exchanging banalities for the
benefit of the surrounding audience when
Hank came looking preternaturally solemn.
"That custard, Duke."

His friend stared.

"What about it?"

"She's gone."

The Duke waited.

"That custard," said Hank impressively,
"we made her, boiled her, stuck eggs all over
her, and put her outside on the window-ledge
to cool off."

The Duke said nothing, but his lips quivered.

"That custard was surely great," Hank went
on, growing melancholy, "we copied her out of
an evenin' paper, and whisked her and frisked
her till she sizzled—and she's gone."

There was a solemn pause; the spectators
held their breath, out of respect for Hank's
grief.

"Whilst there was a sound of revelry
downstairs, there came a thief," said Hank
oracularly, "she clomb up the rare-old-ivy-green
and started in to sample that custard."

The Duke leant forward.

"Not Tibs?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, not Tibs?" pleaded the girl.

"Tibs, it was surely," said Hank bitterly,
"I saw that kinky tail of hers goin' over the
wall."



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   \X

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The Duke had secured a few minutes alone
with the girl.  The remainder of the guests
had departed, and Hank was keeping Mrs. Terrill
mildly amused with an exposition of his
philosophy.

It was a memorable day in the Duke's life,
for amongst other unique experiences, he felt
a diffidence amounting to shyness.

Remarkably enough it was the girl who was
cool and self-possessed.  He tried to carry
off the matter with a high hand, but, as Hank
so expressively put it, "he wilted some."

"Alicia," he began huskily—his throat-clearing
cough was a confession of weakness.

"Did you like mother?" she asked.  He
could see she had no fear of the verdict.  As
he spoke of her he gained courage and took
her hand, inanely enough, and she laughed
a low, happy, amused laugh.

He laughed too, but sheepishly.

"Courage, mon enfant," she said boldly.

"Alicia," he said earnestly, "don't you
wonder at me—and aren't you sorry for me
struck dumb by your nearness?  There was a
man in Texas City once, who told me my bumps;
and he said my two principal characteristics
were modesty and courage, and said that I
suffered from having too poor an opinion of
myself.  I have tried to get over that latter
fault," he said bravely.  "People pointed out
the difficulty of reducing the modesty bump
owing to the mystery of its location.  Hank
said, he guessed it was like one of those
disappearing islands, that bob up and down in
the Western Pacific, and every time I hit
Modesty Hill, he made a careful survey and
found I'd struck into Mount Nerve or Vanity
Point.  In the end he guessed the phrenologist
was pulling my leg, and that one of the fellows
had put him up to it.  But I rather thought
he was genuine, and the modesty bump he
had located, was one I got through being
thrown from a bronco when showing off before
some girls in Texas.  Now my respect for the
phrenologist has gone up points.  I feel—I feel
like a little tame cat."

She let him find his way out, as best he could.

"This is the first time you and I have been
alone," he said desperately, "and—and——"

"Go on," she said calmly.

It was a terrible experience for the Duke.
He felt his grasp upon the situation slipping:
he summoned his courage.  They were in the
deserted conservatory, which was twelve feet
by eight feet and open to the gaze of the world
on three sides.

"Have you seen my Japanese ferns?" he
asked recklessly.

Now here is a curious problem that I present
to the reader, whose greater knowledge of
worldly affairs may help him to a solution.
As the Duke spoke he indicated the screened
side of the conservatory, which was as innocent
of Japanese ferns as indeed of any forms of
growth vegetable or horticultural as the dome
of St. Paul's.  Unless she imagined that the
ferns might be discoverable in a microscopic
crack in the wall it is difficult to understand why
she replied, "I should like to see them," and
walked innocently towards the screened corner.
Then suddenly the Duke's arms were about her
and his lips laid on hers.

She freed herself gently and raised her
shining eyes to his.

"I didn't know you were going to do that,"
she said, but she made no inquiries about the
Japanese ferns.



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   \XI

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The room was crowded, there was a hum of
talk, a scraping of chairs, a high nervous laugh
or so, and in some adjoining room the clatter
of coffee cups.  The Rev. Arthur had arranged
the hall on a new plan, he said, and everybody
agreed that it was an excellent plan.  At one
end of the room was a draped platform; on
the floor, in place of the phalanx of benches,
were scattered little tables with seats for four.
It was a unique arrangement, some went so
far as to defy the grammarian and say it
was "most unique," but as a matter of fact
neither the enthusiast nor the vulgarian were
correct, for the Rev. Arthur—a most excellent
Christian, overflowing with worldly wisdom—had
modelled his arrangements after those
obtaining at the wicked *Cafe Chantant*.  Tea and
coffee were to be served between the items,
and a pleasurable evening seemed assured.

Without in any way desiring to anticipate
the events of the night, I will go so far
as to say, that the soirée might have been
an unqualified success had "No 4" on the
programme been "No. 15"—which would
have been the last.  "No. 4," by the new
arrangement, was:

::

   Dramatic Monologue:
                     Mr. Roderick Nape
   "The Murder at Fairleigh Grange" (Anon.).


When the Duke and Hank arrived every
seat had been taken, and the heated organizers
of the entertainment were pressing into
service the schoolroom forms.

Somebody had reserved two seats at one
of the tables.  Sir Harry Tanneur and his
amiable son had taken for granted that the seats
had been reserved for them.  Alicia tactfully
pointed out that Sir Harry's proper place was
at the vicar's table, since he had borne no small
part of the cost of the postponed concert.
Sir Harry and his son agreed, the latter
grudgingly.  When, a few minutes later, the Duke
person and his friend arrived and calmly
appropriated the reserved seats Hal started
to his feet with an exclamation of annoyance;
when Alicia welcomed them with a sweet
smile he collapsed into his chair; and when, in
shaking hands, the Duke held the girl's in his
for an unjustifiable space of time, Mr. Hal
Tanneur said something to himself which was
quite out of harmony with the tone of the
proceedings.

"Did you see that, governor?" he said
beneath his breath, "did you see that wretched
bounder—by Jove, I've half a mind to go
over and break the fellow's head."

Sir Harry had seen "the bounder;" he
had breathed a sigh of relief on seeing him.
The Duke was the first man he had looked
for when he entered the hall.  Sir Harry's
anxiety was mainly a matter of dates.  For
instance to-day was the 20th.  Twenty plus
eight=28.  And the *Ironic* did not call at
Queenstown.  Sir Harry was happy in the
thought that on this auspicious day the
"Redhelm Line" and the "Nord Deutscher
Line," had begun their famous record-breaking
race across the Atlantic.  The *Ironic*
had the advantage of twelve hours' start.  She
left Liverpool at four o'clock that afternoon
(she does not call at Queenstown, repeated Sir
Harry mentally), the *Kron Prinz Olaf*, was
due to leave Hamburg at 7 p.m. but she had
distance to make up.

With these reflections to occupy his mind he
paid little heed to his son's expressions of
indignation.  Instead he asked abruptly—"You
have that cutting, Hal?"

"Which cutting?" demanded Hal aggressively.

"The order of the court—you can call upon
our friend to-morrow and show it to him," he
chuckled.

Strangely enough, the subject of the Atlantic
race was under discussion at another table.
It came à propos of the postponed concert.

"It would have been jolly inconvenient if
this concert had occurred next week," said
the Duke.

"Why?" she looked at him over her tiny fan.

"Because next week—next Wednesday as
ever is, I must leave you," he said tragically.

She made no disguise of her disappointment.

"Bear up," he encouraged her, "I shall
be away a fortnight."

"To America?"

A shadow of alarm fell on her face.

"Thinking of Bill Slewer?" he bantered,
"Big Bad Bill?"

"Yes," she confessed.

"Oh, it isn't vendetta that takes me away,"
he said lightly, "something less romantic.
When a man's single," he said sententiously,
"he can afford to let money go hang, but when
he has a wife—did you speak?"

"No," she said, and looked at her programme.

"When a man has a wife who is pretty
certain to be extravagant—you're sure you
didn't speak?"

She shook her head.

"Well, in that case, one has to look around
one's silver mines, and floating investments
and besides——"

Something in his tone made her look up;
she saw a look half puzzled, half amused.

"Well—I've got feelings, Hank laughs at
'em, says it's all your fault."

"What kind of feeling?"

"A dread," he said slowly, "a sort of
uneasiness about my property—a sort of—I don't
know."  He ended weakly and she thought
irritably.

She looked at him steadily and silently, and
Hank found an opening.

"Suppose this concert had come along next
week, Duke—you could have still gone.
Caught the midnight from Euston."

There must have been telepathic communication
between Sir Harry and the Duke,
for he replied—

"The *Ironic* does not call at Queenstown."

"S—sh!"

There was tremendous applause for the
vicar.  His audience smiled at him
proprietorially and approvingly.

He was very pleased, he said, to see so
many there that evening.  He was afraid
the postponement might have seriously
jeopardized the success of the soirée, but our
friend Sir Harry Tanneur (applause), whose
name he should imagine was a household
word throughout England (he ventured
daringly), had been so anxious to be present and
so munificent withal, that he had acceded
to his wishes.

As this seemed the proper place to applaud,
the audience dutifully applauded.

They were there primarily to assist an
excellent cause.  It was an open secret that
the organ debt had seriously engaged the
attention of those excellent gentlemen who
administered the church funds (hear, hear,
from the audience and "poor old organ"
from the Duke), and it has been suggested that
this entertainment should be provided with a
view to the debt's reduction.  Now as to the
splendid fare that was to be set before them
to-night, they had their friend the noble
Duc de Montvillier (cheers), a gentleman
who had always proved himself a ready and
willing helper in church matters.

The girl looked at the Duke to see how he
would take this gracious fiction.  With folded
arms and grave self-appreciation on every line
of his face he accepted the undeserved
tribute as his right.

"What a humbug you are," she murmured.

"Aren't I?" he said unabashed.

The Duc was to sing: then they had a
unique entertainment promised by an American
gentleman, who would give an exhibition
of fancy pistol shooting (loud applause from
the young men).  This Mr. Slewer was a
gentleman who had spent many years in the Wild
West of America.  And there were other
performances of song and speech that would
be found of equal fascination.  The first
item on the programme (he said, consulting
his paper, though he might have taken the
fact for granted) was a pianoforte solo by
Mrs. Coyter (applause).

Whilst "The Moonlight on the Danube"
was bathing Brockley in noisy effulgence,
Hank moved his chair closer to the Duke.

"Fancy shootin's another word for accidental
death," he said laconically, "you'll quit
before then?"

It was half a question and the Duke shook
his head.

"When Bill is doing his circus tricks I
shall be sitting right here," he said emphatically.

"You won't," said Hank.

The Duke's intentions were sound, but
Hank's predictions were inspired.

The Duke was not there when "fancy
shooting" came on, neither for the matter of
that was Bill Slewer, and it all came about
on account of Mr. Roderick Nape and his
thrilling monologue.  That young gentleman
was facing his audience with no great
assurance.  Certain disturbing events had
taken his mind from the monologue.  In
the language of the turf he was "short of a
few gallops," and he sat a prey to gloomy
forebodings, cursing his folly, that he had not
made himself word perfect and regretting with
some bitterness the lost opportunities for
rehearsal.

Too soon came the fatal announcement,
"Mr. Roderick Nape will recite a dramatic
monologue, 'The Murder at Fairleigh Grange,'"
and he stumbled up on the platform clutching
his manuscript tightly.  He began huskily
the opening lines.

"It is now many years since I became a
detective, and care has whitened my locks,
yet it seems but yesterday," etc., etc.

He slurred his lines horribly.  He somehow
missed the exact qualities of tragedy as he
unfolded his gory tale.

The audience sat quiet and behaved decorously,
but it refused to be thrilled.  Mr. Nape
recognized his failure and boggled his lines
horribly, and the Duke was genuinely sorry
for him.  He came to the part of the story
where he sees the agony advertisement.  He
was looking forward to this part, as the desert
traveller anticipates the oasis.  For here he had
excuse for a pause, and a pause might help
him to collect his scattered thoughts.  So his
utterance grew steadier as with trembling
fingers he drew from his waistcoat pocket
the little clipping.

"Come (he quavered), let me read the paper
again;" he held it up and read—yes, actually
read, although he ought to have remembered
that this cutting had no reference whatever
to the plot of his one-man melodrama.  But
Mr. Nape was beyond the point of reasoning.

"To whom it may concern," he read, then
paused.

The audience was curious and silent, and
Mr. Nape went on:—

"In the district court of Nevada."

Hank's arm gripped the Duke's.

"Take notice George Francisco Louis Duc
de Montvillier, that a writ has been issued at
the instance of Henry Sleaford of Colorado
Springs, Henry B. Sant of New York and Sir
Harry Tanneur of Montleigh, England, calling
upon you to establish your title to the Silver
Streak——"

"Stop!"

Sir Harry, his face purple, the veins of his
temples swollen, was on his feet.

"Go on, Mr. Nape, please."

It was the Duke's gentle voice.  In a dream
Mr. Nape obeyed.  In his not unnatural
agitation he skipped a few lines.  "... therefore
I call upon you, the aforesaid George Francisco
Louis Duc de Montvillier to appear before
me at 10 o'clock in the forenoon of the 28th
day of October, 1907."

"The twenty-eighth!" gasped Hank, "to-day's
the twentieth, the boat has sailed——"

He heard Tanneur's laugh, harsh and triumphant.

"The *Ironic* doesn't call at Queenstown,"
he said and laughed again.

"No, but the German boat will be passing
through the Straits of Dover in two hours'
time," said the Duke.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \XII

.. vspace:: 2

Outside in the vestibule the Duke looked
at his watch.  It was ten minutes past nine.

The girl by his side was quiet, but her eyes
never left his face.

"I'm going to do it," he said grimly.
He looked at her and of a sudden took her
face between his hands and kissed her.

"You're worth it," he said simply.

St. John's station was ten minutes walk
from the hall.

The three (for Hank led the way) reached
there in five.  The station inspector was on
the platform, a courteous man with a cheerful
eye and a short grey beard.  Hank was to
the point.

"I want you to flag the Continental,"
he said.

"That's an Americanism, isn't it," smiled
the inspector.  "You want me to put the
signal against the Continental Mail."  Hank
nodded.

"I won't say it cannot be done," said the
inspector, "but there will have to be a very
urgent reason."

"That," said the admiring Hank, "is the
kind of talk I like to hear;" and he told the
official the whole story.  The inspector nodded.
"Next platform," he said shortly and ran
for the signal box.

As they reached the platform the green
light that gave "road clear" to the
Continental swung up to red.

"Here's all the money I have," said Hank
quickly: he emptied his pockets into the
Duke's hands.  "I'll get the Dover 'phone
busy, charter a tug—you'll have to take your
chance about the boat.  She'll pull up if you
signal her.  I'll send you some money by
wireless—here she comes."

She came—the noisy Continental reluctantly
slowing down, steaming and snorting
and whistling at the indignity.

The Duke bustled in, the starting signal
fell....

"Look after the house!" shouted the
Duke from the window.  The train was on
the move, when a man came flying down the
steps.

"Stop *you*!" yelled Hank.

"Bang! bang! bang!..."

A group of porters surrounded the recumbent
figure of Mr. Bill Slewer of Four Ways,
who lay with a bullet in his leg cursing in
a strange language.

Bill's revolver had fallen on to the metals,
but Hank's slim Smith-Wesson hung in his
hand still smoking.

"You must do the 'phoning," he said to
the white-faced girl.  "I shall have to stay
and explain away William."

In the meantime the tail-lights of the
Continental had disappeared round the curve.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DUKE RETURNS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   Part III

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   THE DUKE RETURNS

.. class:: center large bold

   \I

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Harry Tanneur stood with his
back to the library fire, in a disconsolate mood.

An industrious authority on heraldry had
that morning rendered the report of a great
discovery which at any other time would
have filled the heart of the knight with joy,
namely the connexion of the house of Tanneur
with the Kings of France through Louis de
Tendour and the Auvegian Capels.

There was little consolation in the Lilies
of France, and meagre satisfaction to be
derived from the "bloody hand en fesse
on a field fretty."  Sir Harry's mind was
occupied with the contents of a letter which
had arrived by the same post as the herald's
report.  It was brief and to the point.

.. vspace:: 2

DEAR SIR,—

.. vspace:: 1

We have to inform you that the court
has upheld the Duke of Montvillier's title
to the ownership of the Silver Streak Mine,
and we are instructed that an appeal to the
Supreme Court of the United States would
in the light of recent happenings be
unadvisable.  The Duke who unexpectedly arrived
at New York on board the *Kron Prinz Olaf*,
is returning to Europe immediately.

.. vspace:: 1

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

   Awaiting your favour,
       We are, etc.

.. vspace:: 2

He read the letter again and was extremely
vexed.

In contrast to his own cloudy visage, the
face of Mr. Hal Tanneur who burst in upon
him was radiant.

"We've got it, governor," he chuckled
and waved a paper.  "Saw old Middleton——"

"What, what, what?" snapped his parent.

"64—all that desirable property," quoted
the young man.  "Old Middleton was a bit shy
of parting.  Said the Duke promised to be a
useful tenant.  I offered £800, wouldn't take
it, offered £900, wouldn't look at it, got it
for £1,050."

"Good boy," commended his father, and
grew more cheerful.  "At any rate," he said,
"we can clear this bounder out of the
neighbourhood: what about Alicia?"

Hal frowned terribly.

"I've done my best to show her what a silly
step she's taking.  Had a little talk with
her——"

"Tact—I hope you used tact.  Tact is
everything in business," warned Sir Harry.

"Rather!" said the other complacently,
"I think I know a little about handling
women.  I got her on her tenderest side.
I pointed out people would say she was
marrying for a title, showed her how these mixed
marriages never turned out well.  As I
said, 'My dear Alicia, you know nothing
absolutely about this chap except what he
tells you himself, the chances are that he's
married already.'"

"That was right," approved his father.

"I said, 'You don't even know that he's a
Duke—his name's in De Gotha, I grant you,
but how do you know he's the man?'"

"What did she say?" demanded Sir Harry.

Hal shrugged his shoulders despairingly.

"She talked—like a woman," he said,
with the air of one given to the coining of
epigrams.  "In so many words told me to mind
my own business—in fact, governor, told me
to go to the devil."

"Good heavens!" said the scandalized knight.

"Well," modified his son, "she didn't
exactly say so, but that was the impression
she gave me."

Sir Harry clicked his lips impatiently.

"This is gratitude!" he said bitterly.
"After what I've done——"  He paused
to recollect his acts of beneficence, failed to
recall any remarkable feat of generosity on
his part, coughed, frowned, and repeated
with increased bitterness—"Gratitude, bah!"  He
relapsed into gloomy silence, then reached
out his hand for the document Hal had
flourished.

"But this shall end," he said with splendid
calmness; "we will bundle out this
dam—confounded American Duke and his cowboy
friend, bag and baggage.  Smith shall serve
him with a notice—has he paid his rent?"

"No," shouted Hal gleefully, "it was due
the day he left for America and the Yankee
person has overlooked it apparently."

Sir Harry nodded.

"Hal, my boy," he said lowering his voice,
"how much money in solid cash do you
think this wretched man has cost me?"  The
importance in his father's tone impressed
the young man.

"A million?" he hazarded.

Sir Harry was annoyed, with the annoyance
of a bargain hunter whose purchase is
undervalued by an appraising friend.

"Don't be a fool!" he begged, "a million!
Do you think I could sit down and tamely
submit to the loss of a million?  No——"

Hal made another guess.

"A thousand?"

"Sixty thousand," said his father
impressively, "sixty thousand pounds or three
hundred thousand dollars!"

Hal whistled.

"Absolutely taken out of my pocket,
just as though the scoundrel had broken in
to 'Hydeholme' and stolen it!"  Sir
Harry did not think it necessary to explain
that the sum in question was the Duke's
lawful property, and that his crime had
consisted in establishing his legal claim to it.

"I need hardly say," Sir Harry went on
"that if Alicia marries this person, it will
be without my approval.  Indeed I must
seriously consider the question of altering
the terms of my will."  He said this very
gravely.

"Were you leaving her much, governor?"

Sir Harry coughed.

"It is not so much a question of actual
value as the thought behind the legacy," he
explained; "one should not measure love by
the standard of value received, but by the
sentiment which inspires the gift—I have
often regretted," he added thoughtfully,
"that the practise of bequeathing mourning
rings has gone out of fashion—they were
inexpensive but effective."

Hal yawned.

"What about this Duke feller?" he demanded.

Sir Harry pursed his lips.

"He is on his way back—arrives at
Liverpool to-morrow.  Out first business is to
clear him out of Brockley.  To make the
place too hot to hold him.  He has chosen
to match his wits against mine, to range
himself with my—er—opponents.  He shall
discover that I am not to be despised."

There was something very complacent in
Sir Harry's review of the situation that
aroused the admiration of his son.

"He'll find you're a bit of a nut to crack,
governor," he said.

Sir Harry smiled not ill-pleased with the
implied compliment.

"If you will sit down, Hal, I will outline
my plan of campaign."

Hal sat down.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \II

.. vspace:: 2

*The Lewisham and Lee Mail with which is
incorporated the Catford Advertiser*—to give
the newspaper its fullest title—is a journal
well worthy of perusal.  You may think,
you superior folk who are connected with
Fleet Street journalism, that outside of
high politics, wars and sensational divorce
cases, nothing interests the general
reader—but you are mistaken.

There is a column in the *Lewisham and
Lee Mail* sapiently headed "On Dit" and
wittily signed "I Noe" (which really is a
subtle play on the words "I know" and
as such, distinctly clever).

I give you a clipping and reproduce it as
nearly as possible in facsimile.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   ON DIT.

