Dr. Delmore’s Secret E-Book

Fenton Ash

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

„Dr. Delmore’s Secret” is an absorbing tale of mystery by Fenton Ash, author of at least three Lost-World novels. Little is known about Aubrey/Atkins. He was involved in a scandal at the turn of the century and sentenced to nine months imprisonment for obtaining money by deception. After leaving prison he dropped the name Frank Aubrey and – in his early 60s, following a three-year hiatus – began writing as Fenton Ash.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE MAN IN THE SNOW

II. THE MILBORNES

III. IN THE LABORATORY

IV. TRAGEDY AND MYSTERY

V. MR. SAMUEL PERKES

VI. ERNEST WESTON, CURATE

VII. THE TRACKS IN THE WOOD

VIII. HELEN MILBORNE'S FEARS

IX. HELEN AND THE DOCTOR

X. PRATT FINDS EMPLOYMENT

XI. ROBERT WARREN, DETECTIVE

XII. STEEN'S CONFESSION

XIII. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

XIV. MRS. JOYCE TELLS HER FEARS

XV. DR. DELMORE AT HOME

XVI. ERNEST WESTON TAKES ANOTHER WALK

XVII. BLACK STEVE MAKES A STATEMENT

XVIII. MR. WARREN LOSES HIS TEMPER

XIX. A SUMMONS FROM DELMORE

XX. IN THE LABORATORY AGAIN

XXI. DELMORE TELLS HIS STORY

XXII. THE STOLEN LETTER

XXIII. CONCLUSION

I. THE MAN IN THE SNOW

A WILD night on a bleak Northumbrian Moor. The hard, frozen road is here and there covered with the snow that has been falling thick and fast for the past hour. But in other places it is kept clear by the wind, which sweeps over it in swirling gusts, rushing on across the moor, as though in frantic haste to reach the mountains that lie beyond. There, upon the steep hillsides, and in the rocky ravines, are woods in which–as it seems to know–it can have fine sport; howling and whistling between trunks, tossing and beating the leafless branches to and fro, and hurling against the defenceless trees the accumulated snow that it is driving before it across the fells.

At one place the roadway widens out as it passes a little hamlet, where, amongst a few small cottages, stands a roadside inn. From its windows and doorway a cheerful radiance falls upon the road, lighting it up on one side, and meeting, near the centre, a ruddy glow that proceeds from a blacksmith’s forge upon the other. This glow, and the regular rhythm of beating hammers, tell that the busy smith has not yet finished the labors of the day; but no children are to be seen to-night around his door, nor is there sign of customer or wayfarer. The road, on either side of the lighted space, fades into shadow so suddenly that even the patches of white snow, that lie but a few yards away, can scarcely be discerned in the darkness.

As to the inn, it is call the “Halfway Inn;” but where it is half-way to or from no one knows. This is, indeed, one of the standing jests of the country side, and forms a perennial source of harmless amusement to the travellers who make it their house of call. It certainly is not half-way between the nearest town–Merton-on-the-Moor–and the railway station, for the latter is but a quarter of a mile distant, while the former lies nearly five miles away. Nor are there any other places between which it could be supposed to stand half-way–at least, within a reasonable distance; though some imaginative persons have been known who calculated that in the old posting days it was just half-way from London to some town or other in Scotland. But this is only one amongst dozens of more or less far-fetched explanations that are constantly being hazarded by the clever thinkers of the district; and for the sake of these good folks it may be charitably hoped that the mystery, such as it is, will never be cleared up, for they would then lose their never-failing and very innocent incentive to mild jokes whenever they visited the hostelry. Indeed, such a thing would probably have disastrous effects upon the fortunes of the establishment–and these are none too flourishing as it is–since many might then pass it by who are now tempted to enter it, on their way to or from the station, on purpose to fire off the very latest observation upon the subject that has occurred to them.