.. vspace:: 1

That Miss Cecilia Downs took the first prize at
St. John's Chrysanthemum Show.  We heartily
congratulate the young lady.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

That there was a scene at the Borough Council
Meeting when Councillor Hogg demanded
particulars about the paving contract.  Why wash
dirty linen in public?

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

Go to Storey's for your boots: a grand new
stock.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

That our distinguished neighbour the Duc de
Montvillier is returning from America next week.
What an acquisition he would be to the Borough
Council!!

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

When is the Council going to take up the
question of the lighting of Tabar Street?

At present the road is a positive disgrace to
civilization.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

Compare Storey's prices with elsewhere!

Boys' School Boots a speciality—never wear
out!

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

Mr. Roderick Nape read a paper before the
Broadway Literary Society on Saturday entitled
"Criminals I have Met."  It was enthusiastically
received.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

James Toms, described as a labourer, was charged
at Greenwich with stealing an overcoat, the
property of Mr. J. B. Sands, of Tressillian
Crescent—three months.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   \* \* \*

.. vspace:: 1

Dancing shoes from 2s. 11d.  Goloshes for the
wet weather from 1s. 11d.  Storey's for fair prices
and civility.

.. vspace:: 2

This is the briefest extract, the merest
glimpse of the moving pageant that fills
the suburban stage.  It leaves much to the
imagination—the elation of Mr. Nape, the
enthusiasm of his audience, the tragedy of
James Toms, described as a labourer, and his
downfall.

If the truth be told, the minor happenings
of life are of infinite interest to the people
who are responsible for the happenings.
Councillor A. Smith who makes a speech on
the new drainage system, is considerably
more interested in his brief quarter of a column
than would be Mr. A. J. Balfour under
similar circumstances.

If I have a fault to find with local journalism,
it is that it is far too reticent regarding
the personal side of its news.  For instance
"I Noe" duly reported that Sir Henry
Tanneur, "our respected prospective member,"
had acquired large freehold interests in the
neighbourhood, but he failed most ignobly
to record the fact that No. 64 Kymott
Crescent and all that messuage, had been bought
by Sir Harry in the Duke's absence, and that
Sir Harry's agent had served Hank with a
notice to quit.

Hank, occupying the garden step ladder in
the unavoidable absence of the Duke, found
a sympathetic audience in the girl next door.

"I think uncle has behaved disgracefully!"
she said shortly, "I have never heard of
anything so paltry, so intensely and disagreeably
mean, it is petty——"

Hank was very solemn and very cautious.

"It's a mighty serious business ejecting a
duke," he said.  "I sent Cole down to the
free library to get a book on the feudal
customs, and I've just read that old book
from startin' gate to judges' wire, and there's
nothin' doin' about firin' dukes—or duchesses,"
he added.

Alicia changed the subject with incoherent
rapidity.

"What will you do?" she asked hastily.

"Do?"  Hank's eyebrows rose at the
preposterous question.  "Do?  Why I guess
we'll just stay on."

"But my uncle will serve you with a writ
of ejectment," she persisted.

Hank shook his head.

"I don't know her," he confessed, "but
she must be geared up to shift the Duke.
She must be well oiled an' run on ball
bearin's, an' be triple expansion 'fore an' aft
to make him budge.  And if she misses fire
once, it's down and out for hers.  I don't know
any writ of ejectment that was ever cast,
that could lift the Duke when he was once
planted."

Hank shook his head with an air of finality.

"Our new landlord ought to be warned,"
he said.  "Some one ought to tell him.
It ain't fair—he doesn't know Dukey."

A bright thought struck him.

"I'll warn him," he said and grew cheerful
at the prospect.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \III

.. vspace:: 2

"D'ye see, Hal?"

It was in the middle of the fourth conference
between father and son, and Sir Harry had
triumphantly rounded off his plan when
Hank was announced.

The two men exchanged glances.

"Surrendered without firing a shot,"
murmured Sir Harry.  "Show the gentleman in,
William."

Hank came into the library and found two
grave gentlemen bent over a gorgeously
illuminated coat of arms.

Sir Harry looked up with a start when
Hank was ushered in, and offered him his
hand with a smile of patient weariness.

"Won't you sit down!" he said politely.
"I'm afraid our task is an unfamiliar one to
you, an American.  There is some dispute
as to whether the Tanneurs of the fourteenth
century are related through a cadet branch
of the Howards—but heraldry would bore you?"

Hank's face was impassive.

"No, *sir*," he replied calmly.  "I knew a
feller down in Montana, a fat little fellow
named Sank, that made a pile out of sheer
carefulness—he never came in under a pair an'
never bet under a straight flush—who got
*that* bug in his sombrero.  Paid a man down
in New York 5,000 dollars to worry out a
choice assortment of ancestors.  Got way
back to William the Conqueror an' might
easily have fetched up at Noah, only one
night he knocked up against little Si Morris
sittin' pat with four aces.  Si drew one an'
Sank put him with two pairs—that's where
Sanky went into liquidation."

Sir Harry bristled.

"You wish to see me about something?" he
said coldly.

Hank nodded.

"This notice to quit," he said; "what's
the idea?"

"That is a matter that I cannot discuss."  Sir
Harry had an admirable manner for this
sort of contest.  It was an adaptation of his
board-room method, "Gentlemen, if you
please we will proceed with the agenda;"
an icy interposition that had so often chilled
the inquisitive shareholder.

"Of course," Hank went on, "I don't
exactly know what the Duke will say—but I
can guess."

"What the Duke says," said Sir Harry
loftily, "will not affect my plans."

"I should imagine, though," said Hank
thoughtfully, "that he won't take much
notice of your notice."

"What!" said Sir Harry, "take no notice—good
heavens, sir, are you aware that there's
a law in this country?"

"There is a rumour to that effect," said
the American cautiously, "but I reckon that a
little thing like that won't worry him—you
see he's a Duke."

The awe in his voice impressed even Sir
Harry.

"Duke?  Duke!  Rubbish!  Bosh!  Nonsense!
Duke?" snapped Sir Harry.  "We
don't share your worship of titles, sir.  What
is a title?  A mere handle, a useless
appendage, a——"

Then he recollected.

"Of course," he qualified, "there are
titles—er—to which respect is due;
titles—er—bestowed by a grateful country upon
its—um—public men, philanthropists, et cetera;
upon citizens who have identified themselves
with—er—national movements——"

"Such as Jubilee almshouses," said the
approving Hank.

Sir Harry turned very red.

"Exactly," he agreed with some embarrassment,
"I—er—myself have had such a mark
of the sovereign's favour.  But as to the
Duke—well the Duke you know—in fact
I'm no believer in hereditary titles.  Our
family have never countenanced them, never
desired them, claimed no relation——"

"The cadet branch of the Howards,"
murmured Hank.

"That is a different matter," spluttered
Sir Harry; "we have had no ancestors of
recent years—I mean we do not—in fact—"
he blazed wrathfully, "you've got to get out
of No. 64, whether you like it or not!"  Hal
had been an interested listener.
Somewhat unwisely he now took a hand.

"The fact of it is, my friend——" he began,
Hank turned on him with extravagant dignity.

"Say," he said in an injured tone, "there's
no necessity for you to butt in: I don't mind
Sir Harry readin' the Riot Act, I do object to
him callin' out the militia."

Hal's reply was arrested by the arrival
of a servant bearing a telegram.

Without any apology to his visitor Sir
Harry opened and read it.  He read it
twice like a man in a dream, and handed it
to Hal who read it aloud.


"To TANNEUR, Hydeholme.

"Just got your notice to quit: most
interesting document: am framing it.—DE
MONTVILLIER."


"The Duke's home," commented Hank,
and his brows knit in a troubled frown.  "I
wonder whether I ordered enough sausages?"



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \IV

.. vspace:: 2

"I have asked you to come to see me, Mr. Nape,"
said the Duke, "because I feel I owe
you an apology."

The criminologist nodded stiffly.

He thought that under the circumstances
the Duke might have very well come to him,
but he was not prepared to labour the point.

"We all make mistakes," said the Duke
generously, "I for instance have been
mistaken in you."

Mr. Nape made another stern acknowledgment.

"I thought your methods were
unconventional; I mistrusted the new type of
detective; I have been trained in the old
school where the man who murders the banker
is never the burglar who robs the safe, but
the good bishop who calls for the missionary
subscription; where the villain who steals
the Crown jewels is not the impecunious
soldier of fortune, but the heir apparent."

Mr. Nape stood rigidly at attention and
waited.  It pleased him to see evidence of a
great remorse upon the tanned young face
before him, to observe deep shadows under
his eyes, and—he had not noticed them
before—a sprinkling of grey hairs at his
temple.  Mr. Nape drew his own conclusions.

"Now," said the Duke with a self-depreciating
wave of his hand, "I know that the old
method is obsolete, that from the first the
guilty party is the obvious—"

"Obvious to all who employ the process
of elimination," corrected Mr. Nape severely.

"Exactly," agreed the Duke.  "I now
know, that if you catch a man with his hand
in your pocket, you eliminate everybody
whose hands do not happen to be in your
pocket, and by this process arrive at the culprit."

Mr. Nape looked a little dubious.

"My confidence in your ability being
established," the Duke went on, "I wish you
to accept a commission from me."

Mr. Nape regarded him with cold suspicion.

"It isn't by any chance connected with
electric bells?" he asked sarcastically.

"Not at all."

"Or digging holes in a garden?"

The Duke shot a reproachful glance at him.

"As to that unfortunate incident," he
said, "you have yourself to blame.  But
for the completeness of your disguise——"

"Which you penetrated," said Roderick
gloomily.

"I confess," said the Duke, with pleasing
frankness, "that I spotted the false
whiskers—or was it a moustache?  I said to Hank,
'Who on earth can it be?' and Hank
couldn't think of anybody.  'It's a
detective,' said Hank, 'but what detective?'  We
thought of everybody till Hank—you
know what a penetrating devil he is—said
'By Jove!  It must be Jacko—I mean Nape!'"

Mr. Nape looked important.

"And the commission you wish me to
accept?" he asked.

"It will be necessary," said the Duke
slowly, "to take you into my confidence.  I
am in a deuce of a mess: I have incurred
the enmity of a great and powerful man, who
has invoked the machinery of the law and
threatened me with its instrument—in fact,"
he said in an outburst of candour, "brokers."
Mr. Nape who had visions of something a
trifle more heroic, said "Oh."

"Not only this," the Duke went on, "but
he has unscrupulously, pertinaciously and
several other words which I cannot at the
moment recall, brought to his aid the most
powerful factor of all—the Press."

The Duke picked up a long newspaper
cutting that lay at his side.

"Read that," he said.

Mr. Nape obeyed.

It was headed "The Duke in the Suburbs,"
"meaning me," said the Duke complacently,
"read on."

Mr. Nape skimmed the leading article—for
such it was—rapidly:

   
   "Titles," says Voltaire, "are of no
   value to posterity, the name of a man
   who has achieved great deeds imposes
   more respect than any or all epithets."


"He boned that out of a book of familiar
quotations," explained the Duke admiringly,
"go on."

   
   "It would seem that the English
   character, ever sturdy and self-reliant, is
   in imminent danger of deterioration...."
   
   "Title worship is unworthy of a great
   people....  Especially foolish is the
   worship when the demi-god is an
   obscure foreigner, whose chief asset is
   an overwhelming amount of self
   confidence, and an absolute disregard for
   the amenities and decencies of social
   intercourse."


"I can't quite place that last bit," said
the Duke, "it is probably employed to round
off the sentence—proceed, Mr. Nape."

   
   "With every desire to preserve intact
   the admirable relationships that exist
   *at the present moment* between ourselves
   and our Gallic neighbours, we should be
   wanting in our duty if we did not point
   out, and emphasize in the strongest
   possible terms, the necessity for a strict
   observance on the part of our foreign
   guests, of the laws of this land."


"That's rather involved," commented
the Duke, "but I gather the sense of the
stricture—pardon me."

Mr. Nape continued.

   
   "The English laws are just and equitable;
   they are the admiration and
   wonder of the world.  The late Baron Pollock
   on one famous occasion said——"


"Skip that bit," interrupted the Duke.

   
   "The laws affecting property are no less
   admirably framed.  In a noted judgment
   the late Lord Justice Coleridge laid down
   the dictum——"


"And that bit too," said the Duke; "go
on to the part that deals with the lawless
alien."

   
   "Most difficult of all," read Mr. Nape,
   "is the landlord's position when he has
   to deal with the alien, who, ignorant of
   the law, sets the law at defiance: who
   opposes his puny strength to the mighty
   machinery of legislation, and its
   accredited instruments."


Hank, a silent and interested listener,
moved uneasily in the depths of his big chair.

He removed his cigar to ask a question.

"Is she the writ of ejection or the notice
to quit?" he asked soberly.

"I gather that she's the court bailiff,"
said the Duke reverently.

   
   "We would remind the person to
   whom these admonitions are addressed,—in
   the friendliest spirit—that there is a
   power behind the law.  The majesty
   of our prestige is supported by the might
   of armed force."


"That's the militia," said the Duke, "Captain
Hal Tanneur of the North Kent Fencibles!
Hank, we're up against the army.  We're an
international problem: you heard the
reference to the friendly relations?  We're the
fly in the Entente Cordiale ointment."

"And a possible *causus belli*," murmured
Hank.

"And a *causus belli*," repeated the Duke
impressively.

There was a silence as Mr. Nape carefully
folded the cutting and placed it on the table.
A continued silence when he leant back in his
chair, with his finger-tips touching and his
eyes absently fixed on the ceiling.

"Well?" said the Duke.

Mr. Nape smiled.

The solution of the problem was simple.

"You want me to find the man who wrote
that article?" he said languidly.  "It will not
be particularly difficult.  There are certain
features about this case which are, I admit,
puzzling.  The reference to Baron Pollock
and the Lord Chief Justice show me that
the writer was a lawyer, the——"

"Oh, I know who wrote the article," said
the Duke cheerfully, and Mr. Nape was
disconcerted and annoyed.

Then an idea struck him and he brightened.

"I see," he said, "you want me to discover
the circumstances under which they were
written.  You have a secret enemy who——"

"On the contrary," said the Duke, "I
know all the circumstances and I know the
name, address, age and hobbies of the
enemy."

Mr. Nape's exasperation was justified under
the circumstances.

"May I ask," he demanded coldly, "why
I have been called in?"

"That seems fair?"  The Duke appealed
to Hank, and Hank nodded.  "It seems a
deucedly fair question."

He turned to the young man—

"Mr. Nape," he said solemnly, "we want
an editor for the *Brockley Aristocrat*."

Mr. Nape saw light.

"I of course know the paper," he said—there
was little that Mr. Nape did *not* know—"but
I have only seen it once—or twice,"
he corrected carefully.

"It doesn't exist yet," said his serene
grace, "it's a new paper that Hank and I
are going to run, and we need an editor."

"I see," said Mr. Nape, industriously
blowing his nose to hide his confusion....

"We want an editor of fearless independent
character, who will do as he's told, and ask no
questions."

"Yes, yes," approved the detective.

"A man of judgment, of keen discernment
and possessed, moreover, of a knowledge of
men and things."

Mr. Nape nodded thoughtfully.

"Some one we can depend upon to carry
out a policy without striking out on some
silly idea of his own—there's the job, will you
take it?"

"I have had some experience," began Mr. Nape,
but the Duke interrupted—

"Pardon me," he said, "but it is not
experience that's required.  An experienced
editor would not do the things we shall
expect our editor to do.  We shall expect him
to—er—rush in where the *Times* would fear
to tread."

Mr. Nape had a dim idea that the turn the
Duke gave to this requirement was not as
complimentary as it might have been.

"I have a feeling," the Duke continued,
"that in Nape we have discovered a local
Delane."

He spoke ostensibly to Hank, as though
oblivious of the new Editor's presence.
Mr. Nape rather enjoyed the experience than
otherwise.

"Or a Horace Greely," suggested the
patriotic American.

The Duke assented gravely.

"There are certain conditions of service to
be laid down," the Duke went on, "a definite
policy to be followed, a——"

"I am a conservative."  Mr. Nape paused
to observe the effect of his declaration.  In
the absence of an outburst of wild enthusiasm
Mr. Nape hedged his bet, "but" he
went on carelessly, "I am open to conviction."

The Duke nodded.

"We shall expect you to uphold the best
traditions of current journalism," he said,
"and I do not doubt but that you will
succeed.  You must be prepared to jump with
the cat—you follow me?"

"Yes," said Mr. Nape, who had not the
least idea what cat was referred to.

"You must be careful not to give offence
to the friendly nations.  I will supply you
with a revised list of them from week to
week—and deal lightly with the Borough Council.
You may have a whack at the Czar now
and again, but whatever you do, be careful
that you do not annoy the advertisers.
Keep an eye upon the Balkans, the
shipbuilding programme of Germany, and the
London County Council."

"And Sir Harry Tanneur," added Hank.

"Sir Harry Tanneur!"

Mr. Nape was surprised.

"You know him?"

The detective became instantly his mysterious self.

"He was a client of mine," he said briefly.

Having so brusquely dismissed the subject
in a manner that arrested all further
investigation he regretted the fact.  For he would
have liked to explain the reading of the
cutting at the concert, would have been
delighted to accept recognition as the Duke's
good fairy.

But the Duke did not pursue the subject.

He rose from his chair and held out his hand.

"Can you see me to-morrow?" he asked,
"I have to arrange an office and a printer."

Mr. Nape bowed.

"In the meantime," said his grace, "you
had better think out some leaders.

"I have already thought of one," said the
resourceful editor.  "It is entitled *Noblesse
Oblige*.

"A most excellent title," said the Duke
admiringly, "I'll write the article myself."

Mr. Nape went home deep in thought.

The adoring little maid of all work, who
met him at the door ventured to report.

"I've done up the laboratory, sir; them
bloodstains have come from the butcher's,
and the plumber's fixed up the microscope
all right."

Mr. Nape stared at her vacantly.

"Remove the rubbish," he said shortly.

Emma gasped.

"Beg pardon, sir?" she stammered.

"The rubbish!" cried Roderick impatiently
stamping his foot, "microscope and
bloodstains and human hair—take them
away."

A thought struck him.

"Run down to the stationers and get that
book *How to Correct Printers' Proofs*—it's
sixpence."

The dazed girl accepted the coin.

"Shall I bring it to your laboratory?"
she asked feebly.

Roderick turned a stern face upon her.

"Sanctum," he thundered, "there is no
more laboratory, *sanctum sanctorum*—did
they teach you Latin at school, Emma?"

"No, sir," she confessed, "that's the thing
you do with compasses, ain't it?"

Mr. Nape shrugged his shoulders and
walked slowly to the greenhouse.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \V

.. vspace:: 2

As an unprejudiced observer of the fight
that was destined to shake Brockley to its
very depths, to set the blameless citizens at
each other's throats, to divide families, and
in one case (when the engagement of a certain
A.M. and B.Y. was broken off in consequence)
to alter the very destinies of the human
race—an unprejudiced observer, I repeat, of
Sir Harry Tanneur's attempt to purge
Brockley of the foreign yoke—I quote the
*Lewisham and Lee Mail*—I am free to confess that
the honours lay with the ducal party.

This *L. & L. Mail*—Hank invariably and
wickedly introduced aspirates into the
abbreviation—was remarkably outspoken.

There will appear nothing extraordinary in
this fact, when it is realized that Sir Harry
had, on the very day the Duke returned,
purchased the paper for a considerable sum in
order to further his candidature in the
division—and for other purposes.

For two weeks the advantage was all with
the knight.  His phillipics thundered from
his hireling press for two consecutive issues,
his content bills scarred the faces of nature.

Then came the Duke's turn.

One morning Sir Harry, passing through
the main road of Lewisham, saw a huge
announcement that covered one hoarding:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   "THE BROCKLEY ARISTOCRAT."

.. class:: center

   No. 1 ready on Saturday.  One Penny.

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

   "CHANGE FOR A TANNER,"
   BY
   THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER.

.. vspace:: 1

Sir Harry grew apoplectic.

"The ruffian!" he spluttered, "the vulgar
punning ruffian!"

In a fury he drove to Kymott Crescent.

His car stopped at 64 and he sprang out
shaking with rage.

His noisy knock brought the sedate servant.

"Where's the Duke," he demanded.

The silent servant led the way.

Sir Harry burst in upon a council of three.

The Duke, Hank and Mr. Nape sat at a
table strewn with papers, and his grace
saluted his visitor with a smile.

"Look here, sir!" bellowed Sir Harry.
"This damn foolishness has got to stop—you
clear out of my house as soon as ever
you can: by heavens, sir, I'll take you to
the courts, I'll——"

The Duke raised his hand.

"Sir Harry," he said serenely, "as one
aristocrat to another, let me beg of you to
remember the restrictions imposed by birth.  It
ill becomes men of our ancient lineage——"

"Confound you, sir!  I will not have you
pulling my leg!  I'm dead serious——  There's
a law in this land——"

"There is a law also in America," said the
Duke calmly, "I believe there is even a law
in China.  It is one of the disadvantages of
the century that no spot on earth is left
where there is no law."

"You won't put me off with your blarney,"
blazed the knight.  "I know you, I've met
men like you before."

"Don't boast," begged the Duke.

"I'll clear you out neck and crop——"

"Neck perhaps," corrected the Duke, "but
crop no; not being a fowl of the air, and
being to a great extent anatomically ordinary,
your illustration lacks point."

"As to Alicia," said the knight with
deadly earnestness.  "I absolutely forbid her
to have anything further to do with you."

The Duke was silent.  He looked at the
elder man a little curiously, and Sir Harry,
interpreting the silence in quite the wrong
way, pursued his mistaken advantage.  "You
must understand that she is in a sense my
ward——"

"Mr. Nape!"

The Duke addressed his editor.