At the railway station–where a board with the legend “Merton-on-the Moor” deludes many a stranger who alights there into the mistaken idea that the town is not far away–there is only the station-master’s cottage, and a few coal and goods sheds. The station-master’s assistant–the one who acts as porter when he is not following his trade of boot and shoe mender, or working in his garden–lives at one of the cottages near the inn. A few other cottages and a farm house make up, with the smithy, the whole of the hamlet, and no other dwellings, save the station-master’s habitation, are to be met with for miles in any direction.

Such is the scene–or to turn from the present tense to the past–such was the scene on the night on which this story begins; a bitter night in December, when there had suddenly come on what was the first really severe snowstorm of the season. It was but seven o’clock, and the smith, as has been stated, was still at the forge, though probably he had little expectation of seeing any fresh customers that evening.

Yet, just as the sound of the hammers and of the blowing and roaring of the fire had ceased, and he and his apprentice were preparing to close the place for the night, there came along the sound of a fast-trotting horse. It was only audible at intervals; being muffled here and there where the snow lay; but still, every now and again–and each time more distinctly–the hoof- beats rang out, and plainly there could be heard, amongst them, the “click-clack” of a loose shoe.

Bunce, the smith, pricked up his ears.

“Something yet for us to do to-night, I think, lad,” he said to his apprentice. “Better blow up t’ fire.” And, as the other obeyed Bunce looked out in the direction from which the sounds had come; and now he could see two lamps on a dog-cart, throwing out beams of light on all sides, and growing every moment brighter, as the vehicle rapidly approached.

“Why,” said Bunce, “it be Dr. Delmore. I wish it wer’ a’most any other body, for that mare of his is a ticklish beast at the forge–‘specially when she’s in a tearin’ hurry to get whoam; an’ she’s sure t’ be that to-night.”

The dog-cart drew up at the blacksmith’s door, and the groom, clad in a great coat, which was white with snow, got down and went to hold the mare’s head.

The one who had been driving, and whose waterproof cape was also thickly covered with white flakes, called out in a cheery tone:

“Bunce, can you fasten a shoe for me?”

“Aye, aye, doctor; I’ll see to it.”

“Good,” said the other, getting down. “I’ll go into the house while you do it.”

In the passage leading from the door of the inn to the bar, the doctor met the landlady, who had heard the dog-cart drive up, and was coming out to see who the travellers were.

“Good evening, Mrs. Thompson–if one may use that expression on a night like this.”

“Why, it be Dr. Delmore! Good evening, sir. Well, this be queer, for we was only jes’ now a-talkin’ about you!”

“Indeed! How was that?”

“Why, sir, a strange gentleman has bin ‘ere a-askin’ for you. Not half an hour agone. But come in, sir, come in. There be a good fire inside. Stephen, here be Dr. Delmore. Move out o’ that chair.”

“No, no,” said the new-comer, as he entered the bar-parlor, where a great fire was blazing, “keep your seat, Mr. Thompson. I shall sit over here. I sha’n’t come near the fire.”

Stephen Thompson, the individual sitting in an arm chair before the fire, with a long clay pipe in his hand, rose up and offered his chair to the visitor; but, finding he would not take it, sat down again. He was a thin, elderly man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, sallow complexion, and a stolid, taciturn manner. His wife, on the other hand, was usually spoken of as “buxom”–whatever that may actually mean–she was a plump, rosy-faced. bustling little woman, who always had plenty to say.

“I’ll have some of your mulled elderberry wine, Mrs. Thompson; and put half a teaspoonful of powdered ginger in it. Don’t spare the ginger; That’s the thing to warm you on a night like this.”

The landlady went out of the bar, and the doctor, throwing open his Inverness cape, seated himself at the table on the opposite side from the fireplace. He pulled out a cigar-case, and in leisurely fashion, proceeded to light a cigar.