"Would you be kind enough to see me
later in the day—what I have to say to Sir
Harry is no fit thing for a young editor to hear."

He said this gravely, and Mr. Nape made
a reluctant exit.

"Now that that child has gone," said the
Duke, "will you permit me to say a few
words?  I am," he confessed, "rather fond
of hearing myself speak.  Sir Harry, I would
rather you left your niece out of the conversation."

"You would rather!" jeered the master of
Hydeholme.

"I would rather," said the Duke politely,
"if you have no objection.  You see, Sir
Harry, I know all about your relationship
with the father of my fiancée.  I know how
you lured him and his money into your rotten
financial quicksands, how you left him to ruin."

"That's a lie, a horrible lie," gasped Sir
Harry, pale with rage.

In justice to him it may be said in passing,
that he really thought that it was.  The
Duke diplomatically passed the comment.

"Coming nearer home," he went on, "I
know that you conspired with certain individuals
to rob a most worthy young nobleman—to
wit myself—of his mineral wealth."

"That's another lie: by Gad, sir? if you
dare print this——!"

"I *did* think," said the Duke carefully,
"I must confess that I *did* think of using the
material for a humorous poem, but if you
*would* rather I didn't——"

Sir Harry Tanneur made an admirable
effort to recover his temper and his lost
dignity.

"If you cannot behave like a gentleman,"
he said, "it is useless for me to prolong this
interview.  To-day," he turned at the
doorway, "to-day I shall take action."

"From my knowledge of you," retorted
the Duke, "I should imagine that you would
take anything that happened to be lying
about."

Sir Harry was attended to the door by the
sedate servant.

"A nice household!" he said meaningly.

The sedate servant bowed.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \VI

.. vspace:: 2

"How to describe the meeting between
Alicia and the Duke!" the painstaking
author would think.  Should she rise
with heightened colour, her fingers
convulsively clutching that portion of the
anatomy under which, as it is popularly
believed, a fluttering heart thrills at the
familiar footstep?  Should she run to him
hysterically, falling upon his neck and sobbing
for very joy?  It is a style which has
exponents amongst the very best authors.

Happy am I, that I am not called upon to
invent so difficult a scene.  It is the glorious
privilege of the reporter that he need not
invent.  Unless he draws a very high salary
indeed, to record events, not as they
happened, but as they ought to have happened.

In truth she rose with a heightened colour
when the Duke was announced, but she offered
him her hand conventionally, and—when the
door had closed behind the reluctant servant—he
took her in his arms and kissed her again
and again.

I do not know how many times because I
was not present, but I should say quite six
times.

(Six of course is merely an estimate
covering their first greeting.)

"So you're back?" she smiled.

He held her hands in his.

(It would be absurd and presumptuous
in me to pretend to give anything that
professed to be an exact account of this meeting.
I repeat that I was not present.)

"I was so horribly afraid," she said
earnestly, "I thought when that dreadful man
disappeared that possibly he might have
followed you, and...."

Let us, as the mid-Victorian novelists said,
when they found their powers of description
failed, draw a veil over that happy meeting,
far too sacred ... and too difficult...



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \VII

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Harry called a Council of War.

His Man of Affairs—Smith by name—attended,
as also did the Editor of the *Lewisham and Lee Mail*.

Mr. R. B. Rake (Member of the Institute
of Journalists, as his visiting card testified)
was and is, one of the most remarkable
personages in Catford.

A literateur of no indifferent quality, an
authority on postage stamps (I find on
referring to Webster's *Dictionary* that such an
expert is called a philatelist), a vegetarian and
a gentleman with pronounced views.  Mr. R. B. Rake
can be described in one word—tremendous.

He had a tremendous voice and a tremendous
style, and he quoted the ancient classics
inaccurately.  He had some Greek, thus he
referred to Sir Harry, as of the [Greek: demioergoi],
and the Duke as a [Greek: métoikoi].  I have my
doubts as to the latter description, and I
more than suspect that Mr. Rake, in referring
to his grace, thus misapplied the phrase of
"privileged alien."

Mr. Smith, whose duty it was to supervise
Sir Harry's "rents," was a deferential little
man, with a garbled knowledge of the law
relating to property.

"Now, gentlemen," said Sir Harry briskly,
"we've got to do something about this Duke man."

"Quite so," said Rake, "it is perhaps
unparalleled in the constitutional history——"

"One moment, Rake," interrupted the
knight testily, "let me talk.  I want to
make it very clear to you why it is absolutely
necessary for the Duke to be cleared out—did
you speak, Smith?"

Mr. Smith did speak: he had an important
statement to make and saw his opportunity.
Unfortunately his introduction was not
happily framed.  "I said the lore—if a man
acts cont'ry to the lore he's done himself,"
said Mr. Smith solemnly, "you can't take
liberties with the lore, duke or no duke.
If you catch hold of the lore by the collar
it'll turn round and bite you.  Now it happens——"

"Be good enough to withhold your comments
until I have completed my remarks,"
said Sir Harry with asperity, "I know all
that it is necessary to know concerning the
legal situation: I did not," he added pointedly,
"ask you to meet me to discuss an aspect of
the situation upon which I have been already
advised—by competent authorities."

"Now that is very true," commented Mr. R. B. Rake
in a tone of wondering surprise, as
though Sir Harry's remark had come in the
light of a revelation.

"I know," said Sir Harry, "that I cannot
eject this person without complicated legal
proceedings, and I had thought that by the
aid of our good friend Rake we might have
shamed him out of the district—but he is
meeting us on our own grounds.  He is starting
a newspaper."

"I give it a month," said Mr. Rake with
conviction, "I've seen these mushroom growths:
there was the *Blackheath Eagle*—run by a
man named Titty—lasted two issues; there
was the *Brockley Buzzard*—lasted one;
*Catford and Eltham Indicator*—never came out
at all!"

He smiled a tired smile.

"You may be sure that this new paper
will last just as long as the Duke desires it
to last," said Sir Harry, "but that is beside
the question; you know the exact position;
you are men of affairs acquainted with the
complexities of suburban life, I desire to rid
Brockley of this person.  How am I to do it?"

Mr. R. B. Rake pinched his thick lips
thoughtfully.

"I think a leader on Democratic ideals,
bringing in the Duke as an oppressor of the
people—"

"You can't do that," said Sir Harry
brusquely, "he subscribes to the football
club."

"How about an imaginary interview.  'A
talk with the D—— de Mont——r?" suggested
Rake.

"Or a little parody on Julius Caesar,
satirically reminding the people of their
ingratitude: like this:

   |  "You hard hearts, you cruel men of Lee,
   |  Knew ye not Tanneur!  Many a time and oft
   |  Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
   |  To towers and windows, yea, to chimney pots
   |  To see great Tanneur pass——"
   |

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Sir Harry
wrathfully.  "Nobody has ever climbed up
a chimney to see me; nobody knows me in
Lewisham."

Mr. Rake protested.

"Nobody knows me I tell you: I've
addressed meetings there on Free Trade and
all that sort of thing, but I haven't a single
acquaintance, except my wretched sister-in-law
and her annoying daughter—and what the
dooce does Shakespeare say about Tanneur?"

"A pardonable interposition," murmured
Mr. Rake noisily.  "It is 'Pompey' in the
text—you see how admirably it fits the Duke:

   |  "And do you now strew flowers In his (the Duke's) way?
   |  Who comes in triumph over Pompey's (that's you) blood?"
   |

"I—will—not—be—referred—to—as—Pompey,"
said Sir Harry deliberately and
slowly, and thumped the table at each word,
"I am not going to give that brute a
nickname to hang round my neck."

"And look here, Rake," broke in Hal
impatiently, "what the devil's the good of you
thinking that any muck you write is likely
to shift this Duke fellow.  I'll bet if it comes
to writing he could write your head off.  An'
there's nothing funny about the Duke fellow
coming in triumph over the governor's blood.
Its a beastly tactless thing to say."

Mr. Rake looked at him unfavourably.

"Mr. Hal," he said, in his best editorial
manner, "you must allow a journalist and a
gentleman——"

"Journalist my grandmother," said Hal,
without reverence, "this is a council of
war—don't let us raise any debatable question.
We've got to think out a way of making this
Duke pack up his traps.  It doesn't matter
what sort of way, so long as it's an effective
way.  The governor doesn't want him there,
and I don't want him—he's taken a low down
advantage of me an' probably messed up
my whole life——"  He tangented abruptly (the
accent on the penultimate.)

"Now whilst you two chaps have been
arguing," Hal went on, "I've thought out a
dozen schemes.  We might cut off his
water——"

"The lore," said Mr. Smith becoming
cheerful as the discussion took a turn into
his province, "the lore doesn't allow anybody
but the water-rates to turn——"

"Or the gas," said Hal, silencing the
law-abiding Smith with a gesture; "we could cut
the gas off—we can't get him on the rent
question because——"

Mr. Smith's great opportunity came.

"The rent question does him," he said
wisely cutting out all preamble, "because
he ain't paid his rent, an' won't pay his rent,
and what's more, he'll see you (accordin' to
the American gent who lives with him) to
the—I forget the name of the place—before
he pays you."

Sir Harry was dumb with astonishment.

"Here's the letter," said Mr. Smith
tremulous with importance, "from the Duke
himself."

He read—

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR SIR,—

.. vspace:: 1

"On my return from America I found
a notice to quit served on behalf of your
employer.  My lease being well defined, I
regard the service of such a notice as
constituting a breach of contract, and must
respectfully decline to pay any further rental
for the premises I now occupy, until my
position in regard to this property is determined.

.. vspace:: 1

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

   "Yours truly,
       "DE MONTVILLIER."

.. vspace:: 2

"Outrageous!" blazed the knight.

"Monstrous!" echoed the faithful Rake.

"What a rotten piece of cheek!" said Hal.

Mr. Smith wagged a fat forefinger.

"The lore is," he said, "that the question
of lease is between Sir Harry and the tenant.
No tenant's got a right to take the lore into his
own hands.  If there's a breach of contract
the tenant may take action through the
lore: if he won't pay his rent——"

"Smith," said Sir Harry impressively.
"We will humiliate this fellow; we will show
these foolish people of Brockley, who have no
conception of true nobility, how this trickster
may be treated."

"Governor," said Hal suddenly and
excitedly, "why not show 'em the genuine
article."

"Eh?"

"What about Tuppy?  He's under an
obligation to you?  Why not bring him
here.  You've got an empty house—62, by
jove!  Next to the Duke's; the tenants
left yesterday...."

"An excellent idea—a most worthy idea,"
said Sir Harry.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \VIII

.. vspace:: 2

It is no extravagance to state that
everybody knows Tuppy.  The station inspector
at Vine Street knows him; Isaac
Monstein (trading as Grahame & Ferguson,
Financiers) knows him, tradesmen of every
degree know him, and there is not a debt
collecting agency from Stubbs to the
Tradesmen's Protection Association that is
unacquainted with his name and style.

The doorkeeper at the House of Lords
knows him, and nods a greeting in which
reproof and deference are strangely
intermingled.

For Tuppy is George Calander Tupping,
Ninth Baron Tupping of Clarilaw in the
county of Wigsmouth.

He is a youngish man with fair hair and
light blue eyes.  He typifies in his person
the influence of hereditary vices, for he wears
a monocle as his father did before him.  His
attitude towards life is one of perpetual
surprise.  It earned for him at Eton, a
nickname, which he carried to Oxford.  He was
"The Startled Fawn" to all and sundry,
but it was a little too cumbersome to stick,
and it is as "Tuppy" that he is best
known....

The story of Tuppy is a volume in itself.
He began life in the illustrated newspapers,
as "Young Heir to a Peerage: Baby Honourable
in his Perambulator."  He progressed
steadily to fame by way of Sandown Park and
Carey Street.

At twenty-one he filed his petition; at
twenty-two he was editing a weekly newspaper;
at twenty-four he appeared in "The Whirling
Globe of Time," a comedy in four acts written
by himself and (after the first night) acted
by himself; at twenty-five he went to
America in search of a wealthy bride.

One can only speculate upon the possible
results of his guest, for on the voyage over,
he fell madly in love with Miss Cora Delean,
that famous strong woman and weight lifter.

He married her in New York.

Three days after the marriage the lady
threw him over.  This is literally the truth,
and I have too great a respect for Tuppy to
endeavour to make capital out of his
misfortune.  She threw him over the balustrade
of the hotel in which they were staying, and
poor Tuppy was taken to hospital.

In justice to the lady it may be said that
she called at the hospital regularly every day
and left violets for the sufferer.  She penned
a tearful apology in which she begged Tuppy's
forgiveness, appealing to him as a man of the
world to realize that a person in drink is not
responsible for her actions.  Providentially,
about this time, the lady's first husband
initiated proceedings for divorce on the
grounds of incompatability of temperament,
and Tuppy, reading the account with his one
unbandaged eye, was fervently grateful that
the case had not been heard before his marriage.

He returned to England a pronounced
misogynist with a slight limp.

Of his other ventures the Sea Gold
Extraction Syndicate is the most notorious; his
attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo;
his adventures as correspondent in the Balkans,
these events are too recent to need particularizing.

Summing up his life, one might say that
he had indeed a great future behind him.

As Tuppy himself would say, with a
suspicion of tears in his eyes—

"My dear old bird!  I never had a chance.
I was saddled with rank an' bridled by
circumstance.  I'm a rumbustious error of
judgment, a livin' mark of interrogation against
the Wisdom of Providence!"

Let no man think that Tuppy was a fool;
he was a poet.  His play was in blank verse.
Nor accuse him of improvidence: he was a
philosopher who scorned the conventional
obligations of life.  He never paid his bills
because he never had the money to pay.
If he had possessed the means, he would have
discharged his liabilities, for he was an honest
man.  It has been argued that in his
circumstances it was wholly wrong to contract such
liabilities, but Tuppy had an answer to such
a twiddling splitting of hairs.

"Dear old feller," he was wont to say,
"you talk like a foolish one.  Must I forgo
my last shreds of faith in human nature and
the mysterious workin's of providence?
Must I, because of temp'ray misfortune, refuse
to recognize the illimitable possibilities of
the future?  I have three cousins each with
pots of money, and one at least coopered up
with asthma—it runs in the family—who
might pop off at any minute."

Thus Tuppy justified his optimism.

If Tuppy had a failing it was his antipathy
to his father's second wife.  To the dowager
he ascribed all his misfortunes, in every piece
of bad luck he saw the dowager's hand.

She, poor soul, was a mild colourless lady
with a weakness for bridge, who spent her
life in a vain attempt to restrict her
requirements to the circumscribed limits of a small
annuity payable quarterly.

Tuppy rented a flat in Charles Street, W.
He was at breakfast when Hal's letter arrived,
and the young man's interesting communication
might well have gone unread, for Tuppy's
man was handling the morning post.

"Bill from Roderer's, m'lord."

"Chuck it in the fire."

"Letter from the lawyers about Colgate's account."

"Chuck it in the fire."

"Letter E.C.—no name on the back."

"Let me look at that, Bolt—um—typewritten—posted
at 6.30 p.m.  That's the
time all bills are posted; chuck it in the fire."

"Better open it, m'lord—might be a
director's fee."

Tuppy shook his head sadly.

"Not likely—still open it."

So Hal's proposal came before his lordship.

"Dear Tuppy," read the man.

"Who the devil 'Tuppies' me on a
typewriter?" demanded the peer.

The servant turned to the signature.

"Hal Tailor," he read.

"Tanneur," corrected Tuppy, "he's the
sort of cove who *would* Tuppy me on a
typewriter—go on."

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR TUPPY,—

.. vspace:: 1

"I've got a great scheme for you.  The
governor will let you have a house rent
free—"

.. vspace:: 2

"I'll bet there's something wrong with
the house," said Tuppy uncharitably.

"—if you don't mind living in Suburbia."

Tuppy sat bolt upright.

"Where," he asked.

"In Suburbia," repeated Bolt.

Tuppy rose and pushed back his chair.

"Bolt," he said solemnly, "it's a shade of
odds on this being a scheme of dowager's
to get me out of the country.  Bolt—I'll not
go.  I'll see this Tanner man to the devil
before I expatriate myself!"

"Beg pardon m'lord——"

But Tuppy stopped him with an
uncompromising hand.

"It's no bet, Bolt.  Here we are and here
we'll stay.  Blessed gracious!" he swore
fiercely.  "I would sooner pay my rent *here*!"

"I was going to say, m'lord," said the
patient Bolt, "that he means the suburbs.
Brixton an' Clapham an' Tootin' Bec an'
that sort of thing."

Tuppy looked at him suspiciously.

"Where is Tooting Bec and that sort of
thing?" he demanded.

"Near Wandsworth Prison," began Bolt.

"What!  Then I won't go—I *won't* go, Bolt."  Tuppy
was considerably agitated.  "It's a rotten
idea; a house rent free, d'ye see, Bolt?  it's
this demmed Tanneur person's gentle hint
... a paltry matter of three hundred
pounds"—he paced the room furiously—"that's
the scheme—the dowager is behind all
this—oh woman, woman!"

He apostrophized the ceiling.

"Better finish the letter, m'lord."

"Chuck it in the fire, Bolt; chuck it in!"

Bolt quickly skimmed the letter and
mastered its contents.

"It's in Brockley, m'lord," he said quickly.

"Chuck it in the fire—where's Brockley."

"On the main road to Folkestone," said
the diplomatic Bolt.

"Main road to Folkestone is half-way to
the Continent," said Tuppy explosively,
"chuck it in the fire!"

"He said he'll allow you £500 for upkeep,
m'lord."

"Eh."

Tuppy stopped in his stride.

"Five hundred," he hesitated, "that's a
lot of money—there'll be some shootin'."

"Certain to be, m'lord."

"An' people?"

"Yes, m'lord."

Tuppy shook his head doubtingly.

"I've never heard of anybody livin' at
Brockley—I knew a chap who lived at
Harrogate, poor chap with one lung."

Tuppy thought.

"Five hundred *and* shooting—any fishin'?"

"The river's close by, m'lord—there's
Greenwich——"  Tuppy brightened up.

"Greenwich! of course, whitebait.  Must
be devilish amusin' fishin' for whitebait:
you eat 'em with brown bread, you know, like
oysters——"

He wrote to Hal that day, tentatively
accepting the offer.  Hal made an appointment
for his lordly tenant, and fumed for
three hours in his city office until Tuppy
turned up.

"I say!" said the aggrieved Hal ostentatiously
displaying his watch; "I say, Tuppy,
old man, dash it!  You said eleven and it's
two!  Hang it all!"

"Don't be peevish," begged the peer,
"if I'd said two it would have been five."

"Time is money," complained Hal.

"Wise old bird," said Tuppy earnestly,
"your interestin' and perfectly original
apothegm merely elucidates my position.  It's the
habit of years to overdraw my account."

Hal who had no soul for subtle reasoning,
plunged into the object of the meeting.

"The fact is, Tuppy," he said, leaning back
in his padded chair, and cocking one leg on
to the desk before him, "the fact is," he
repeated, "there's a man, a Duke man, that
the governor's anxious to run out of Brockley."

"Dear, dear!" commented Tuppy with
polite interest.

"He's not one of our dukes: he's a French
Duke from America, and he's been acting
the goat and getting upsides with the governor
and blithering generally—do you understand."

"Very pithily put," murmured Tuppy,
"the whole situation is revealed in one
illuminatin' flash."

"Very good," said Hal complacently.  "Well,
being in the suburbs—the Duke—and the
suburbs being——"

"In the suburbs," suggested the helpful
Tuppy as Hal paused for an illustration.

"Exactly .... It stands to reason that a
lot of these bounders have gone in for a sort
of hero-worship.  See?"  Tuppy nodded slowly.

"The fact being," explained Hal, "that
these suburban people are such absolute
rotters and—and——"

"Pifflers?" suggested Tuppy.

"And pifflers and outsiders—that was the
word I wanted—that they really don't know
the genuine article from the spurious."

"Very natural," Tuppy agreed.

"So the governor and I (it was really my
idea but you know what sort of chap the
governor is for adopting other people's ideas
as his own), we thought a good idea would
be, to plant one of the genuine article right
in their midst, so that they could see for
themselves the sort of Johnny the other
chap was."

"I see," said Tuppy thoughtfully, "sort
of look on this picture-an'-look-on-that,
compare the genuine goods before patronizin'
rival establishments?"

"Tuppy," said Hal with solemn
admiration, "you've got the whole thing in a nut-shell."

Tuppy picked up his hat and examined it
intently.

"No bet," he said.

"Eh?"

Hal could hardly believe his ears.

"No bet," said Tuppy with decision,
"awfully obliged to you for the offer and
all that; but no bet."

"Why not—you get a house rent free; the
governor furnishes it from Baring's, you get
five hundred——"

"The five hundred is badly wanted,"
admitted Tuppy sadly, "an' if anything
would tempt me, it would be five hundred
of the brightest and best, but, Tanny, old
chick, it can't be done."

"But why not?" protested Hal.

Tuppy was still examining his hat.

"Dignity, old friend," said Tuppy categorically.
"House of Lords, family traditions,
pride of birth, ancient lineage—the whole damn
thing's wrong.  Besides, it would get into the
papers, 'Noble Lord caretaker in the
suburbs: Tuppy's latest!' ugh!"

He shuddered.

"An' again," he went on.  "Where is
Brockley, what is Brockley, who has ever
lived in Brockley: what part has Brockley
played in the stirrin' story of our national
life?  Is there a Lord Brockley, or a Bishop
of Brockley or a Lord of the Manor.  Yes,
there is a 'Lord of the Manor,'" he amended
bitterly.  "It's the name of a public-house.
It's no go, dear old boy, it can't be done.
I've looked it up, found it on a map, an' read
about it in the *A.B.C. Time Table*.  It's all
back-gardens an' workman's trains, an'
stipendiary magistrates, an' within walkin'
distance of the County Court."

He shook his head so vigorously that his
eyeglass fell out.

He replaced it carefully and pulled on his
gloves.

"Now look here, Tuppy," said Hal impatiently,
"for heaven's sake, don't be a
raving ass!"

"Neatly put," commended Tuppy.

"You get this house free; you get the
money—cash down; you get what you
haven't got now—unlimited credit."

"Pardon, pardon," corrected Tuppy carefully,
"my credit is exceptionally good, if the
tradesmen only knew it; it's the rotten
conservatism of English business methods that
is paralysin' my budget, an' the socialistic
tendencies of the tradin' classes that is
interferin' with my economic adjustments.  Tanny,
old sparrow, it's no go."

He shook his head.

"No shootin' except cats; no fishin'
except with worms—I particularly loath
worms and spiders—no society."

"There is the Duke."

Tuppy had forgotten the Duke, and Hal's
sarcasm was effective.  "Duke?"  Tuppy
frowned.  "The Duke—of course."

"Now what on earth is the Duke doin'
there?" he burst forth in a tone of extreme
annoyance, "an' what duke is it?"

"I've told you a dozen times," said the
exasperated Hal, "he's an obscure foreign
duke—"

"Name?"

"De Montvillier—quite an unknown——"

"Steady the Buffs," warned Tuppy, "de
Montvillier?  Best house in France.  Tanny,
my impulsive soul, the Montvilliers are devils
of chaps.  Obscure!  Phew."

He looked at Hal reproachfully.

Then he shook his head for the fourteenth
time.

"Five hundred pounds an' a back garden,"
he considered, "an' the Duke.  He's pretty
sure to play *picquet*.  By the blessed shades
of the original Smith, I've a good mind——"

He pondered sucking his index finger.

"I dare say we'd get on well together——"

"Look here, Tuppy!"

Hal was pardonably indignant.

"You don't think we want you to go down
to Brockley to keep the Duke amused, do
you?  We want you to cut him out, make
him look like a tallow candle by the side
of a searchlight.

"Oh, I'll cut him out all right," said Tuppy
with confidence, "there are few chaps who
can beat me at piquet."

Hal protesting, Tuppy serenely indifferent
to the requirement of the other contracting
parties, but obligingly agreeing with all their
conditions, it was arranged that from
September 16 No. 62. should be for the
nonce the London house of Baron Tupping
of Clarilaw in the county of Wigsmouth.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \IX

.. vspace:: 2

It would seem that up to this moment the
feud that existed between the ducal establishment
and the knight bachelors entourage
was of a private character.  That Brockley
pursued an even and a passionless way
unconscious of the titanic storm that was brewing
in its midst.  Outwardly there was no sign
of the struggle.  The milkmen came at dawn,
the grocer called for orders, and the laundrymen
brought home other people's collars, and
shirts that looked like other people's shirts, but
which proved on close examination to be the
shirts that were sent, but slightly deckled
about the edges.  Brockley may have been
mildly interested in the announcement that
a new paper was to make its appearance, at
least so much of Brockley as read the
announcement.

Not to make any mystery of Brockley's attitude,
I must say that Brockley really wasn't
particularly interested in Itself.  For one thing,
It only slept at Brockley and spent week-ends
there.  The greater part of Its life was spent
in the City and upon the admirable rolling
stock of the South Eastern Railway.  Except
when It went down to the Broadway to
change the library books, It seldom saw
Itself.

In a word It had no *esprit de corps*, no local
patriotism.  It was neither proud of Itself, nor
ashamed of Itself.  Its politics were very high
indeed: Imperialism was freely discussed
at the local debating societies; there was
a golf club and a constitutional club, and
(very properly in Deptford) a Liberal club.

It had a church parade on the Hilly Fields,
which ranked high as a fashionable function,
for Sunday found a strolling procession of top
hats, and dainty creations.  And there were
immaculate young men in creased trousers
and purple socks; and hatless young men
belonging to the no-hat brigade who strolled
about in trios blissfully unconscious of the
notice they attracted.  Yes.

A careful, and I hope an impartial observer,
I noted no extraordinary disposition on the
part of Brockley either to participate in, or
comment upon the Duke's quarrel until after
the *Aristocrat* had made its first appearance.

A summary of the contents of that remarkable
new-comer to the ranks of journalism
might be instructive.  I produce haphazard
from the table of contents on page 4.

\1.  News of the Day.

\2.  Leading Article: "Change for a Tanner."

\3.  Dukes I have met: by Roderick B. Nape.

\4.  "Driven from Home" (a short story).

\5.  Landlordism and crime.

There were other articles, bearing
unmistakable evidence of their authorship.
Mr. Nape's translation from the sinister realms
of crime to the more healthy atmosphere of
journalism had not entirely divorced him
from his first love.  It changed his aspect
certainly.  From being a participant he
became a spectator.  Thus, "Cigarette Ash
as a Clue," an article displaying considerable
powers of observation and deduction, rivalled
in style and interest the famous monograph
on "Cigar Ash," by another criminal scientist.
"Bloodhounds I have trained," by a famous
detective, although published anonymously,
may, in all probability, be traced to the same
source.

"Jacko is riotin' across these fair pages,"
commented Hank, with the first number of
the *Aristocrat* in his hands, "like a colony
of Phylloxera across a vineyard."

The Duke nodded.

"We've got to have something to fill the
space," said the Duke philosophically, "if
we can't get advertisements."

Hank blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling
and pondered.

"I anticipate trouble," he said.

"From the stainless knight?"

"From the stainless knight," said Hank.
"Say, Duke, these effete European
institutions do surely impress me."

He paused.

"Here's a duke," mused Hank, "a real
duke.  Not a hand-me-down duke with
a saggin' collar, not a made-to-measure-in-ten-minutes
duke, but a proper bespoke
duke, cut from patterns.  Here's a
knight with golden spurs, rather stout but
otherwise knightly, especially about the coat
of arms: here's a lord—Baron This and
That of This-Shire, walked straight from his
baronial castle in Regent Street to harry
the marshes of Brockley——"

The Duke sat up.

"Now," he said with deliberate politeness,
"now that you have thoroughly mystified
the audience, are you offering a prize for the
solution or are you holding it over till the
next number?  The Duke with his admirable
qualities, I instantly recognize; the
knight is apparent, in spite of his spurs.  Who
is the baron?  Is he allegorical or illustrative
or a figure of speech?"

"He's 62," said Hank.

The Duke's face bore a look of patient
resignation.

"There *must* be a prize offered," he reflected
aloud.

"In fact," elucidated Hank, "62's a real
baron—a lord—His Nibs."

"The deuce he is!" the Duke was alert.
"Quit fooling, Hank.  Our new neighbour——"

"Is Baron Tupping of Tupping," said Hank
solemnly, "a perfect English gentleman—I
heard him cussin' in the back garden."

"Tuppy!"

The Duke whooped his delight.

He grabbed Hank's arm and the pair raced
through the conservatory into the garden.

Somebody next door was annoyed, and his
voice rose plaintively.

"Bring the Sacred Ladder," ordered the Duke.

In the middle of the garden stood Tuppy,
monocle in eye, hat tilted to the back of his
head, and a cigarette drooping feebly, his face
expressive of despair.

The Duke hailed him.

"Tuppy, you beggar."

Tuppy looked up; his face lit joyfully.

"Monty, by the High Heavens!" he
exclaimed.  Then he smacked his forehead,
"Monty—Montvillier—you ain't my Duke
are you?"

"I'm your Duke—your liege Duke of life
and limb and earthly regard——"

"Half a mo," said the vulgarly practical
Tuppy, "I'm comin' over."

He came over the wall, silk hat awry,
joyously dusty.

He all but fell upon the Duke's neck.

"My dear old bird," he cried ecstatically,
"of all the wonderful coincidences that ever
made a novelist's fortune, this is the
wonderfullest—this is the exalted top-notcher.  If
the dowager knew, she'd go ravin' mad.  I've
a jolly good mind to write an' tell her."

Arm in arm they passed into the house.

That night:

Tuppy wrote to Tummy Clare—his one
confidant.

.. vspace:: 2

"Tummy, old friend," the letter ran,
"the unfailing mystery of solar phenomena,
the unswerving accuracy of the comet's
flight, the ordered perambulations of the whole
damn planetary system, all these pale to
insignificance beside the phenomena of human
movement.  In other words, the trick some
chaps have of turning up in unexpected
places ... Monty!  You remember the
beggar, in your house at Eton ... didn't
know he was a duke ... riotous and
profitable night ... piquet ... I rubiconed
him twice, piqued, re-piqued, capotted and
... I held fourteen aces six times in
succession ... won about ten pounds...."

.. vspace:: 2

That night:

"I think," said Sir Harry rubbing his
hands cheerfully, "that we have said, 'Check
to the Duke person.'"

"Tuppy's arrived?" asked Hal.

"Yes; Smith put him into the house, and
Rake is putting him into the paper.  I
rather fancy that if Tuppy plays his cards
well, he will score heavily."

As we have seen, Tuppy played his cards
very well, and indeed *did* score heavily.



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \X

.. vspace:: 2

"You will like Tuppy," said the Duke
earnestly.

To the scandal of the neighbourhood, he
insisted upon conducting his courtship in the
manner it began, and he addressed Alicia
from the top platform of the Sacred Ladder.

"Tuppy has faults," the Duke continued,
"but so have we all, or nearly all," he corrected
modestly.  "As poor old Tuppy says, life's
song is played by a pianolo.  A thousand
ancestors have helped to perforate the roll
and the tune is inevitable."

"A philosopher," said Alicia drily.

"Tuppy complains bitterly about the
unreasonableness of a world that expects
cantatas from the roll in which generations of
Tuppings have been punching comic songs.
You'll like Tuppy."

"In spite of his mission?" she smiled.

"To cut me out?"  The Duke shook his
head tolerantly.

"Poor old chap, he recognizes the hopelessness
of that.  No; Tuppy is not that kind.
I say!" he said enthusiastically.  "There's
Tuppy in his garden."

"Monty!" said a voice.

"That's him," said the Duke ungrammatically,
but with an air of proprietorship.

"Monty!" said the voice again, "give me
a leg up, dear boy—I'm comin' over for a
cocktail."

Miss Alicia Terrill raised her eyebrows.

"He means a cup of tea," said the Duke
hastily.

"I should like to meet Tuppy," said Alicia
calmly, "whilst you are giving him a
l—whilst you are rendering him the necessary
assistance I will find the ladder."

Tuppy scrambling over the wall met the
scrutiny of a pair of grey eyes, and balanced
himself with difficulty.  When I say he wore
his oldest suit, that he had pale green socks
and a pair of old slippers, and that owing
to his exertions his trouser leg was rucked up
to display his sock-suspenders, you will
realize that but for his noble breeding Tuppy
would have been embarrassed, and would
have made a precipitate and undignified retreat.

But Tuppy was above all things self-possessed.

He paused astride the wall.

"Let me introduce Lord Tupping," said
the Duke gravely.

Tuppy held on to the wall with one hand
and raised his cap with the other.

"Delighted," he said politely.

Alicia averted her eyes from the pale green
socks with the scarlet suspenders and
addressed him at a tangent.

"Mother will be glad to see Lord Tupping,"
she said to the Duke.  Somehow she did not
consider it quite maidenly to speak direct to
the suspenders.

"Mother will be glad to see you," repeated
the Duke primly.

"And I," said Tuppy gracefully, "shall
consider it an honour to wait upon your lady
mother: it would seem to me that no greater
obligation—and it is typical of the blightin'
decadence of our language that a word
meanin' 'a sympathetic bindin'' should be
degraded to the sordid service of bills at
three months—than the respect an' reverence
due to the maternal element in our midst.
The spirit of chivalry——"

At this point in the labour of his oratory
Tupping lost his balance and fell into the
Duke's arms.

He would have continued his speech but for
the arrival of the Duke's discreet servant.

"Yes?" said the Duke inquiringly.

"Two gentlemen to see you, m'lord."

"Two—who are they."

"I don't know, m'lord—they asked for
your lordship——"

"Yes?"

"One I thought smelt of drink, and the
other was a little furtive."

Tuppy laid his hand upon the Duke's arm.

"Monty, dear boy," he said solemnly, "I know 'em."

"You."

"Me," said Tuppy wagging his head wisely,
"One smellin' of drink an' the other sneakin'
round the corner—brokers."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DUKE REMAINS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   Part IV

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   THE DUKE REMAINS

.. class:: center large bold

   \I

.. vspace:: 2

If I have unwittingly conveyed an
impression that Brockley is without
interest to the outside world I have done
its credit and myself much wrong, as the
talented Omar might have said.  I quote
Omar instinctively because of Brockley's
association with the tent-maker of Ispahan.
For Brockley for many years has been the
Mecca of Southern London.  Never a Sunday
passed but little caravans of purposeful
pilgrims have converged upon the
*Brockley Jack Arms*, and producing their
railway tickets or other evidence of their bona
fides, have drunk beer during prohibited
hours.

For years and years this pleasant and
touching custom has made Brockley historical.
Lambeth awaking beerless, improvident
Kennington greeting the thirsty dawn,
Bermondsey confronted with the dull sad hours
between breakfast time and 1 p.m.—all these
in singleness of purpose and with a unity of
thought, said with one voice "Brockley."  Suddenly
a new interest came to Brockley;
call it a morbid interest if you will.  It was
sufficient, at any rate, to divert the stream
that flowed past the cemetery to the hostel
beyond.  Sufficient to detach the stragglers
at any rate, and draw them, with perplexed
faces and sceptical expressions, to the
neighbourhood of Kymott Crescent.

There was a public spirited gentleman of
Church Street, Deptford, whose wife worked at
a jam factory.  He himself spent the greater
part of his life looking for work, but it never
seemed to nestle in the dark interior of a quart
pot, in which his searching eyes were for the
greater part of the time concentrated.

This person was, by name, Haggitt, but
mostly he was called Olejoe—a name suggesting
a Scandinavian origin, but, as a matter
of fact, quite simply derived.  Despite his
chronic condition of unemployment, Olejoe
possessed a "guv'nor," of whom he spoke
in terms of affectionate pride.  Sometimes,
when Olejoe would be standing in the corner
of the public bar—he used the George
on Tanner's Hill—within reach of the zinc
counter on the one hand and the pipe spills
on the other, an unshaven man would thrust
his head in at the door and beckon Olejoe
with a sharp impatient jerk of the head.  Then
Olejoe would issue hastily, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand.

"Got a job of you," the guv'nor would say
laconically, "602, Frien'ly Street—two munse
rent—come along."

So Olejoe would find himself the guest of
poverty—plaintive weeping poverty, and
Olejoe would keep jealous ward over two
poundsworth of distrained furniture.

How he came to be chosen for the rôle of
guest to the Duke seems obvious enough.
He was uncleanly.  He had unpleasant
habits.  Hal chose him.

When he arrived at 64, supported by the
authority of a bailiff, Tuppy took charge of
the proceedings.  Tuppy had a wonderful
knowledge of obscure procedure.  First he
demanded the bailiff's license and examined
it.  Then he put the bailiff through an oral
examination, then he demanded copies of the
distress warrant, and generally harassed and
badgered the unfortunate official until he was
glad enough to make his escape leaving Olejoe
in possession.

Then followed a solemn conference with
Olejoe the uneasy subject.

::

  Resolved: That Olejoe be bathed.
            (Protest lodged by Olejoe
            overruled.)

  Resolved: That Olejoe's clothes be burnt.
            (Protest overruled.)

  Resolved: That the cost of reclothing
            Olejoe should be borne by
            the Duke.
            (Carried without protest.)

  Resolved: That the clothing should be
            chosen by the Right Hon.
            the Lord Tupping.
            (Carried with enthusiasm.)

.. vspace:: 2

"Gents," pleaded Olejoe, "hopin' there's
no offence, live and let live is a motter we
all admire.  The pore 'elps the pore, so let
us all live in harmony, say I.  I'm doin' me
duty, an' I've got to earn me livin', so
therefore no larks."

"No larks," agreed the Duke gravely.

"Not a single sky-warbler," agreed Tuppy.

"So therefore, gents," said the gratified
Olejoe gaining courage, "let's drop this silly
idea about a bath.  Give me a bit of soap an'
lead me to the kitchen sink an' I'll give
meself a good sluice—what do you say?"

"My dear old wreck," said Tuppy firmly,
"with all the admirable sentiments you have
so feelingly enunciated, I am in complete
agreement.  More particularly with 'live
an' let live.'  Heaven knows," he protested,
"I am no blatant reformer who to demonstrate
his absurd theories, would change the
smooth course of my fellows lives.  But
a bath, ole feller—a real water bath!  None
of your one leg in, an' one leg out, but a
proper all-in-run-or-not wash up."

So Hank and Tuppy went off to prepare
it, carefully laying thin parings of soap at
the bottom.

In solemn state they escorted him to the
bath-room door.

They waited outside talking encouragingly,
till a mighty splashing silenced instructions.

"You're splashin' with your hands,"
warned Tuppy, "get into it."

They heard a groan and a gentle plash as
Olejoe took the water gingerly.

Then a wild yell as his foot slipped on the
soapy bottom and a splash louder than all.

"Good," said Tuppy with satisfaction.

It was nine o'clock that night before they
fixed Olejoe in his new kit.

The pink silk stockings pleased him; the
red plush knickers he regarded dubiously;
the gold laced scarlet coat he did not like at
all.  The gold aiguillettes he jibbed at.

But Tuppy was very persuasive.

"Don't be a silly old gentleman," he
said wearily, "you'll be objectin' to the sword
next!"

"I won't wear a sword!" roared Olejoe.

Tuppy was shocked.

"Here we are, takin' all this trouble to
make you look presentable, givin' you a
chain of office an' all, an' you say
'won't,'—naughty, naughty!"

He shook his head reprovingly.

Olejoe turned from one to the other in
despair.  "Gents——" he cried passionately.

But the Duke was looking very severe,
and Hank's face spoke his disapproval.

"Such base ingratitude," said the Duke,
with gentle melancholy, "saps the very fount
of benevolence.  Here am I, giving a party
in your honour——"

"Giving you a write up," murmured Hank.

"Getting you a throne from Angels,"
continued the Duke, "making you a King of
Broker's men."

"Olejoe the First," said Hank.

"And you say won't!" said the three in
indignant chorus.

That night there were sounds of revelry from
64, sounds that penetrated to 66 and caused
Alicia some misgivings.

They crowned Olejoe with a massy crown,
a-sparkle with rubies and diamonds and other
glass ware.  They sat him on a gilded throne,
and placed a sceptre in his right hand, and
a large tankard of beer in his left.

They sang "Olejoe's body lies a mouldering
in the grave," triumphantly, and the
resplendent figure in scarlet and gold
thoroughly alarmed by the sinister refrain,
rubbed his stubby chin at intervals and
demanded earnestly that there should be no
larks.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \II

.. vspace:: 2

"Isn't it time that Tuppy made a move?"
asked Sir Harry at breakfast.  "He's been
there four days now, and he ought to have
made his presence felt."

"Tuppy's a bit of a slug," said Hal
brutally, "he'll want a lot of boosting."

"I've been thinking," said his father, "of
some plan whereby we could bring the fact
of his being in the neighbourhood into
greater prominence; now if it were summer
time a garden party would be an excellent idea.
We can't very well give a public reception
to him—what about getting him to open
a bazaar?"

Hal shook his head.

"You couldn't get Tuppy to do it.  No,
governor, you'll have to think of some other
plan."

"We can't hold a function here," mused Sir
Harry, "it wouldn't have the same effect.
The county are hardly likely to be impressed
by Lord Tupping."

"And any way the county wouldn't come,"
said the practical Hal, "I hardly know—by
jove!" he exclaimed suddenly, "what
about the Terrills?"

"The Terrills."

"Yes—hang it all, they're our relations.
You know they owe us something; splendid!
If we can only persuade Aunt Agatha to do it,
what a smack in the eye for the Duke!"

"I'm afraid," began Sir Harry dubiously.

"Rot, governor! try 'em—butter the old
lady—wantin' to show a little hospitality to
a friend—get mother to write—dash it all! it's
a magnificent idea.  You'll get the Duke
creature tearin' his hair——"

Hal persuaded his father to write.

It was when the letter carefully worded,
and punctiliously punctuated had been written,
that Hal started in to gratify his private
curiosity.

"Governor," he opened, "d'ye know, I'm
completely fogged over the Duke business."

"Yes?"  Sir Harry looked up suspiciously.

"Yes," Hal went on.  "It seemed all right
at first that you should want him to clear
out of Brockley.  He'd annoyed you, by
getting the better of you, and he annoyed me
most tremendously.  Governor," he blurted,
"I'm most awfully gone on Alicia."

"H'm."  Sir Harry frowned at the revelation.

"It's a fact and I don't care who knows
it," said Hal recklessly, "I as good as told
her so."

"To raise hopes that can never be realized
is scarcely honourable, Hal," said his
parent severely, "to rouse the love of a
young woman——"

"Oh, don't worry about that," said the
dismal Hal, "I didn't raise any hopes, or
rouse love, or do any rotten thing like that.
We'll cut that story short if you don't mind.
It's a sore point with me.  What I want to
know is, what is the real inside meaning of
our rushin' the Duke."

"It must be obvious," said Sir Harry slowly.

"It ain't so obvious to me as you might
think," interrupted Hal, "look here, governor,
I've seen you in business deals before.
I've known you to be beaten badly, but when
you've seen yourself worsted you've always
gone to save the grand slam—see?  Picked
up the pieces of wreckage an' sold 'em for
what they would fetch.  I've never known
you to, what I might call, pursue a
disadvantage.  Now we all know the Duke
has worried you and bested you, an' generally
got the top-dog of you, but why do you want
to fire him out of Brockley?  I'm not such a
fool but what I can see that he can still go
on spoonin' Alicia wherever he is.  He can
still go on opposing you an' worrying' me."