Dr. Delmore was a man of not more than thirty-two or thirty- three. His hair and eyes were dark, his face clean-shaven, with a mouth that denoted firmness, and a forehead indicative of a high intellect. The features were clear-cut and handsome, and his expression prepossessing. But the pale complexion, and grave, contemplative eyes gave the impression that he was of a quiet, studious turn of mind; the characteristics one usually looks for in the laboratory student rather than in the conventional country doctor. And such was indeed the fact. He had enough to live on, and was able, therefore, to pursue his favorite ideas and theories in the way of chemical research, without troubling himself to work up a practice.

“Well,” he presently said, addressing the landlord, who had resumed his occupation of smoking and staring into the fire, “and how are things going with you? Has the place got any nearer the ‘half-way’ to anywhere in particular yet?”

Everybody who visited the inn made some remark of this kind. No one was ever known to omit it. It seemed to be regarded as a point of honor; so even Dr. Delmore fell in with the general custom.

Stephen Thompson gave a grunt.

“Aye,” he said; “it be gettin’ halfway to bankruptcy–that’s where it be gettin’ to, I’m afeared.”

“Well, well, so long as it doesn’t go further–stops half-way, you know, that won’t be so bad. But I’m thinking we shall all feel as if we’d been through the Bankruptcy Court to- morrow.”

“How be that, doctor?”

“Why, I think, when we get up in the morning, we shall find the whole country round has started with a clean sheet!”

Old Thompson chuckled at the pleasantry–he always chuckled at his customers’ jokes, as in duty bound, however mild or weak they might be. Perhaps he understood the mild ones better, and therefore appreciated them more.

Mrs. Thompson came in, busying herself amongst the bottles in the bar.

“I didn’t know you was out this way to-day, sir. Been over to Felton Towers to see Sir Ralph Fergusson, I suppose, sir?” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson; you’ve guessed it. Been to see my patient there; my only patient, I may almost say.”

“And how be he goin’ on, sir?”

“Oh, very well; so well that I shall not need to go again unless he sends for me. And so there is an end, for the present, of my only patient,” the doctor replied, laughingly.

“Ah, well, doctor, you know that be your own fault; You could have plenty of patients if you liked. But you prefers to shut yourself up in that place of yourn, and work at scientific things like.”

“It be a fine thing to be a larned scientific man,” put in old Thompson; with conviction. “Better’n bein’ a poor country doctor after all.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Thompson, “if you don’t go and blow yourself up over it–as your grandfather did, sir.”

“Well, he wasn’t much hurt, Mrs. Thompson. And, after all, a little blowing up isn’t such a great matter. You can get used to it. I know some men who are ‘blown up’ at least two or three times a week. Eh, Mr. Thompson?”

Old Thompson turned his glance towards the doctor, and gave a sly wink.

Mrs. Thompson saw it, as well as the twinkle in the doctor’s eyes, and bridled up at once. She knew the remark was a reference to the ‘curtain lectures’ to which, now and again, she was known to treat her husband.

“Well,” she answered with asperity, “if people gets scolded a bit at times, there’s some as deserves it. Wait till you’re married yourself, sir–which won’t be long, from all I hear.”

It was a matter of common knowledge in the district that Dr. Delmore was supposed to be engaged to be married to the beautiful Helen Milborne, the heiress of Fairdale Hall; and the doctor knew at once, therefore what she alluded to. But his reply was of the non-committal order.

“I hope to be very good, and not deserve it, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, meekly.

“We shall see,” returned Mrs. Thompson darkly. “But, anyway, my man there, he do deserve it. The way he–”

The doctor saw a scene impending, so to draw the talk off from domestic rocks and shoals into a quieter channel, he interrupted the hostess.

“By the way, what about this stranger? You have not told me who he was.”

Mrs. Thompson went off at once to this fresh topic.

“Yes, beggin’ your pardon, sir, of course, I forgot. Well, he was a very old gentleman, sir.”

“Very old?” said, the doctor.

“Oh, yes, as old as as–” Mrs. Thompson hesitated for a simile.

“As the Wandering Jew?” put in the host.