"There are some matters," said Sir Harry
deliberately, "into which it is not advisable
to go very deeply; with me it is a question
of personal pride that the Duke should
go——"

"Governor," said Hal earnestly, "what's
the use of bluffin' a fellow like me?  I ask
you, are you the sort to buy a tin-pot little
paper, to go in for house property and then
evict your paying tenants?  Governor, you're
spending money an' that's a very significant
thing."

Sir Harry looked at his watch.

"I've five minutes to catch my train," he
said pointedly, "is the brougham at the
door?"

The brougham *was* at the door.  Its two
champing pawing steeds champed and pawed
as per specification—as a business man Sir
Harry insisted upon written specifications
dealing minutely with details of his purchases,
even of his carriage horses.

"Another time," said Sir Harry drawing
on his gloves, "I shall be happy to discuss this
matter.  But not now."

He reached his office in Austin Friars and
found a note awaiting him.  A note daringly
spelt and slovenly written.

An hour later he hailed a cab and drove
rapidly westward.

In Guilford Street is an imposing house
bearing on the fanlight over the front door
the astonishing legend, "Apartments," and
at this house Sir Harry descended.  His
knock brought a little Swiss boy in an
ill-fitting dress suit.

"Mr. Smith?" inquired Sir Harry and
the boy nodded and ushered him upstairs.

The atmosphere of the room into which
Sir Harry was shown was, to put it mildly,
dense.

Mr. William Slewer was an inveterate
smoker of bad cigars.

He lay full length on a sofa with a glowing
butt between his teeth, and rose slowly and
painfully to his feet as the knight entered.

"How is the leg?" asked Sir Harry pleasantly.

Bill Slewer permitted himself to smile.
"That's nothin'," he said indifferently, "a
little thing like that don't trouble me any.
She smarts some, but nothin' to boast about."

He looked expectantly at Sir Harry and
that gentleman read his unspoken questions.

"I have nothing to tell you further," he
said, "we are doing our best to make Brockley
too hot for him."

"He'd better get a wiggle on," said Mr. Slewer
calmly, "I'm sure tired of this foolish
old country."

"You must do nothing," said Sir Harry
hastily, "you understand that I am not
interested in your private affairs, and you
must do nothing in Brockley—I will not be
associated with the business.  I had hoped
to have accomplished my purpose
anonymously.  I had hoped that through the
medium of the local press I might have been
able to shame the man away, without in any
way identifying myself with the—er—movement."

He wiped his forehead nervously.

"I cannot tell you," he went on, with a
show at firmness, "how much I deprecate
your shooting affray—it is unconstitutional,
Mr. Slewer.  Very well in its way for America
and similar lawless places, but revolver
shooting in the suburbs of London
Mr. Slewer,—it's—it's—hazardous."

Bill rolled his cigar butt to the opposite
corner of his mouth, and said nothing.

Anon he tossed the stump into the fireplace,
and searched his pockets vainly for another
cigar.  Sir Harry tendered his well-filled
case.

"I will go further," he said, as Bill struck
a match, "I tell you that I think you ought
to abandon your object, which is, in my
humble opinion, unchristianlike and unlawful,
but," he went on, "if you still have this
grievance——"

"Oh, she's there all right, all right," Bill
assured him.

"Well, if that is so, wait, for heaven's sake
wait, until he's out of Brockley."

He paced up and down the room.

"Don't you see, my good man, how the
whole thing compromises me?  I'm known
to dislike the Duke—it wasn't known till the
confounded fellow produced a newspaper
to proclaim the fact—you are known as having
been introduced by me—the thing is too
horrible.  Why, people would say that I
instigated the thing!"

I do not attempt to work out the psychology
of Sir Harry's attitude into decimal
places.  I shrink from suggesting that he
would derive any satisfaction from the killing
or wounding of the Duc de Montvillier.

Such a suggestion would border upon the
preposterous, for Sir Harry was a Justice of
the Peace of the County of Kent, and, as is
very well known, crime amongst the J.P.'s
of Kent is singularly and gratifyingly rare.
They are a well-behaved and modest class of
citizens, by nature gentle and diffident, in
appearance mild and affable, pursuing their
calm unbunkered way, the world forgetting,
by the world forgot, as somebody so beautifully
put it.

There are, of course, black sheep in every
family, and it is conceivable that angry and
base passions may glow in secret breasts, but
basing my opinion upon published statistics,
I confidently assert that the mere suggestions
that Sir Harry's motives were homicidal in
intention, may be dismissed as being too
monstrous for serious consideration.

Indeed his next words prove this contention.

"My object in helping you is a purely
disinterested one.  I brought you away from
Brockley in my carriage because I wanted
to avoid a scandal and a scene.  It was very
indiscreet and most improper of you to
attempt—er—to stop that young man——"

"Say," said Mr. Bill Slewer of Four Ways,
"I'm wise."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Sir Harry,
"and——"

"I'm wise to this peace-on-earth talk,"
said Mr. Slewer approvingly, "I know the
dope.  I seen it handed out.  Mike Sheehan
the alderman felly in New York was fat with
it.  'No violence,' says he, 'when I'm
around,' says he, 'and if you sock him good,'
says he, 'do it when I'm sayin' grace at
Delmonico's.'"

"I assure you, my good fellow——"

"Switch off," suggested Mr. Slewer in the
friendliest manner.  "You're in this Silver
Streak deal."

"That is settled," said Sir Harry quickly.

"Settled nothing," said the calm Bill,
"I'm next to that deal: Judge Mogg an'
me's the David-Jonathan turn.  Knew Mogg
when his father was toting a five cent freak
show round California in '76—I was one of
dem freaks."

He chuckled noiselessly.

"The hairy boy from Opkomstisalvacato
for mine," he said reminiscently, "young
Al. Mogg took the money at the door—that's
how *he* made his pile."

Sir Harry Tanneur preserved a sulky silence.

"Silver Streak," pursued Bill, "she's a
whereas-an'-hereby proposition to me, but
Al. sorted out the situation—yes, sir.  Silver
Streak is a life tenancy, an' the London and
Denver have got second option.  See?  This
Duke felly got it in his own name, so when
he goes to glory, in steps the imperishable
London an' Denver Corporation—that's youse."

Bill's face was peculiarly expressionless,
but his pale blue eyes challenged contradiction.

"There's a bit in that contract about the
heirs of his body," he wagged his head
knowingly, "so it comes to this: Dukey ain't
much use to you alive——"

"Stop, sir!"  The knight drew himself up
to his full height.  "The suggestion you make
is infamous, and I must solemnly and
emphatically place on record my complete and
absolute disapproval of your reasoning.  I do
not know whether it is not my duty to inform
the police of your threat—for it is a
threat—to create—er—a breach of the peace."

He took up his hat and moved to the door.

"I content myself by saying that I
dissociate myself from any private scheme of
vengeance you may contemplate against the
Duc de Montvillier."

Bill's eyes closed wearily.

"You make me tired," he said simply.

Sir Harry left without remembering to
recover his cigar case, and, curiously enough,
Bill forgot to remind him.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \III

.. vspace:: 2

Alicia Terrill did not view the *Brockley
Aristocrat* with unmixed joy.  Even the lines
"To A.T. with the homage of R.N." did
little to reconstruct her sentiments in the
matter.  They ran—

   |  Thou peerless daughter of the age,
   |    So beautiful and fearless;
   |  There soon shall come another stage,
   |    When thou wilt not be Peerless.
   |

She thought them rather impertinent, and
it may be said that she did not like Mr. Nape
over much.

Her objection to the *Aristocrat* was its
irritating appearance of permanency.  She was
a girl with decided views.

What elusive quality is it that makes for
success in a newspaper?  Is it purely a
literary one, or a typographical one?  Is it
the choice of matter, or the arrangement of
type?  Perhaps a little of each.  What it was
that made the *Brockley Aristocrat* successful
from its very commencement may have been
the individuality that lived in its pages.  The
deft touch of genius, the gloss and the brilliance
of superlative merit.  In its first number
it claimed, modestly enough, to be of its kind
unique.

"The *Brockley Aristocrat*," said the restrained
notice, "will contain all the news worth
reading and all the views worth writing: it will
be a newspaper devoted to the best interests
of the best people."

Mr. Nape, its nominal editor, rose nobly to
his responsibilities.  Most assiduously did he
apply himself to the study of all that was
most noteworthy in current journalism.  He
studied the back-files of the *Saturday Review*
and acquired the style caustic, he diligently
acquainted himself with the Imperialism of
the *Spectator* and the *National Review*, and
instantly secured the soundest of views on
the Navy.  He read from cover to cover the
words of Miss Corelli and learnt all about
editors: how bad editors are grossly fat and
have pronounced Hebraic features, and how
good editors are pretty scarce.  He took
lessons in journalism from a gentleman who
guaranteed to turn a dustman into a
reviewer in twelve lessons, and he read the
life of Delane.

Little wonder that the *Aristocrat* came
to fame in a short space of time with such
determined strivings after perfection behind
it.  Little wonder that people began to read
it, and to look forward to Friday (when it
was published) and to take sides in the
controversy that raged between its proprietor
and the owner of the *Lewisham and Lee Mail*.

"It isn't that I want them to take sides,"
said the Duke, "but I want to get them
interested in me.  It was the only method I
could think of.  You see I'm naturally of a
shy and shrinking disposition, and I find it
difficult to convey to comparative strangers
a sense of my all-round excellences."

He was paying one of his rare visits to
Alicia in her own home.

The outward and visible result of his hurricane
courtship glittered on the third finger of
her left hand.

"But surely," she urged a little
impatiently—she was a real girl and this is a true
story—"you have some plans for the future, you do
not intend to end your days in Brockley?"

He nodded his head.

"I can imagine nothing more satisfying,"
he said, "than to pass to the dark beyond,
to the bourne from which—in the midst
of mine own people."

"The calm way in which you have
appropriated us all," she said, with a smile
which was half amusement and half vexation,
"is too appalling.  But, dear, there is me."

"There is you," he repeated, with a
twinkle in his eyes, "I have thought of
that—you shall stay and share my glories."

"In the suburbs?"

She lifted her eyebrows.

"In the suburbs," said the Duke, "we will
take some nice house and call it the Chateau
de Montvillier with a nice garden——"

"And a nice coachhouse and hot and cold
water," she went on icily, "with a month at
Margate every summer and a round of local
pantomimes every winter—thank you."

"As for myself," said the Duke dreamily,
"I shall stand for the Board of Guardians——"

"What!"

"Board of Guardians," said the Duke
firmly, "it has been one of my life's dreams:
in far-away San Pio in my cow punching
days, when I used to lie out on the prairie,
all alone, with the great stars glittering and
the unbroken solitude of the wilderness
about me, that was the thought that comforted
me; the whispered hope that buoyed me up.
To be a guardian!  The trees in their rustling
murmured the word, the far-off howl of the
prairie dog was, to my fevered imagination, the
voice of the chairman calling the Board to
order."

"But seriously?" she pleaded, "please,
please be serious."

"I *am* serious," said the indignant Duke,
"Brockley is nature, and all that pertains to
Brockley is nature.  Why even Tuppy sees
that!  When I told him that the Mayor
didn't wear robes and didn't have a mace
bearer, the poor chap nearly wept for joy,
he's staying——"

"I am not interested in what Tuppy thinks,"
she said coldly, "or what Tuppy has planned.
What interests me is the fact that I have no
intention whatever of spending my life in the
suburbs, so there."

I wonder if "so there" an expression
that a lady, who had at one time lived in
Portland Place, would use?

I wonder——

Alicia Terrill was angry, and not without
cause.

Women have no sense of men's humour,
and I do not think the Duke was tactful.

He was a young man who took things for
granted.

Had Alicia been an heiress, she might have
entered into the spirit of the Duke's humour.
She could have afforded the whim.  But
she was not rich.  Money is a horrid thing,
and especially horrid to the poor girl who
marries the rich man, however sincere and
whole hearted her love is for him, and his for
her.

For there comes, and there must come, an
unpleasant feeling of dependence, a
sensation such as must have been experienced by
the unfortunate negroes who lived in Uncle
Tom's Cabin (and nowhere else), when the
whip of the overseer cracked, that is particularly
irksome to a girl of independent character.

The Duke, as I say, took much for granted.
Money was as nothing to him, he did not
count it as a serious factor in life.

People with money seldom do.

You may say, having in mind the incidence
of the Duke's tempestuous wooing, that there
was little solid foundation for a true and
abiding companionship such as marriage
implies; that the ground was already prepared
for misunderstandings.  Perhaps your
judgment is correct: in offering my own opinion,
in all modesty, I venture to differ, because I
know the Duke intimately.

"If you really loved me," she went on,
"you would realize that I was your first
interest—you would be ready to sacrifice these
wretched whims of yours.  It isn't the money
and it isn't that I am ashamed of the
suburbs—I would live in the Brixton Road—but I
want to be the first thing in your life——"  She
faltered and made an heroic attempt
to appear calm.

The Duke was genuinely astonished at the
outburst, at the defiance that trembled in her
tone, at the proximity of tears.

Nay, he was scared and showed it.

"My dear girl," he began.

"I'm *not* your dear girl," she flamed, "I
will not accept your horrid patronage.  I will
not allow you to treat quite serious matters—matters
that affect my life—as subjects for
your amusement."

"My dearest——" he began but she stopped him.

She removed the half circle of diamonds
from her finger with deliberation.  She said
nothing because she was choking.

She did not throw it at him, because she was
a lady and had lived in Portland Place.

She laid it on the table and fled.

The Duke stood speechless and open
mouthed; he did not behave like a hero.

Did Alicia behave like a heroine?

A study of contemporary fiction compels
me to confess reluctantly that she did not.

But this is a true story, and this remarkable
scene I have described actually occurred.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \IV

.. vspace:: 2

Olejoe the First, crowned and confident,
was on his throne, and Tuppy was rehearsing
him in view of an approaching function.

"Draw near us," said Tuppy.

"Draw near us," repeated Olejoe pompously.

"What ho, varlets—a beaker of wine,"
coached Tuppy.

"What ho, varmints——"

"Varlets," corrected Tuppy.

"What ho, var——"

Just then the Duke entered, a tragic figure.

Olejoe, proud of his accomplishments, spoke
his lines.

"Ho! noble dook," he bleated, "draw near——"

"Come down out of that," said the Duke
peevishly, "go into the kitchen."

"If," said Olejoe taking off his crown
politely, "I've said anything that's given
offence——"

"Go to the devil," said the Duke.

The king retired hurriedly.

Not a word was spoken till he had departed,
then:

"I'm disengaged," said the Duke bitterly.

"My dear old feller!" expostulated Tuppy.

"I'm disengaged," repeated the Duke.
He looked round for a seat.  The throne
invited him and he mounted its wooden steps.

"I'm finished," he said and sat down on
Olejoe's abandoned crown.

He sprung up with alacrity and flung the
bauble away.

"Steady with the crown jewels, old man,"
said Tuppy anxiously.  "Hank, the Koh-i-noor's
knocked off, there it is under your
chair.  Monty, old owl, why this introduction
of R. E. Morse, Esq?"

In a few gloomy words the Duke made
clear the situation.

Fortunately for all concerned Tuppy's knowledge
of women and their ways was encyclopaedic.

As Tuppy himself confessed, what he
didn't know was hardly worth finding.  He
admitted he was a misogynist, he confessed
that his experience had been a bitter
one, but he tried, as he said, to think that all
elderly ladies were not like the dowager, and
few marriageable girls had the physical strength
to chuck a feller down three flights of stairs.

"Mind you, old bird," warned Tuppy,
"the intention is there all right.  The will to
do, bein' somewhat hampered by an
undeveloped muscular development, it follows
that my own experience was a unique reply
to the Brownin' feller who asked—

   |  What hand an' mind went ever paired?
   |  What brain alike conceived an' dared?
   |  What act proved all its thought had been?
   |  What will but felt the fleshy screen?
   |

"Dear old feller, as one who's felt the fleshy
screen grip me by my neck an' the left leg of
my trousers—yes, positively and indelicately
the left leg of my trousers—I can answer the
Brownin' feller.  It was a remarkable
experience.  I nearly wrote an account of it for
the *Field*.  But Monty, poor soul, your
experience is milder in fact though parallel
in principle.  Metaphorically you've been
scruffed an' bagged, an' there's only one thing
to do."

He paused.

"Sit it out, my boy; be aloof, noble, patient,
stricken with grief; go to church on Sunday
in deep mourning; start a soup kitchen an'
be good to the poor—that fetches 'em."

"Sure," said Hank.

"There's another way," said Tuppy with
enthusiasm, "be the riotous dog, stay out
late an' come home early, sing comic songs,
wear soft fronted dress shirts to emphasize
your decadence, go to the devil
ostentatiously—that fetches 'em to."

"Sure," agreed Hank.

"That is easier," said the Duke thoughtfully.

"It was all so very unexpected and sudden,"
he went on reverting to the tragedy of
the evening.

"It always is," said the sympathetic
Tuppy, "take my case: I hadn't time to
catch hold of the bannisters before——"

I think the Duke was genuinely distressed.
He sat with his head resting on one hand,
his brows wrinkled in a frown, his free hand
plucking idly at the velvet fringe that
ornamented the throne.

"I had looked forward to a joyous winter,"
he said disconsolately, "we'd got the brokers
in; we might have been evicted by the
police; I most certainly should have gone to
Brixton Prison—I'd arranged to borrow
Windermere's state carriage and postillions for
the occasion—and now the whole scheme
is nipped in the bud."

They sat in the common-room which in
the day time commanded a view of the tiny
garden, and toward the darkness which hid
amongst other things the Sacred Ladder,
now alas! purposeless.  The Duke shook his
clenched fist.

"Woe is me——" he began.

Out of the gloom of the garden leapt a thin
spurt of white flame.

There was a crash of glass and a splint of
wood flew from the gilded back of the
throne.

Instantly came a stinging report, and the
light went out—Hank was in reach of the
switch, and Hank moved quickly in
emergencies like these.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \V

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Slewer's attack came unexpectedly
and found the Duke unprepared.  Once
before Mr. Slewer had come to Kymott
Crescent, but his arrival had been noted by the
observant Hank, and there had been a raid
upon a well furnished armoury.

The Duke ran for the conservatory, but
Hank's arm caught him.

"Not on your life," he murmured.  "If
that's Bill he's waitin'—get upstairs an' find
your gun.  Mine's hangin' behind the door
of my room."

He heard the Duke mount the stairs with
flying feet, and cautiously opened the
conservatory door that led to the garden.

"Hullo, you Bill," he said softly, but there
came no answer.  Disregarding the sage
advice he had given to the Duke he stepped
swiftly into the darkness.  He sank down
flat on the wet grass and peered left and right.
There was no sign of any intruder, but he was
too old a campaigner to trust overmuch to
first appearances.

There was a light step behind him, and he
was joined by the Duke.

"See anything," whispered the Duke and
pushed a Colt into his hands.

"Nothing," said Hank, "he's gone."

Noiselessly they wriggled the garden length.

Hank made for the place where the ladder
should have been, but his sweeping arm could
not find it.  Later it was discovered against
the wall at the end of the garden.

Kymott Crescent is an offshoot of Kymott Road.

If you take the letter Y, the left fork to
represent the Crescent, and the straight line
and right fork to represent Kymott Road,
you may realize the easier how the mysterious
assassin escaped.  For on the other side of
the wall at the end of the Duke's garden is a
main thoroughfare, deserted at this hour of
the night, and it was as simple a matter to
gain access to the garden as it was to escape
from it.

They returned to Tuppy, a preternaturally
solemn figure, sitting entrenched behind
a divan which he had thoughtfully
upended.

"He's gone," said the Duke cheerfully, but
awoke no responsive gleam in Tuppy's eye.

"Oh, he's gone, has he?" said Tuppy absently.

"Yes, nipped over a ladder—I say, Tuppy,
you're not scared?"

"Not a bit, oh dear no," replied Tuppy,
without any great heartiness.

"There wasn't any danger, you know."

"Of course not," said Tuppy airily, "quite so."

He glanced apprehensively at the
shattered glass of the door.

"Better put up the shutters, old feller,"
he said with a careless wave of his hand,
"there's a beastly draught."

There were, as it happened, two folding
shutters, artfully concealed at the side of the
door, which Hank closed.

Tuppy sighed explosively.

"Of course," he said, "a little thing like
that wouldn't worry me.  To a feller who
has seen the ups an' downs of life, especially
the downs, an incident of this description—put
the bar over that shutter, Hank, old
friend, I still feel the draught—an incident
of this description is mere child's play—I
think I'll toddle."

The Duke protested.

"So soon! oh rot, Tuppy, stay and make a
night of it.  I want your invaluable advice,
Tuppy; I'm at sixes and sevens."

"Not to-night, old boy," said Tuppy
earnestly, "got a shockin' headache—too
much port—liver out of order."

They escorted him to his door.

Safe inside the portals of his own mansion
Tuppy recovered his spirits.

"If the fishin' is as excitin' as the shootin',"
he mused aloud, "I've got hold of a fine
sportin' estate."



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   \VI

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Nape, the eminent editor, sat before his
desk in the editorial offices of the *Aristocrat*.
His long black hair was rumpled, his
pen-holder bore marks of a severe biting.
Before him were pigeon-holes neatly labelled
"Government—Attack on," "Imperialism
and Crime," "Comprenez Vous?" (this was
the already famous rival column to "On
Dit" in a rival sheet), "New Ideas," "Notes
for Leader" and similar comprehensive titles.
There was a pigeon-hole marked "Advertisements,"
but this was empty.

Mr. Nape was sore, for the *L. & L. Mail*
had discovered the identity of the
*Aristocrat's* editor, and had referred to him
as "a peddling crimemonger" and a "contemptible
plagiarist," to say nothing of calling
him "a pseudo Holmes."

In consequence, he had for three days,
devoted himself to a feverish hunt into the
antecedents of Mr. R. B. Rake.

He learned that Mr. Rake had at one period
of his career been engaged as schoolmaster—a
peg to hang "priggish pedagogue" upon—that
he drew inspiration for his leaders from
Hydeholme ("gregarious gramophone"), that
he was a gentleman of loud voice and
aggressive self-confident manner—"pomp and
circumstance" wrote Mr. Nape cleverly, and
other more or less important items, all of
which went into the Leader.

In truth Mr. Nape's reply to the slanderous
innuendoes of the *L. & L. Mail* might be
described as having been effective and complete.

Now Mr. Nape was in a quandary, because
he was engaged in a distasteful task.

This was none other than the booming of
the Tuppy party and, worst of all, the editing
of a letter of apology.

It would appear in the first case, that in
honour of our distinguished neighbour, Lord
Tupping, Mrs. Stanley Terrill would give a
reception at her house; that amongst others
the following eminent people would be present.
Sir Harry Tanneur, the Mayor of Brockley,
the Vicar, Captain Hal Tanneur (9th R.W. Kents)
and others too numerous to mention.
Bewildered that the citadel of the Duke's
fiancée should shelter the arch enemy, Mr. Nape
had commenced a long and scathing
satire entitled "The Pier Master" (a happy
description of Sir Harry), when peremptory
orders came for its suppression and the
substitution of laudatory notices concerning
the forthcoming function.

It had required all the Duke's powers of
persuasion to induce Tuppy to accept the
invitation.

"It's a plant," said Tuppy furiously, "it's
the old Tanner bird showin' off the captive
at his chariot's wheel: he's dazed that
poor dear lady into givin' a party—I'm not
goin'.  High Jupiter!  Devastin' Ulysses!"
he swore, "did that dear old thing Guy
Tuppin' go down on the stricken field of
Crecy, all mucked about with two handed
sword an' maces an' things, for this!  Did——"

"You cannot escape a tea-party by reference
to your alleged ancestors," said the Duke
calmly, "in the stricken field time of business
Tanner can give you a stone and a beating.
Tuppy, you've got to go."

So Mr. Nape sat, though his soul revolted,
engaged in writing pleasantly and amiably
and heartily, a fore-notice of the reception
which was to introduce Lord Tupping to his
awe-stricken neighbours.

His task was made all the more difficult
by the knowledge that already public interest
had been aroused in the attempt to jockey
the Duke from the suburbs.  That letters
signed "Fair-play" and "Pro Bono Publico"
had begun to arrive, that a meeting of the
Ratepayers' Association had been projected,
and that there were not wanting other
signs of the Duke's growing popularity in
the neighbourhood.  Mr. Nape had suddenly
found himself a political force; he had the
satisfaction of knowing that he was behind
the scenes; crowning joy of all, he had been
referred to as a "wire puller" and had
displayed the significant phrase, with an
affectation of nonchalance, to Hank.

"He means a leg puller," said Hank.

"We don't think you treat this matter
seriously enough," said Mr. Nape severely;
"we have a certain duty to our party; a
certain responsibility to our public; the whole
district is ripe for change; the job of
dismissing the water-cart man has roused considerable
feeling; the appointment of the workhouse
master's son to the position of rate collector
is a scandal—people are asking how long,
how long?"

"How long?" demanded the Duke.

"How long," repeated Mr. Nape.

"I mean how long have they been asking
that remarkable question?"

Mr. Nape coughed modestly.

"It coincided with the appearance of our
little leaderette on 'Subconscious
Corruption,'" he admitted.

As to the letter of apology, the Duke
silenced criticism with extraordinary
brusqueness.  The change in the policy of the
*Aristocrat* was revolutionary.  It affected
Mr. Nape dismally, it affected Mr. R. B. Rake,
editor of the *L. & L.* staggeringly—it had
a paralysing effect upon the household at
Hydeholme.

"Now what on earth is the meaning of
this," demanded the knight.  He stabbed
the newspaper with his short forefinger.
The article it referred to was headed "An
Open Letter."

It began—

"To one whom I have offended."

"That's me, of course," said the knight
and read on.

As he read and re-read he grew more and
more bewildered, for this was an apology, an
abject grovelling plea for forgiveness.

"*It is forbidden that I should see you——*"

"Quite right," said Sir Harry.  "I told
William that under no circumstance he was
to admit him."

"*My letters are returned unopened*" (Sir
Harry smiled grimly.  He *had* received a
letter in the Duke's handwriting and had
promptly reposted it), "*and with every day
comes a surer knowledge of my error in opposing
your will....*

"*It is this realization that has decided me
upon my future conduct.  You wish me to go
away—I will go.  You wish me to be more
considerate*"—("I've never said so in so many
words," commented the knight)—"*you desire
that I should forego all local ambition and retire
to the oblivion from whence I sprang—so be it.*"

"Remarkable," was all that Sir Harry could say.

"*If I have caused you pain by my
presumption*"—("Pain!" said Sir Harry, and
thought of the sixty thousand pounds)—"*I am
sorry.  I return to the wilds, to the illimitable
breadth and length of the wilderness.  Here
on some waterless plain, where vultures hover
in the clear blue sky....*"

"D'ye know," said Sir Harry helplessly.
"D'ye know, Hal.  I really cannot understand
this business.  I really can *not*.  Last week
he was referring to me as 'the sort of person
who had made England what she was'—in
quite an objectionable way—spoke insultingly
about the leather trade and referred
meaningly to Hidebound Arrogance.  Now——!"

"It's Tuppy!" said Hal.  "I knew it
would happen; Tuppy is the chap who is
working the oracle.  As soon as the idea
occurred to me I said, 'By Jove! that's a
corker!'"

Sir Harry fixed his pince-nez more firmly
on his nose and continued to read—

"*I have dared too much*" ("I should jolly
well say so," interjected Hal), "*I have moved
too fast and I pay the penalty.  Our contract is
broken*" ("That's an important admission if
he goes into court about the lease," commented
Sir Harry over his glasses); *"at the appointed
time I will remove myself.  Farewell.*"

Sir Harry folded up the paper.  He looked
at Hal, and Hal looked at him.  Then Sir
Harry took off his glasses, folded them and
placed them ceremoniously in his waistcoat
pocket.

"May we say," he queried with majestic
calm, "that we have triumphed?"

Strangely enough this "Open Letter" inspired
the same question in the mind of Alicia
Terrill.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \VII

.. vspace:: 2

Luckily Mrs. Terrill, by her simple device
of opening the folding doors that separated
the drawing-room from the breakfast-room,
was able to offer one fair sized apartment for
the accommodation of her guests.  Built
almost identically on the same lines as
that occupied by the Duke, No. 66 had been
transferred (as the *Lewisham and Lee Mail*
in a breathless article described it) into "a
veritable bower of roses equalling in
stateliness and expensiveness the most splendid
habitations of Belgravia and the West End."

It was Hal's idea that the conservatory
at the back, and which, as in the Duke's
house, was an *annexe* to the breakfast room,
should be converted, by means of three flags
and a red carpet ("a lavish display of
bunting," said the *Lewisham and Lee Mail*),
into a sort of throne room.  Hither Tuppy
was conducted.

Tuppy was very irritable and very beautiful
in his dress kit, and one by one the guests
were ushered into the presence.

Hal was a self-appointed M.C.

"Mr. Gosser and Miss Gosser," announced Hal.

"Glad to see you—how do you do."

"Mr. James Fenton, Mrs. James Fenton
and Mr. Fenton, Junior."

"Happy to meet you—how de do?"

"Mr. Copley, Mr. Minting, Mr. Arthur Brown."

"Oh damn it!  How de do, how de do?"
wearily.  It must be understood that much
of Tuppy's greeting was *sotto voce*.

"Miss Sprager, who's a very fine fiddle player."

"How de do—beastly cold isn't it?"

"Mr. Willie Sime—brought any songs, Sime?"

"Got a shocking cold, old chap."

"Thank heavens—glad to meet you, Mr. Sime."

"Mrs. Outram."

"Weird old bird—how are you, Mrs. Outram,
glad to meet you."

"Mr. R. B. Rake, B.A.  The editor of the
*Lewisham*——"

"I am honoured to make your acquaintance,
my lord," said the boisterous journalist,
"there is no more pleasing feature of our
modern life than the democratizing of the
peerage."

"Noisy devil!  How de do—glad to meet you."

"Mr. Pulser, Mrs. Pulser, Miss Pulser."

"Oh Lord! how many more of em?  Glad
to meet you, how de do?"  There was scarcely
room to move, the guests overflowed into the
hall and on to the stairs.

Sir Harry, wedged in one corner, surveyed
the scene with a glow of pardonable pride.
To him it represented the Duke's *coup de
grâce*.

Mr. Rake wormed his way through the
press of people to his side.

"Well, sir?" demanded Mr. Rake.

He said this in a tone that suggested that
he had only omitted "what did I tell you?"
out of pure politeness.

For Mr. Rake had an unpleasant knack of
claiming personal credit for all and sundry
happenings, from weddings to earthquakes,
no matter how little he had to do with
their instigation, that had earned for him
amongst his colleagues the title of "Prophet
of the Afterwards."

"This, I think," Mr. Rake went on, "effectively
settles our friend."

Sir Harry nodded.

"The letter of course was the official
suicide, this might aptly be described as the
wake."

Arousing no enthusiasm he continued—

"What a remarkable man Lord Tupping is!"

"Yes."

"So popular!"

"So it appears."

"Everybody is simply charmed with him!
It is 'Lord Tupping this' and 'Lord Tupping
that' on every hand!"

"Yes, yes," said Sir Harry indulgently,
"Tuppy is a good fellow."  The good fellow
at that moment was expostulating with Hal.

"Now look here, Tanny, old friend," he said
firmly.  "I'm not goin' to meet anybody
else.  I'm sick of this business an' I'm dashed
if I'm goin' to stick it any longer."

"It will be soon over, old man," soothed
Hal, "we've finished the Duke."

"Oh!" said Tuppy absently.

"Yes—didn't you see the letter he wrote
to the governor in his rag."

"No," said the innocent Tuppy.

"What! not the bit about the vultures
in the air, and the brazen sky!"

"Blue sky," corrected Tuppy, and went
on hastily, "I suppose you mean blue, don't
you?"

"Blue or brazen," said Hal carelessly,
"it was a lot of infernal rot."

"My dear old feller," said Tuppy huffishly,
"eminent strategist an' military authority
as you are, incisive analyst of character as
you may be; rampin' rhetorician an' high
steppin' logician as in all probability you
imagine yourself to be, I cannot accept your
dictum on literary quality or diction.  I
thought that vulture touch was exceptionally
imaginative, and the introduction of the blue
sky supremely delicate."

"Anybody would think that you had
written that bit yourself," chaffed Hal.
Tuppy was not to be appeased.

"That's beside the question," he complained.

Then Alicia interrupted them.

She monopolized Tuppy, and Hal, after a
vain attempt to join in the conversation,
withdrew a little sulkily.

"Lord Tupping," she asked, "aren't you
feeling a terrible hypocrite?"

"Not unusually so, dear lady," said Tuppy.

"Sir Harry thinks that you are not on
speaking terms with the Duke."

Tuppy coughed.

"At the present moment I ain't," he
confessed, "it is over a little question as to
whether potatoes should be boiled with salt.
I say without, but he's a most obstinate
beggar lately—since his trouble."

Alicia ignored the addition.

"Who wrote that dreadful letter," she
asked suddenly.

"What letter?"  Tuppy's face was a blank.

"Oh, please don't pretend that you are
ignorant—that wretched letter full of
nonsensical——"

Tuppy drew himself up.

"Dear lady," he said stiffly, "if you refer
to the vultures——"

With a woman's quick intuition she guessed
at the authorship of that piece of imagery.

"No—I am not referring to that portion
of the letter," she said tactfully, "in fact
I thought that little touch rather fine," she
added, inwardly praying for forgiveness,
"but the letter in general—the whole idea,
it was the Duke's, of course?"

"The less imaginative part was the Duke's,"
confessed Tuppy, "the crude outlines, so
to speak, the framework——"

"Well," she broke in, speaking rapidly,
"you are to tell the Duke that he must not
do such a thing again; I will not receive
farewell messages through the public
press—indeed, you may tell him that nothing
will induce me to read the paper again."

"I say," protested Tuppy, "don't say it!
Next week's letter ain't half bad——"

"Next week!"  Alicia's blood boiled.
"Do you mean to tell me that he dares to
repeat——"

"He's written twenty already," said the
informer, "some of 'em good, some of 'em
so, so.  There's a very fine one called 'The
Profits of Penitence' that'll appear in the
Christmas number.  That's a tremendously
touchin' thing—about Christmas bells an'
children dyin' in the snow."

Alicia had no words by now.

She gained self-possession with an effort.

"You—must—tell—the—Duke," she began.

"Why not tell him yourself," suggested Tuppy.

Somebody at the far end of the room
had just finished singing, and people who
had found seats were smiling sweetly at people
who were standing.  And people who were
standing were smiling back and saying
"selfish pig" under their breaths, when Sir
Harry mounted a chair, and instantly the
hum of talk died down.

"My friends," said Sir Harry, "I feel
that we cannot separate to-night without
my saying a few words concerning the object
of this gathering (cheers).  We have met
together to do honour to our neighbour,
Lord Tupping (loud cheers).

"Heaven and earth!" fretted Tuppy, "why
doesn't he leave me alone?"

"Lord Tupping," Sir Harry went on,
"has shown us, by example, the attitude
of the typical English peer.  Dignified, yet
gracious; reserved, yet approachable; he
combines generosity with restraint and is a
striking contrast to the pseudo-nobleman,
whose unedifying behaviour has, I think
I am right in saying, scandalized our beautiful
suburb."

"I say!  I say!" said Tuppy indignantly,
but nobody heard him.

"As oil to water," said Sir Harry, "as
the genuine is to fictitious, so is the old
nobility to the upstart—I should say, so is
the English nobility to the—er—foreign:
they do not mix; they have nothing in
common; their ideals are separated by an
immeasurable gulf."

"We cannot but be sensible," the knight
proceeded, when there was a commotion at
the doorway and a tall man pushed his way
through.  It was the Duke, hatless, pale and
a little breathless.

"Tuppy!" he called, and to Sir Harry's
amazement the object of his panegyric came
half-way to meet him.  In the silence that fell
upon the assembly every word of the
conversation was audible.

"Tuppy, did you come over the garden
wall to-night?" was his astounding question.

"No, old feller."

"Sure?"

"Sure, dear boy."

The Duke stood thinking.

"Then you didn't drop this," he said and
held out his hand.

It held a silver-mounted cigar case.

Sir Harry recognized it with a smothered
oath.  It was the case he had given to Bill
Slewer.

"It is inscribed 'Harry Tanneur,'" said
the Duke, "and the gentleman who dropped
it in his hurry left me a further token of his
regard."

He held up his other hand, and Alicia
gave a little cry, for the hand was swathed
in a pocket handkerchief, ominously scarlet.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DUKE ADVENTURES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   Part V

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   THE DUKE ADVENTURES

.. class:: center large bold

   \I

.. vspace:: 2

It was nearing the period when
"something would have to be done."  These
were Olejoe's exact words.  With an action
pending in the High Court, the presence of
the brokers' man was suggestive rather than
conclusive.  Olejoe was a splendid splash of
colour, a picturesque accessory, but as Tuppy
pathetically complained, he had not as yet
justified the trouble and expense.

It is true that with a silver salver in his
hand he had replaced the sedate servant.
That he received visitors and showed them
in; that clad in his striking raiment he
negotiated with the butcher and the milkman,
and that he was one of the Sights.  More
than this, he was admitted into the family
circle, and was invariably introduced to callers
as "my brokers' man" or "my possessionist,"
With Tuppy's coming the question of Olejoe
became a vital one.  Tuppy, it may be said,
was now an inmate of 64.  A curt note from
Sir Harry's solicitors had terminated his
tenancy.  Supplementary to this was a
letter from Sir Harry himself in which he
dealt freely in such phrases as "two-faced
duplicity," "run with the hare and hunt with
the hounds," "betrayal of a sacred trust,"
and similar happily coined phrases of opprobrium.

"The perfectly horrible thing is," Tuppy
said in bitterness of spirit, "I've given up my
flat in Charles Street, an' it's a thousand to
thirty the landlord won't take me back again,
unless I pay something off the old account."

The Duke pressed him to stay, and Hank was
extremely urgent in his invitation.

"The Duke should surely have somebody
he can talk 'blighted hopes' to," he said: in
his capacity as An Authority on Women,
Tuppy stayed.

Thus Olejoe came to be a problem, for Tuppy
brought the faithful Bolt, and No. 64 was
not built for the accommodation of a house
party.

Olejoe, therefore, became the pivot around
which revolved a ceaseless whirl of discussion.

He was a Domestic Crisis.

"Something must be done with Olejoe."

This was the beginning and the end of
the agenda under review.

Olejoe was present at the most important of
these.  From time to time he interjected
expostulatory noises.

"A Johnny man that I know," said Tuppy
reminiscently—"I don't exactly know him,
but I owe his brother a hundred, which to
all intents an' purposes extends my
acquaintance—because if *I* don't know him, he is
pretty sure to have heard about *me* from
the brother fellow, who's a deuce of a bleater
about money affairs——"

"I'll look him up in the Dictionary of
National Biography," said the Duke; "in the
meantime, this man——?"

"Well, this man used to go to the wooliest
places—Africa an' Klondike an' similar horrid
spots outside the radius; used to go bug
huntin', an' lion fishin' an' bee-stalkin'.
When he got something extra, in the way
of skins or wings or feathers he used to send
it to Wards, have it stuffed an' stuck up in
his library.  When I say 'library' I mean
the place he used to sleep in on Sunday
afternoons.  But if he got something
extra-extra, somethin' stupendously gape-ish, such
as a pink lion or a sky-blue rattlesnake—somethin'
absolutely priceless, he used to
give it to some dashed museum.  There was
insanity in the family, mind you."

The Duke cast a calculating glance at Olejoe.

"We might leave him at the South
Kensington," he mused.

"Stuffed?" suggested Hank.

"In a box," said Tuppy enthusiastically,
"with a rippin' big label on the top, 'A present
to the Nation from a True friend' or some
rot like that."

"Or in lieu of conscience money," said
the Duke, "from two who have robbed the
inland revenue, asking finder to notify the
same in the *Times* newspaper."

"Gents," said Olejoe with a forced smile,
"foreigners I've always been obligin' to,
without the word of a lie.  Orgin grinders,
ice-cream blokes, an' ladies who tell your
fortune with little dickey birds wot pick a bit
of paper out of the box to tell you whether
your husband will be dark or fair, an' how
many children you're goin' to have.  If you
treat others well, you can expect to be treated
well yourself.  Do unto others as thyself
would be done is a sayin' old an' true—so no
larks, if you please."

"When you started that interestin'
exposition on tolerance of the alien," said Tuppy
aggrieved, "I was under the impression you
were goin' to say somethin' particularly
apposite."

"No larks," confirmed Olejoe.

"Say," said Hank suddenly, "what's the
matter with sendin' him to the Tanneur guy?"

"Alive?" asked Tuppy in a matter of
fact tone that made Olejoe shiver.

"Why sure; send him along with a tag
tied to his coat—it's gettin' round about the
festive season when you give away things
you've no use for."

"I feel certain," said the Duke, "that
Olejoe could be used for some wise purpose.
An age that has found employment for
bye-products in general, should not be at a loss
for using up this variety.  The difficulty about
the knight is that he's going abroad."

"Abroad?"

"Abroad—whether that means a season at
the Riviera or an exploration of the Sandwich
Islands, I cannot say.  But abroad he's
going, or gone."

"We couldn't send our dear old friend as a
courier?" questioned Tuppy.  "A sort of
unofficial dragoman?"

But the Duke shook his head.

"The situation is this," he said.  "We
take a house; the knight buys out our
landlord; we refuse to pay rent; the knight puts
a broker's man in; we're tired of the broker;
we've no room for the broker; he has
outlived his usefulness; *Q.* What should A do
with B?

"We might, of course, bury him in the
garden," the Duke went on, "thus enriching
the soil; we might wait for a foggy night,
take him out and lose him——"

"Monty!  I've got it!"

The inspiration had come to Tuppy with
extraordinary suddenness.

"Pay him out."

"What?"

"Pay the rent," said Tuppy solemnly;
"it's unusual in cases like this, an' it's a bad
precedent: but as a solution it's got points
you could hang your hat on."



.. vspace:: 3

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   \II

.. vspace:: 2

It is a fault of some authors, that they
persistently refuse to introduce characters
into their stories, unless those characters in
the course of the narrative, perform an act
or acts, of such transcendent importance as
to make the story impossible without their
presence.  Accordingly we are familiar with
the faithful servant who meanders through
300 pages with little to say for himself save
"Dinner is served, your Grace," and "His
lordship has not yet returned from 'unting,
m'lady;" who is deliciously obscure until
the end of the book, when he gives his life
for the children, or produces the missing
will.  We know of governesses, pretty and
otherwise, who are the merest shadows for
twenty chapters, but enter into their
kingdom in the twenty-first, when they accuse the
Earl of unblemished character of being the
father of the beggar boy.