“Ah, yes, sir! It’s true what Stephen said. The old gentleman looked just like pictures of him I used to see in an old book at home. And they do say, sir, as a visit–from that party–brings terrible bad luck with it.”

“This is very interesting,” returned Delmore, with a smile. “And what did he say, this wonderful stranger?”

“He asked about your grandfather, Dr. Malcolm Delmore; then, when we said he was dead, he inquired about your father; and at last, when he found he was dead, too, he said he must see you. But he didn’t seem to know you; had never so much as heard your name, sir.”

“Has he gone into Merton?”

“Yes; he be gone on foot. Our fly was wanted by the stationmaster for somebody what telegraphed to him for it. So this strange gentleman, he wouldn’t wait till it came back, but said he must go on, as he wanted to see you at once. It was very pressing, he said. But, indeed, he looked scarce able to do the walk. He seemed uncommon weak and feeble-like. He nearly fainted when he came in, and we had to give him some brandy.”

“He seemed to have plenty of money, though,” Thompson remarked, “and he’s left some behind him.”

“Yes, sir; he took out a purse, and there was a lot of gold pieces in it; an’ one big one fell out, and it rolled down into yon crack in the boards. He said it was a furrin coin, an’ was worth three or four pounds in English money. My man was goin’ to get the board up for to find it, but he said it wouldn’t wait, and he’d call fur it when he came back this way. So my man’s goin’ to get the board up in th’ morning, to look for it.”

“H’m! He would have done better to have stayed here, as it happened, wouldn’t he?” the doctor observed.

“Yes, sir. But then we didn’t know as you was over this way, you see.”

“No; and I should not have been here now but for a loose shoe, else I should have returned by the other road. I went that way this morning. My man has been on the drink again, and neglected to take the mare to have the shoe fastened, though he acknowledges now that he knew that it was getting a bit loose. I am going to discharge him; I really mean it this time. This is the fourth time he has broken out during the last month. I forgave him before; but I can’t put up with it any longer. He doesn’t look after the mare properly when he gets like that, and he’ll ruin her if I don’t sack him.. She might have been lamed to-night if there had been no blacksmith on the road.”

“Ah! And she be a beauty, too! Everybody says that!”

Just then Bunce came in to say the mare was ready to start.

“I had to put a new shoe on, doctor,” he said. “T’ old one wur broke. She’d a bin lame if ye’d taken her much furder.”

Dr. Delmore uttered an exclamation of anger.

“That’s just what I was saying, Bunce,” he answered. “I’ll give him the sack over this!”

He paid the smith, adding a shilling besides, to drink his health with, settled with the landlady, and went out with a cheery good-night.

Bunce followed him to the door, and went to hold the mare’s head while the doctor and his man seated themselves, and arranged the rugs. He had much to do to hold on to her, for she was fretting at the delay. When the doctor called out, “All right,” and he let her go; the animal seemed to gather herself for a leap, as might a hare, then she shot away through the falling snow with a spring that jerked the riders in the dog-cart back in their seats, and which put a heavy strain upon every strap and buckle of the harness.

“Humph!” muttered Bunce, as he stood gazing after the disappearing vehicle. “Lucky t’ doctor’s got good harness. I’d rayther ’im have to drive that beast to-night than me.”

And he went into the tavern to have a glass of “something ‘ot.”

Meanwhile, the mare tore along the road like a locomotive. After a few jerks and jumps she settled down to a long trot, her head in the air, and her ears pricked well forward, but though, with her long stride, she got over the ground at the rate of some fifteen miles an hour, yet, every now and then, it seemed as though a thought crossed her mind that urged her to try to go one better; whereupon she would put on a spurt that jolted the two behind her, and caused their heads to nod involuntarily.

James Pratt, the doctor’s man, was in a sleepy condition, and these occasional jerks just sufficed to keep him from going off altogether into the land of dreams. He had been talking matters horsey with the smith, who was accustomed to get racing tips from one of the guards of the trains that stopped at the station. Bunce had told him the names of two likely winners in a race that was coming off the following week.

Of these horses one was at 16 to 1, and the other at 20 to 1; and Jim was repeating these numbers to himself in a sleepy way, trying to decide which he would back, or whether he would back the two.

Dr. Delmore, sitting firm, with a rein in each hand, found it about as much as he could do to hold the pulling mare, and prevent her from bolting. His arms ached, and his hands were stiff with the cold and the strain upon them. All the while, he kept a sharp look-out on the road ahead, and, as the snow was coming down less thickly, he was now able to get a somewhat better view of the track in front of them than before the visit to the smithy.

“Tell you what it is, Pratt,” the doctor presently said, “you’ve been giving the mare too much corn. You know she’s had little work lately; yet I expect you’ve fed her just the same as if she went over to Felton Towers and back every day. Now, how many feeds a day have you been giving her?”

Jim, whose drowsy thoughts were running on the odds he could get, on hearing the words, “How many?” answered:

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen! Pratt, you rascal, wake up! I asked you how many–”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, rousing himself with a sudden effort. “I should have said twenty.”

“You’re drunk now” Dr. Delmore exclaimed in disgust. “I’ll discharge you for this! I’ll have no more–hullo! What’s that?”

The mare had suddenly shied and swerved; then she stood still, and next began to back. In the road a dark mass that looked like a bundle was visible in the light of the lamps. But for the animal’s quick sight they would have driven over it–probably have been upset.

“Get down and hold her head,” said the doctor; and the man bundled out, his master following and going to the object lying in the road.

He soon discovered that the bundle was an old man who had fallen down exhausted; and the snow had already begun to whiten his dark clothes.

Dr. Delmore drew from his pocket a flask, and held it to the stranger’s lips. It had a good effect, for the man sat up, and looked vacantly about him. Presently he moaned feebly:

“Dr. Delmore! Dr. Delmore! I want Dr. Delmore.”

“I am Dr. Delmore,” was the reply. “What do you want with me?”

The stranger stared, then struggled to his feet.

“Are you the boy, then–the son–grandson, I mean, of my old friend?”

“Yes, yes. What do you want with me?”

The light from one of the lamps fell upon the two as they stood thus in the road; the impatient mare fretting and pawing the ground, while the man held her head. Dr. Delmore thought, as his keen glance fell upon the stranger’s face and figure, that old Thompson’s idea of him as “like the Wandering Jew” was no inapt description.

The old man gripped the doctor’s arm and gazed eagerly into his face, scanning his features with a fixed and searching look.

“Boy!” he said, with trembling eagerness, “have you the old cabinet filled with strange chemicals and compounds that your grandfather used to have?”

“Yes, it is in my laboratory.”

“Ah! And you have still a sealed jar marked ‘Amphil Saturn’?”

The strained anxiety of the speaker, as he asked this question, was almost painful.

“Yes, it is still there; but I know nothing about the use or value of the contents.”

The old man’s grasp relaxed, and his face expressed unspeakable relief as he exclaimed:

“Heaven be thanked! Now I am saved!”

Then he turned, and again seized Delmore’s arm in a vice-like grip.

“Listen, boy! I will show you how to make use of that drug. I have that which will make it, when compounded, worth more than diamonds. Do you seek riches? I can make you rich!”

He paused, and gazed at the doctor in anxious inquiry, but the latter shook his head.

“Ah, ha! Then you have ambition? I can make you famous!”

Delmore looked for a moment into the old man’s face; then said, with a shrug of impatience:

“It is cold standing here. Let me help you into my trap. Come to my house, and we can talk this matter over.”

He went to the dog-cart and made the necessary alterations in the seat, then helped the stranger up and took his own place. The groom let go of the mare’s head, and climbed hastily into the seat behind. Just as he mounted, the animal made one of her plunges, and then started off for home through the swirling snow, her hoofbeats ringing out on the hard, windswept portions of the road as though she had been made of iron and steel instead of ordinary flesh and blood.