I could have wished that Olejoe might have
passed from these pages naturally, and without
fuss, just as people pass from the real pages
of life, without ostentation, noiselessly ignoring
the rules of the theatre, which demand that no
character shall leave the stage without an
effective "line" to take them "off," such as
"We meet to-morrow!" or "Look to it,
Sir George—look to it!" or in the cases of
more important figures, a long and heroic
peroration.

The rules of the theatre do not insist
upon heroics for a part like Olejoe's.  I
think something like this would have
fulfilled all requirements—

Olejoe (*one foot on doorstep, bundle slung
over shoulder*):

   |                Farewell, my lord.
   |  Farewell, my noble Duke: the elms shall bud
   |  To greeny leafness, and the summer sun
   |  Shall gild the cupula of this great house.
   |  I pass to winter, to an endless night,
   |  Bereft of your bright presence: for this gold,
   |  This token of your grace, my charged heart
   |  Puts lock upon my tongue (*business with handkerchief*).  Farewell!
   |

There were, as it happened, certain lines
to be said by Olejoe in the natural course of
events, for the broker's man shares with the
waiter, the boots, the chambermaid, and the
hotel porter the same characteristic and
absolute repugnance to effacement.

The bailiff's receipt lay on the table, and
Olejoe in a ducal coat, a lordly pair of trousers
and a cowboy hat, the united contributions
of the household, took the handsome tip the
Duke had delicately slipped into his hand, and
with tearful eyes expressed his gratitude.

"Gents all," said Olejoe, who had little
knowledge of and regard for the stateliness
of blank verse, "as man to man I'm obliged
to you.  If I've done anything that I oughtn't
have done I ask your pardon.  I've had
me dooty to do an' I've done the same to the
best of my ability.  I've always found you to
be gentlemen, an' if any one sez contrary,
it'll be like water on a duck's back—in at
one ear an' out at the other.  If I can ever
do you a turn as far as lays in me power, I'm
ready an' willin', an' with these few remarks
I thank you one an' all," which was a highly
creditable speech.

So passed Olejoe, and I would that no
further necessity existed for introducing him
again, so that I might emphasize my protest
against convention in art.

"The House will now go into committee,"
said the Duke, "on a purely personal
matter—Hank, I'm feeling most horribly worried."

"If it's the eternal feminine woman,"
said Hank rising quickly, "as I've got a
hunch it is, you'll find me in the back lot
plantin' snowdrops."

"You're beastly unsympathetic," complained
the indignant Duke, "here are two
loving hearts——"

"Anatomy," said Hank at the doorway,
"is a science I've no love for since the
day the Dago doctor of Opothocas Mex. amputated
my little toe under the mistaken
impression that ptomaine poisonin' was
somethin' to do with the feet."

"What we've got to do now," said Tuppy,
when the unromantic Hank had disappeared,
"is to get somethin' particularly touchin',
I'm afraid I've spoilt the other letters, by
unintelligently anticipatin' the contents."

"What an ass you were, Tuppy," said the
Duke testily, and Tuppy cheerfully agreed.

For two hours they sat composing the
wonder working epistle.

"To whom it may concern," it was addressed,
and began "What is life? says Emerson."

"That's a fool start," said Tuppy.  "Why
drag in old man Emerson anyway?"

"Can you suggest a better?" asked the
Duke tartly.

"What's the matter with this," asked
Tuppy, "you know the Tennyson stuff."  He
knit his forehead in the effort of remembrance.
Then he recited, filling in the blanks
as well as he could—

   |  It's jolly true tum-tum befall,
   |  I feel it tum-tum tum-tum most;
   |  It's better to have loved a gal
   |  Than never to have loved at all!
   |

"Rotten," said the Duke.

"I don't think I have quite got the lines
right," Tuppy owned, "but any feller can see
the drift of the thing."

"If ever I write poetry, Tuppy," said the
Duke solemnly, "I should be very grateful
if you would refrain from quoting it."

The Emerson opening was allowed to stand.
Tuppy made another determined effort to
introduce a flower of poetry into the letter
when it was nearing completion.

"Look here, Monty.  Why not work in
that bit about

   |  Love to a girl is a thing apart,
   |  'Tis a feller's whole existence?"
   |

"Partly," said the Duke, "out of respect
for the dead, whom you are misquoting.  It
runs 'Love to a *man* is a thing impart!'"

"She wouldn't know the difference," said
the sanguine lord.

"That's beside the question: this is
supposed to be an open letter addressed to
Sir Harry; I can't chuck words of poetry at
his unfortunate head—after all he's been
punished enough."

They broke off their composition to join
Hank in the garden whilst the sedate servant
laid the table for lunch.

So far from planting snowdrops Hank
had established himself in the little
green-house at the end of the garden—a warm
cosy little greenhouse on a wintry day—and
ensconced in a deck chair had fallen asleep.
They woke him by the simple expedient of
opening the door wide and letting in a rush of
icy cold air.

"Notice anything strange about next
door?" yawned Hank, and the Duke started.

"No," he replied with a shade of anxiety
in his voice.  "What is it?"

"Blinds down, shutters up—general air
of desolation," enumerated Hank.

The Duke looked quickly and raced into
the house.  The sedate servant (his name
was Cole) was folding a serviette.

"Cole," said the Duke sternly, "where are
the people next door?"

"Gone, m'lord," said Cole.

"Gone! when did they go!  Where have
they gone, and why on earth was I not told."

"They went last night, m'lord," said Cole,
"they have gone to Bournemouth if I am
accurately informed—my source of
information is the butcher——"

"The postman would have been better,"
said the Duke reprovingly.

"The postman is an extremely reticent
person and moreover is a radical who does
not approve of Us," said Cole.  "The butcher,
on the contrary, stands for landed interest
and the established church."

"Excellent," said the Duke, "proceed."

"They left last night," Cole went on
dealing with the questions in order, "which
accounts for the fact that I did not inform
your grace, information having arrived with
chops—ten minutes ago."

Cole paused deferentially, then continued,
"If your grace will remember, I suggested a
joint for to-day's lunch, a suggestion which
was not acceptable.  Had it been a leg of
mutton, your grace would have been
informed two hours ago—the joint requiring
that extra time to cook, and the butcher in
consequence calling earlier."

"You are vindicated, Cole," said the Duke
sadly—

As they disposed of the dilatory chop at
lunch the Duke was exceptionally quiet.
"I don't know why they've gone away,"
he said at last, "but I'm not so sure that
their departure isn't providential."

"My mind was runnin' on the same set
of rails," said Hank.  He pushed back his
plate and produced a cigar.  "Duke, it's about
time we settled Big Bill for good an' all."

"Don't tell me," said Tuppy hastily,
"that your shootin' friend is in the neighbourhood?"

Hank nodded slowly.

"Here last night, wasn't he, Dukey?"

"He was," said the Duke absently.

"We traced his little footsteps in the
garden bed," said Hank.

"But, my dear foolish Transatlantic cousin,"
protested Tuppy, "the police, old friend!
The dashed custodians of public peace an'
order!  What the dooce do you pay rates
an' taxes an' water rates an' gas bills for!"

"The police?" Hank smiled.  "Oh, the
police are all right: but there's nothing
doin' with the police.  This is a feud for
private circulation only."

"But!" cried Tuppy violently and unpleasantly
excited, "it's distinctly unfair to
our splendid constabulary; you oughtn't to
be selfish, old feller—suppose this horrid
person with his unsportin' revolver killed
*me*!  Oh, you can laugh, dear bird, but it'd
be doosid unpleasant for me!"

"I'm not laughing, Tuppy," said the Duke
seriously, "I can quite understand your funk——"

"My dear good misguided an' altogether
uncharitable friend," said Tuppy, greatly
pained, "it isn't funk—I'm notoriously rash
as a matter of fact: why my discharge was
suspended for bein' rash an' hazardous—they
were the Official Receiver's own words.  No,
it isn't funk, it's an inherited respect for the
law."

He was considerably ruffled.

"Well, let me say I can appreciate your
law-abiding spirit," said the Duke, "but as
Hank said, this isn't a case for the police:
it's a purely personal matter between
Mr. Slewer and myself.  But because the beggar
is getting over bold, it is necessary to clip
his wings—this is our opportunity."

It was at this point that Olejoe made his
reappearance.  Cole announced him and the
Duke, somewhat astonished, ordered him to be
brought in.

He entered smiling somewhat vacantly,
and stood unsteadily by the door holding his
hat in his hand.

"A friend's a friend," he said thickly,
"an' a friend in need is a friend in—deed."  He
smiled benevolently.  "There's them,"
he said with a sneer, "that don't believe
all they hear an' only half what they see.
There's them that wouldn't believe people
could be crowned an' sat on a throne an'
all."  His smile became indulgent.  "Me an'
a friend of mine," he went off at an angle,
"not exactly a friend but a chap I know,
went up to the West end.  His name was Harry."

"Olejoe," said the Duke sternly, "go home."

"'Arf a moment," said Olejoe, "I'm coming
to the part that will knock you out.  D'ye
know the *White Drover* outside Victoria
Station?  It's a house I seldom use.  But
Harry does, so we went in."

"I gathered that much," said the Duke.

"'What's yours,' sez Harry.  'No,' I sez,
'it's my turn, what's yours?'  'No,' sez
Harry, 'I'll pay, what's yours?'  'No,' I
sez—"

"Cut it out," pleaded Hank, "forget
it——"

"... when I heard a chap speakin'
in the next bar: a private bar with red
velvet seats.  An American chap he was,
like Hank."

It is a proof of Olejoe's exhilaration that
he said "Hank" calmly and coolly and
without a blush.

"He sez—the American chap—'I'm layin'
for Dukey,' an' the other feller (I'll tell you his
name in a minute, it'll come as a terrible
surprise to you) sez 'Do nothin' yet,' just like
that 'do nothin' yet!'

"'I've got an idea,' sez this chap—not
the American chap—'that when this Duke
person finds my niece has gone with us to
Merroccer——'"

"To Morocco?" queried the Duke eagerly.

"To Merroccer," repeated Olejoe, "the
same place as the leather—'when he finds I've
persuaded my niece (I'll tell you who she is
in a minute: I'm keepin' that back to the
last), when he finds I've took my niece
for a holiday to Merroccer the chances are,'
sez the old boy, 'he'll come after her.  Now
if the Duke goes to Merroccer,' sez the chap—you'll
never guess his name, not if you guess for
a million years—'if the Duke goes to Merroccer.
I don't care a damn what you do—in
Merroccer.'"

"Tuppy," said the Duke quickly, "you
can stay out of this business if you like:
if you come in there'll be no risk and a lot of
amusement.  Will you come?"

"Like a shot," said Tuppy.

"No, you'd never guess..." Olejoe was saying.

"We've time to pack and catch the
two-twenty from Cannon Street.  Just take a
few things—we can buy what we want in Paris."

They made a rush from the room.

"You'd never guess," Olejoe rambled on
with closed eyes and swaying slightly, "who
the old feller was, and who the young lady
was ... now," with a heavy jocularity, "I'll
give you three guesses...."

He was still talking when the door slammed
behind the adventurers.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \III

.. vspace:: 2

There are limitations even to the powers of
dukes.

For instance, even a Duke starting forth at
2.30 to catch the 2.20 from Charing Cross
is hardly likely to succeed, unless he
performs one of those miracles of which one
hears in the course of destructive and
pessimistic parliamentary debate, to wit: put back
the hands of time.

There was time to shop and time to reflect.
Time also to wire to the sedate Cole
and give instructions for the management of
the house during the Duke's absence.  It
gave Mr. Bill Slewer time also to discover the
Duke's plans—the Duke's instructions to Cole
had included a counsel of frankness as to his
whereabouts.

The party left London by the nine o'clock
train—that same "Continental," that Hank
had "flagged"—and the crossing from Dover
to Calais was a pleasant one to Tuppy's infinite
relief.  They arrived in Paris before
daybreak, and idled away that day and the next.
The Tanneurs were in Paris, if report was
true.  The work of investigation was to be
divided.

"You do the magazins, Tuppy," said the
Duke, "if you hang round the shopping centre
you are pretty sure to spot 'em."

The Duke haunted the Louvre, Hank
systematically went through the hotel lists.
Tuppy, after spending ten minutes examining
the contents of a jeweller's shop window in
the Rue de la Paix, came back to the hotel
thoroughly exhausted.

By accident they learnt that the Tanneurs
had gone on to Madrid, and there was a
wild rush to catch the Sud Express.  They
caught it by the narrowest of margins.  At
Bordeaux, Tuppy got out to buy some French
papers: by the merest chance met a man he
knew; exchanged greetings and inquiries,
spoke rudely of the dowager ... the Sud
Express was half-way to the border
before Tuppy realized that he ought to have
been on it....

Accordingly there was a day lost at Biarritz
where the chafing Duke waited for Tuppy to
catch up.

In Madrid, they had no difficulty in finding
out that the Tanneurs had arrested their
progress at Avila.

Back to the walled city dashed the
adventurers.  As their train came clanging into
the station, the south bound express drew out
and the Duke caught a glimpse of Alicia's
slim figure standing at the window of a
saloon—and swore.  They returned to Madrid the
same night, by a train that stopped at every
station, and sometimes between stations.
It discharged them, weary, bedraggled and
extremely cross, at the Medina in the middle
of the night.

Hank alone of the trio was imperturbable.
Nothing shook the nerves or disturbed the
serenity of the American.  His inevitable
cigar between his teeth, he surveyed the chill
desolation of the dreary terminus with bland
benevolence.

It was Tuppy's fault that they missed the
Sevilla Express.  Tuppy, acquiring a sudden
and passionate love for art, strayed through
the Prado, lingered in the Valesquez Room,
melted into a condition of ecstatic incoherence,
before the wonders of Titian, the glories of
Rubens, and the beauty of Paul Veronese,
and finally contrived to get himself locked in at
closing time.

He was discovered by a watchman, pounced
upon as an international burglar, arrested,
and finally released, after considerable trouble,
in which the British ambassador, the Minister
of Marine and the Duke were involved.

"It is no use your being angry, my dear
old ferocious friend," said the penitent Tuppy.
"Unfortunate as my intrusion into the
realms of art may be, I merely illustrate the
sayin' of that remarkable German feller who
wrote a play about the devil, that Art is long
an' time's doocid short, and dear old Titian
an' cheery old Velasquez wait for no man."

"My dear man, you had a time table."

"Assure you, old feller, I hadn't."

"But I gave you one; a little red book."

"So you did," said Tuppy thoughtfully,
"a little red book with egg marks.  Now
d'ye know," he said in a burst of confidence,
"I didn't know that dashed thing was a time
table."

"What the dickens did you think it was?"
asked the Duke in tones of annoyance, "a set
of sleeve links?"  Thenceforward Tuppy
behaved like a perfect gentleman.  The Duke
went further and said that Tuppy behaved
like a perfect nuisance.

For if a train was due to leave at seven,
and breakfast was ordered at six o'clock, you
might be sure that somewhere in the
neighbourhood of 4 a.m. Tuppy would thrust his
head into the Duke's apartment with an
anxious inquiry.

"Time's a bouncin', old feller, what?"
he would ask.  "I hear people movin'
downstairs—are you quite sure about that
train?"

"For goodness' sake, Tuppy, go to sleep,"
said the Duke on one occasion, and Tuppy
withdrew—but not to slumber.  Tuppy would
begin packing.  You could hear Tuppy's
boots falling on the bare floor of the Spanish
hotel—you could hear Tuppy's apologetic
"damn!"  Then he whistled softly and
with heart-breaking flatness the "Soldiers'
Chorus"; then he took a stealthy
bath—blowing like a grampus and with a sibilant
hissing that suggested an ostler at his toilet.
Then there came from his room a squeaking
and a grunting as Tuppy manipulated his
physical developer.  Then a thunderous
crash! as the dumbells fell to the floor—at
this point the Duke would rise and address
feeling remarks to his friend.

Such a programme as I have outlined is
faithfully typical of what happened in
Cordova, in Seville, in Ronda, in Algeciras and
in Gibraltar.  It was at Ronda that the Duke
came up with his quarry.

Alicia, breakfasting alone in the airy little
"comidor" of the Station Hotel saw a
shadow fall across the doorway but did not
look up from the book she was reading.

When she did, she met the smiling eyes of
the Duke and half rose with outstretched
hands.  Of course it was only an unconscious
impulse, but it was unnecessary to go half
way with the Duke.  He greeted her as
though they had parted but yesterday, the
best of friends.

He had the valuable gift of taking up, where
he had left off—you never saw the joint in the
Duke's friendship.

Alicia thought rapidly.

After all one cannot offer one's hand and
snatch it instantly back again.  It had been
foolish of her, unmaidenly perhaps,
indiscreet no doubt, but here she was chatting
gaily with the Duke.

"We left mother in Paris, my aunt is with
us, we've had most perfect weather...."

She noticed that she was "Miss Terrill"
to him—there was a negative satisfaction
in that.  So, apparently he had not picked
up the threads, as they had dropped.  Also
he made no reference to their parting
interview, offered no explanations, was neither
tragic nor mournful, displayed, in fact, none
of those interesting symptoms which usually
distinguish the young man of blighted hopes.
He was the most unconventional man
Alicia had ever met.

The interview had its embarrassing side as
Alicia suddenly remembered.

"My uncle will be down very soon," she
said suddenly, "I don't think that you and
he are quite——?" she left the Duke to
finish the sentence.

He rose.

"We aren't—quite," he said.

"I shall probably see you again," she
smiled.  She was perfectly self-controlled,
serenely mistress of herself and the situation.
"Sir Harry has read your Open Letters—I
think he was touched by your abasement," she
said maliciously, and, I cannot help thinking,
incautiously.

"Naturally," said the Duke calmly, "even
an uncle has his feelings: to know that his
niece has inspired——"

"Good-bye," she said hurriedly, "perhaps
it would be better if you didn't see me
again."  She added inconsistently, "We are
going on to Tangier to-morrow."

"By Algeciras or by Cadiz?" queried the Duke.

"By Algeciras and Gibraltar," said Alicia.
"Good-bye."

She held out her hand nervously.

The Duke took it, and kissed her.

"Oh!" cried Alicia.

The Duke looked surprised.

"What is the matter?" he asked and
stroked his cheek.  "I'm shaven?"

"How—how dare you?" she said hotly.

"Dare?"  The Duke was puzzled.  "Why,
aren't you engaged to me?"

"You know I'm not!  You know I've
returned your hateful ring—you know——"

The Duke stopped her with an imperious
gesture.  "As to that matter," he said
graciously, "will you accept my assurance
that I have entirely overlooked it?  Please
never mention it again."

He left her with a confused feeling that
somehow and in some manner she was under
an obligation to him.



.. vspace:: 3

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   \IV

.. vspace:: 2

*El Mogreb Alaska*, that enterprising sheet,
duly announced the arrival of the Duke's
party.  "Unfortunately," said the journal,
"one member of the Duke's entourage, the
Rt. Hon. the Lord Tupping, was left behind
at Gibraltar through some mistake as to the
hour of the sailing of the *Gibel Musa*."

From which it may be gathered that Tuppy
had fallen from grace.  He came on by the
next boat—two days later, with a tentative
grievance.  That is to say, it was a grievance
that he was prepared, to withdraw in the
absence of any reproach on the part of the
Duke.

Tuppy had been spending a day with a friend
who was Deputy-Adjutant Something or
other to the forces.

"I didn't mistake the hour, Monty, old
feller," he explained eagerly, "I was down
on the dashed pier, with all my traps, gazin'
pensively at the lappin' waves an' the
sea-gulls circlin' on rigid pinions an' all that,
waitin' for you, when it occurred to me that
you were a doosid long time comin'.  So I
drove to your hotel an' found you'd left the
day before."

They sat in the big hall of the Continental
Hotel.  From the narrow street without,
came the sing-song intonation of young
Islam at its lessons, and the pattering of laden
donkeys.  Tuppy talked to the Duke but was
looking elsewhere.

Hank had found some countrywomen of
his, and surrounded by all that was best and
beautiful in Ohio, was solemnly narrating
for their especial benefit a purely fanciful
description of a Moorish harem.  One face
in that circle attracted Tuppy strangely.

"Then there's the laundry wife who does
the washin', an' the cook wife who does the
cooking, an' the washin'-up wife, an' the
sock wife who darns the socks——"

"Oh, Mr. Hankey, you're jollying us?"

"No, sir," said Hank firmly, "when I was
American Minister at Fez in '82...."

Tuppy's explanations, having been
satisfactorily exploited, the Duke listened with
amusement to the procession of unfounded
statements Hank was leading forth for the
benefit of the fair Americans.

"Do you know, Mr. Hankey," said one
suddenly, "we really don't believe a word
you're saying.  For one thing I'm sure you
was never the favourite of the Sultan or we
should have read about it in the New York
Sunday papers.  And I'm certain you never
married the Sultan's daughter, Fatima,
because you'd just be ashamed to confess it to
a lot of nice American girls.  You're just a
new-comer like the American we met on the
Fez Road who asked our guide where the
nearest Beer Hall was."

A shriek of laughter greeted this innocent
jest.  Hank sat up, his lazy voice became
immediately incisive.

"On the Fez Road—an American?"

"He was a man with white eyes," said a voice.

"Oh, Mamie, how unkind! still his eyes
*did* look white."

Hank shot a swift glance at the Duke, and
the latter nodded.

"I suppose," drawled Hank, "it would
be a mighty improper question to ask where
this freeborn citizen of God's country is
stayin' in Tangier."

But nobody knew.  They had met the
man by accident, they had seen him once
in the Great Sok, more than this they could
not say.

Hank had picked up a servant, none other
than Rabbit.

Rabbit is a well-known figure in Tangier
society.  A waif of the streets, a bravo, an
adventurer, a most amusing child of nature
was this Rabbit—so-called because of a
certain facial resemblance to bunny.  It may
be said of Rabbit that he disobeyed most
commands of the Prophet.  He drank,
gambled, and was on friendly terms with
the *giaour*.  None the less he rose at
inconvenient hours of the night, tucked a praying
carpet under his arm and hied him to his
orisons.  Rabbit had curious likes and
dislikes; he was not everybody's man.

His world had two names.  The world that
treated him well, and to whom he attached
himself, was "Mr. Goodman"; the world
repugnant had a name which has no exact
equivalent in the English language, but
which in German would be
"Mr. Shameless-dog-burnt-in-pitch-and-consigned-to-the
underworld."  Hank was the time being
his "Mr. Goodman," and to Rabbit Hank
delegated the task of discovering Bill.

Rabbit discharged his task in three minutes.
His procedure was simple.

He strolled into the market place and
found a small boy in tattered jelab and
very industriously kicking another small boy.
Having impartially smacked the heads of
both, he sent them on their errand of
discovery.  Then he went off to sleep.  In an
hour's time Rabbit presented himself before
Hank in a picturesque condition of exhaustion
and reported that Mr. Bill Slewer was
staying at a little hotel near the *Kasbah*.
It was not exactly an hotel, said Rabbit
frankly, but a House of Experience, where
strangers threw a Main with Fate.

"The difficulty with Bill will be his
unexpectedness," said the Duke, "there is no
place in the world more suitably situated
for the springing of a surprise than Tangier."

"Where's Tuppy?" he asked.

"Tuppy has found an ideal," said Hank,
"something worshipful.  Did I introduce
you to that pretty little girl from Drayton, Ohio?"

"You introduced me to several pretty
little girls from Drayton, Ohio," said the Duke.

"I mean the one that talks."

The Duke drew a long breath.

"The description is inadequate," he said,
"do you mean the one that sometimes
doesn't talk?"

Hank ignored the slight to his kindred.

"The curious thing about it is that she
hasn't a dollar an' Tuppy knows it.  Her
father is just a plain American gentleman
with a contempt for millionaires: I doubt
if his capital value runs into six
figures—dollars I mean."

"Have you been matchmaking?" asked
the Duke severely, and Hank blushed.

"I've no use for lords an' suchlike
foolishness," he confessed, "but Tuppy has
possibilities."  His declaration in Tuppy's
favour coincided with one made by that
worthy on his own behalf.

He had at little trouble secured an
introduction to the laughing girl who had acted
as Hank's interlocutor.

Now, on the back of a gaily caparisoned
mule, he was returning from an excursion
to the suburbs, and the girl who rode the
donkey at his side was listening demurely
whilst Tuppy spoke upon his favourite
subject—which was Tuppy.

"You must understand, Miss Boardman,"
he said, "that mine is a blighted life:
I'm a piece of humanity's flotsam, a pathetic
chunk of wreckage on the sea of human
existence."

"Oh, no, Lord Tupping," murmured the girl.

"It's true," said Tuppy gloomily, "saddled
by rank an' bridled by circumstance" (this
was his pet figure), "I've been outdistanced
an' outfaced in the Marathon of Life.  My
whole nature, naturally pure an' confidin',
has been warped an' distorted by a variety
of conditions, an' even the early grave to
which I would extend a fervent welcome—steady,
you beast."  He jerked back the
reins of his prancing mule, readjusted his hat
and eye-glass and proceeded—"The merciful
dissolution for which I yearned was denied
me, an' doomed to tread the thorny path
that leads to oblivion—I'll knock your head
off if you don't keep quiet—doomed to stalk,
if I may use the expression—a sad shadow
amidst the laughin' throng, I've become a
wretched, embittered creature."

"Oh, no, Lord Tupping!" dissented the girl.

"Sometimes," Tuppy proceeded recklessly,
"I'm in such a dashed horridly low state
that I don't care *what* happens—when I
would gladly change places with fellers goin'
out to war, an' all that sort of thing.  I *did*
volunteer for the Boer war, but my stupid
man forgot to post the letter."

"How splendid!" said the girl with her
eyes sparkling, "have you ever been to war,
Lord Tupping?"

"Not exactly *to* war," said Tuppy carefully,
"*in* the wars, yes; but not *to* war."

Earlier in the afternoon he had gently
broken to her the story of his *mésalliance*.

"I was a boy at the time an' she was a
prima donna."  He could not bring himself to
own up to a strong woman.  "We parted
practically at the church door," he went on
with melancholy relish, "information came
to me that she was already married.  I
dropped her—or rather I gave her the
opportunity of droppin' me."

"How chivalrous! it must have been a
painful experience."

"It was," said Tuppy emphatically, "more
painful for me than for her."

They threaded a way through the crowd in
the Great Sok.

"Now, Miss Boardman," said Tuppy,
"you know all that is to be known about me.
I've told you," he said moodily, "more than
I've ever told any feller."

Tuppy believed, when he said this, he was
speaking the truth.  It was the surest sign
of his confidence and friendship, that he added
to the history of his life—a history filed in
most newspaper offices, and which appeared
at regular intervals in the New York journals,
indeed, every time that the strong lady changed
her husband—the assurance that he had told
his hearer "more than he had ever told
anybody else."  In this Tuppy was not singular.

But to the girl at his side, it was all very
new, and all very, very tragic, and there
were tears in her eyes as her cavalier led the
way down the hill to the town.

In spite of his confidence she was ill-prepared
for the proposal that followed.

It was after dinner, when the cool breezes
from the Atlantic made life bearable; when
the sea was bathed in moonlight and the
shadowy Spanish hills bulked mistily on the
ocean's rim, that Tuppy declared himself.

"Miss Boardman," he said suddenly—they
were watching the sea from the terrace
of the Cecil—"d'ye know I'm nearly a
beggar, broke to the wide, unsympathetic
world, up to my neck in debt."  The attack
was sudden and the girl was alarmed.

"Lord Tuppy—I'm—I'm sorry," she stammered.

"That's all right," said Tuppy easily,
"don't let that worry you.  But I wanted to
tell you.  An' there's another startlin'
statement I want to make, I've been talkin' with
your father."

"Have you?" faltered the girl.

"I have," said Tuppy firmly, "I asked
him straight out if he was one of those
millionaires that grow as thick as huckleberries
in America."

For a moment only the girl suspected his
motive.

"I was frank with him," said Tuppy, "so
doosid frank that he nearly chucked me out
of the window, but wiser councils prevailed,
as dear old Milton says, an' he listened—Miss
Boardman, you're not rich."

She made no reply.

"So that's why I'm goin' to ask you to
come an' share a ninety pounds a year
baronial castle in the suburbs of London.  I've
got a little income, enough to pay the rent
an' buy a library subscription—will you take me?"

All this Tuppy said with an assumption
of firmness that he was far from feeling.

"There's nothin' in me—I'm a reed an' a
rotter."

"Indeed you mustn't say that!" she pleaded.

"I am," said Tuppy resolutely, "I'm a long
worm that has no turnin', but I offer you
the homage of my declinin' years—is it a bet?"

His voice shook.  Tuppy was ever ready
to be stirred by his own emotions.

"The title ain't much good to you, an' it
ain't much good to me," he said huskily,
"it's a barren possession.  An unpawnable
asset that has come unsullied through the
ages—I offer it to you," his voice broke,
"for what it is worth."

She accepted him, whereupon, I believe,
Tuppy broke down and they wept together.



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   \V

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Sir Harry Tanneur had one admirable
British quality.  He had a supreme
contempt for the foreigner.  If the foreigner
happened to be, moreover, of dusky hue,
Sir Harry's scorn was rendered more poignant
by a seasoning of pity.  He was totally
fearless of all danger.  He had never been in
danger except once, when he slipped up on
a banana skin outside the Mansion House
and had all but fallen under an omnibus.
Thereafter Sir Harry was the avowed enemy
of the banana industry and had carried his
prejudice to the extent of refusing to
underwrite a Jamaica loan.  Danger with bullets
in it, danger garnished with schrapnel;
danger indeed of the cut and thrust order;
he knew nothing about, and was accordingly
genuinely amused when the British Vice-Consul
advised him not to venture too far
from the city.

"There's Valentini amongst the Riffi's,
and El Ahmet playing round with the
Angera people, and a thousand and one
cutthroats wandering about, robbing each other,"
said the official, "altogether it is fairly unsafe
to move out of Tangier without an escort."

Sir Harry smiled tolerantly.

"Thanks," he said airily, "it's very proper
of you, of course, to warn me, you've got to
protect your department, but I'm quite able
to look after myself, and if it comes to
fighting," he chuckled, nodding at Hal, "we've
a fellow here who can teach these rascals a
thing or two."

Lieutenant Hal Tanneur of the 9th West
Kent, remarked modestly that there were
one or two dodges, he could show them.

So in spite of all warning, Sir Harry rode
out on the Fez Road, with Alicia on his left
and the military gentleman on his right, and
two mules, bearing respectively a cold
collation and Mahmud Ali, that magnificent courier,
guide, interpreter and bodyguard behind them.

It was not as pleasant a ride as Alicia had
anticipated.  Sir Harry was not in his very
best mood, and Hal was sulky.  That
morning in the market Sir Harry and his son had
come face to face with the Duke.  An
unexpected meeting for Sir Harry, who had
not dreamt that the Duke would so completely
fulfil his prophecy.  With some vague
misgivings Sir Harry remembered certain
conversation with Bill Slewer.

He had been vexed at the time, and had
perhaps spoken hastily and foolishly.  He
recalled dimly an historical parallel.  A king
had once said in his anger "Will nobody
rid me of the turbulent priest," and straightway
four rollicking spirits had driven over
to Canonbury—or was it Canterbury? and
sliced off the head of a worthy bishop,
Cardinal Wolsey or somebody of the sort.
These thoughts filled his mind as his Arab barb
trotted through the sand.

In his annoyance he had accused Alicia of
encouraging the Duke to follow her, and she
had indignantly denied it.  Hal, rashly coming
to the support of his father, had been entirely
and conclusively squashed.

So three people rode forth on a picnic
harbouring uncharitable thoughts toward the
Duc de Montvillier.

Sir Harry's wrath was tinctured with fear
because of Big Bill Slewer of Four Ways,
Texas.

Hal's anger was inflamed by jealousy,
for he was in love with his cousin.

Alicia's annoyance was directed against
the Duke because he had been the cause of
her embarrassment.

Was Bill Slewer in Tangier?  Sir Harry
had sent the imposing Mahmud Ali to inquire,
but Mahmud Ali had no familiars, as Rabbit
had, and the answer he brought to his employer
was unsatisfactory.

They rode in silence for an hour, with no
sign of the enemy the vice-consul had
foreshadowed.  Alicia was in ignorance of that
interview.  Sir Harry had not deemed the
conversation sufficiently interesting to repeat.

When they had reached the little hill
whereon lunch was to be taken, he unbent.
Possibly a pint of excellent champagne was
responsible for his garrulity.

"Danger?" said Alicia, looking nervously
about.  "Oh, uncle, what a ridiculous thing
to say."

"So *I* said, my dear," said Sir Harry;
"with Gibraltar a stone's throw away, and
a British fleet to be had for the asking—it
is all bosh to talk about danger."

"That is what *I* said, governor," corrected
Hal.  "I pointed out that Morocco is in
too dicky a position to fool about with British
subjects—now who the devil is this?"

His last words were addressed to nobody in
particular and Alicia followed the direction
of his gaze.

Over a sandy ridge two miles away, pranced
two horsemen.  "Pranced" is the word,
for that is the impression they conveyed.
Hal, who was no fool despite all contrary
views that might be held, knew that they were
galloping pretty hard.

"They are making straight for us," said
Sir Harry, and his face was a little pale.

Hal jumped up and gave an order to the
guide.  "Pack these things up as quick as
you can," he ordered; "we can't be too
careful."

He raised his glasses and fixed them on
the riders.  Then he swore.

"That damned Duke," he said and heard
a long-drawn sigh behind him, where Alicia
stood.

"Duke!" muttered Sir Harry, "confound
the fellow!  I thought it was—er—well, never
mind.  Who's the other man?"

"Who?" snorted Hal.  "Who could it
be, governor, but the Yankee person."

"Hum," said Sir Harry.

He was surprised to find that he did not
resent the coming of his enemy as much as
he thought he should.  He bowed stiffly as the
two drew rein, and was ready to be
conventionally distant and polite.  But he was
unprepared for the Duke's greeting.

"What the dickens do you mean by coming
out so far," demanded the Duke angrily.
"How dare you expose Alicia to this danger!"

"Sir!" said the outraged knight.

"Get up, get up on your horses,"
commanded the Duke unceremoniously and
like children they obeyed.  Alicia stole a
look at her lover.  She experienced a
shock.

His face was set and white, just as she had
seen it twice before.  There were rigid lines
about his mouth and face, and his underjaw
was thrust forward so that his whole face
was transformed.

"Trot!" he said shortly, and they began
their journey homeward.

Now and again Hank would turn in his
saddle and look earnestly backward.

"Have you any arms?" asked the Duke
suddenly.

"I have always made it a practice——"
began Sir Harry.

"Have you got arms?" the Duke cut
him short.

"No, I haven't!"

The Duke's lips curled.

"You wouldn't," he said and Sir Harry
very rightly resented all that the words
implied.

"Have you, Tanneur?" the Duke asked.

"I've got a revolver," said Hal meekly.

"Good; you, at least, have a glimmering
of intelligence—do you see 'em, Hank."

The American shook his head.

"There's a ridge running parallel with us,"
he said, pointing away to the left.  "I guess
they are keeping up level, we'll see 'em soon."

The girl looked at the deserted ridge and
her heart beat faster.

The Duke turned in his saddle and beckoned
the guide.

"Did you know where you were taking
these people?" he asked.

"By God and the prophet——!" the man
protested.

"You didn't know Valentini was holding
these hills, eh?"

The Duke's eyes glittered.

"Keep close to us," he ordered, "if you
try to bolt when the shooting starts you're a
dead man—sabè?"

"Si, señor," stammered the guide.

"Shooting! shooting!" spluttered Sir
Harry, "is there any danger?"

"Yes."

"Danger to *us*?"

He received no answer.

For the next ten minutes they rode without
speaking a word.  Sir Harry thought a
great deal.

"As you have taken so much trouble,"
he said at last, "I feel it is only my duty
as a Christian and a gentleman to tell you
that I have every reason to believe that an
enemy of yours——"

"Bill Slewer," interrupted the Duke
brusquely.  "Yes, I know all about him.
In fact I happen to know that he has prepared
a little ambuscade for my especial benefit.
He is waiting for my return to-night."

He said this in a matter-of-fact tone, as
though referring to a dinner engagement.
Alicia looked at him in some concern, and he
smiled.

"I'm not worrying about Bill," he said;
"it's——"  He pointed to the ridge.



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   \VI

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"Crack!"

The Duke's horse reared, but he pulled it down.

"Half right—gallop!"

He caught the bridle of the girl's horse,
and cantered to where a little hillock afforded
a rough entrenchment.

"Don't dismount, the hill covers you,"
he said, and plucked a carbine from his saddle
bucket.  He handed the reins of his horse
to Sir Harry and swung to the ground.  Hank
followed him up the little hill, and Alicia
heard them talking.

"Four hundred?" said Hank.

"A little farther I should say," said the
Duke; "this air is wonderfully clear and
deceptive."

"We'll give 'em five hundred," concluded Hank.

"That will be nearer the mark," agreed the Duke.

Very deliberately they adjusted the sights
of their carbines.  "I think," she heard the
Duke say, "that the gentleman in the white
night-shirt is some sort of leader."

Hank raised his weapon.  For a moment
his cheek cuddled the stock and the slim barrel
pointed at the invisible enemy.

"Bang!"

Her horse moved restlessly, and Sir Harry
was all but unseated.

"Bang!"

The Duke fired.

"Got him!" said Hank and waited.

In a minute the two came running to their
horses.  "Gone to ground," said the Duke
briefly, and sprang into the saddle.

There was no sign of the brigand's forces
as they emerged from the sheltering hill.
On the sandy slope of the ridge there was a
little patch of white lying very still.  The
girl averted her eyes.

The party now struck off to the right.

"I had hoped," said the Duke, "to have
entered Tangier by some other route than
that."  He pointed ahead to where a little
clump of trees suggested a human habitation.

"But isn't this the nearest way," asked Alicia
wonderingly.  They could see the stretch of
the Fez Road as it dipped and wound across
the plain.

"It is," said the Duke grimly.

He did not tell her all—it seemed
unnecessary.  He had learnt something of
Mr. Slewer's movements, and Bill had discovered
something of his.

For example, Bill learnt of the Duke's
pig-sticking expedition and had carefully gone
over the route the Duke would take.  Neither
the Duke nor Hank had made any secret of
their intention, and it was a simple matter
to convey their plans to Bill.

"We might as well get it over," said the
Duke, "let Bill know we are going out, and
see what he does."

What Bill did was to ride out of Tangier
and select a likely spot for a "meeting."  In
an excess of diffidence he chose a place
where he could see without himself being
seen; where he might shoot without running
the risk of being shot—a not unnatural
selection.

Unfortunately for Bill there was a
rabbit-faced gamin mounted on a sorry donkey,
who ambled in his rear.  When the man from
Texas halted at the little wood three miles
outside the town and made a careful
reconnaissance, the rabbit-faced young man was
an interested observer.  He duly reported
to the Duke.

Now, as the fugitives moved toward the
Fez Road, the Duke felt that he was
between the devil and the deep sea.  Had he
and Hank been alone, there would have
been little or no cause for anxiety.  Indeed
the adventure was one of his own seeking,
and had been anticipated with some satisfaction.
He remembered this and reproached
himself.

Without Alicia there would be no cause for
anxiety—it would have been amusing to
have seen Sir Harry under fire.  Particularly
Bill's fire!

"Look out!" said Hank.

They were nearing the wood, but that
was not the cause of Hank's warning.

Their pursuers had thrown off all pretence
of concealment and had come into the open.
The Duke calculated that they numbered
thirty in all.

There were three men on their right flank
and four on their left, and the remainder
galloped behind.

"They are trying to head us off," said Hank.

"Crack! crack!"

"Firin' from their horses—*that* won't do
much harm."

Sir Harry ducked violently as the bullets
began to whine overhead, and Hal fingered
his revolver irresolutely.

The party on the right was now reinforced
and were gaining ground.  They swerved
still farther away from the little party.

"What is the idea?"

This new manoeuvre was disconcerting.

"Makin' for the wood," said Hank calmly,
"it's a hold up, sure."

This evidently was the plan, for as the
fugitives struck the uneven surface of the Fez
Road the right and left horns of the pursuing
crescent, converged as by signal upon the
wood ahead.

Hank unslung his Winchester.

"There'll be somethin' doin'," he said
with conviction.  His prophecy was fulfilled,
for scarcely had the last fluttering white
*jellab* disappeared into the plantation than
there came a perfect fusilade of firing.

The Duke looked back.

The Moors in the rear numbered a dozen.
He chose his ground.

There was a dry water-course to the right
of the road and into this he led his party.

"Dismount!"

They were off their horses in a trice.

He found a shelter for Alicia.

"Stay there and don't move," he ordered
peremptorily.  The Moors were galloping in
a circle about the little position.

Firing was going on on all sides, but
it was in the wood that it was heaviest.

Flat on the ground lay Sir Harry Tanneur,
dazed, bewildered, horribly afraid.  After
a while, "No bullets seem to be coming from
the wood?" he ventured.

The Duke smiled.

"The gentlemen in the wood, have, I should
imagine, sufficient to keep them engaged—Bill
Slewer is a mighty handy man with a revolver."

"Good Lord!" said Sir Harry, and the
situation began to dawn on him.

"If we can keep our gyrating friends at a
distance——" the Duke continued.

"Dukey!"

It was Hank's urgent summons that sent
him to the American's side.

"What are these?"

Hank pointed to the road beyond the copse.

A disordered mob of galloping men were
coming toward them.

The Duke looked long and carefully.

"That or those," he said with a sigh,
"is the army of His Shereefian Majesty the
Sultan of Morocco."

He looked down into the white face of the
girl.  "In the words of the transpontine
heroine," he said flippantly, "we are saved!"



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   \VII

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Somewhere in New York, in the Cherry
Hill district, lives a lady who at some remote
period embarked upon a matrimonial
undertaking, and became officially and legally
Mrs. Bill Slewer.  Happily for her, a paternal
government deprived her, at stated intervals,
of communion with her lord.  Bill in
Sing-Sing was an infinitely better husband than
Bill at home.  When Mr. Slewer finally
disappeared, this poor woman hoped most
sincerely that she had heard the last of him.
But this was not to be, for that same paternal
government of the United States of America
sought her out.

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR MADAM" (ran the letter), "I
regret to inform you, that your husband,
William Slewer, was killed by Moorish
brigands in the vicinity of Tangier, on December
24 last.  It would appear that the Moors
came upon him unexpectedly, whilst he was
awaiting the return of a friend in a little
wood near the city, and in spite of a most
desperate resistance, in which six of the
brigands lost their lives, he was shot down.
As a result of the representations of this
department, and on the evidence of the Duc
de Montvillier, the Moorish Government has
offered compensation, which, although
inadequate in view of your terrible loss, may
replace the means of sustenance, of which you
have been deprived.  I enclose a draft on the
First National Bank for $20,000 (say twenty
thousand dollars).

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   "Yours faithfully,
       ——."



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   \VIII

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   From the *Lewisham and Brockley Directory*:

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   KYMOTT CRESCENT.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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\62.  The Lord and Lady Tupping.

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\64.  The Duc and Duchesse de Montvillier.

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\66.  Mr. S. Hankey.

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   Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.

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.. pgfooter::