II. THE MILBORNES

“WHAT is the matter this morning, mamma, dear?” asked pretty Helen Milborne, of her mother. “You seem strangely out of sorts.”

” ‘Strangely’ is exactly the word, my dear,” Mrs. Milborne answered, with a sigh. “I do not feel in any way unwell, only in low spirits. I feel as though some great trouble were impending. Heaven grant it may be a mistaken feeling–this time.”

Helen looked up quickly at her mother from the letter she was reading, and her glance denoted both surprise and some little alarm. She was silent for awhile, during which she returned to her letter; then she said, with a rosy flush:

“As long as you are quite sure you are not unwell, mamma, dear, I don’t so much mind. I know it is true that your ‘presentiments’ have, more than once, proved only too truly prophetic; but somehow–I think you must surely be wrong this time, for I have good news here.”

Very charming she looked as she said this, the rosy color coming and going on her face, even as an arch little smile played about her mouth, dimpling the cheeks and puckering the dainty little mouth in a manner that was altogether captivating. The mother’s glance noted all this, and dwelt lovingly on her daughter, while listening to her light talk; but she made no reply; only allowed a half-sigh to escape her.

“This note is from Arthur,” Helen went on, “and he says he has some very wonderful news to tell me. He does not explain what it is, but I am sure, from the way he writes, that it is something good. And, anyway, he is coming over presently–so we shall not have long to wait to know all about it.”

And then the flush upon her cheek grew deeper still; and, to hide it, she rose and went over to the fireplace, where a large cheerful fire was blazing merrily away, two or three hissing logs adding their bright gleams to the little tongues of flame that played in and out among the coals.

The scene was the morning-room at Fairdale Hall; the day of the week, Wednesday; and the “Arthur” referred to by Helen Milborne was Dr. Delmore himself. The snow lay thick upon the ground. Fairdale Park and the surrounding fields and open country, stretching for many miles on every side, were enveloped in a white covering. There was a hard frost, but the sun shone brightly; and, in places, a few people–mostly boys–were out, sliding or skating on ponds, or on the shallow ice that had formed in some low-lying, inundated meadows. Much of all this could be seen from the windows of the room in which Helen and her mother were sitting; and the former turned from the fire and walked to the window.

“It looks so bright and nice outside,” she presently observed, “that I think I will go for a walk into the town. Perhaps”–here there came another blush–”I may meet Arthur. But more likely I shall be back before he comes. In any case, I shall not be long away.”

She gave her mother a kiss, and ran off to put on her walking dress and hat.

Helen Milborne was about twenty-two; she was an heiress in her own right, and was somewhat peculiarly situated. Her father was dead, and her only living relatives were her mother and her elder brother, Mr. John Esmond Milborne, commonly called the “Squire” amongst the country people, but, by those familiar with him, Jack Milborne. Between this brother and herself there was a large gap as regards age; for he was over forty. There had been other children, but they had all died. Mr. Milborne showed no signs of ever taking unto himself a wife, and if he did not, and should die first, then Helen would become the mistress of Fairdale Hall, and of all the estates and property appertaining thereto–for they were not entailed–in addition to her own separate fortune. But thoughts of all this did not trouble the little family of three who lived at the stately old hall. They were all fond of one another–the brother, the sister, and their mother, the widowed Mrs. Milborne–and they were liked and respected all round the country, not only by their neighbors, but by their servants and dependents.

As regards the neighbors, however, there was one notable and unfortunate exception. The adjoining property on one side, called Merton Park, belonged to a Mr. William Dering, who, for some reason or other, seemed to have conceived a deep dislike to everyone at Fairdale Hall. It had been hinted, among the village gossips, that Mr. Dering had proposed to Miss Milborne and had been scornfully refused, hence the ill-feeling he bore them. But, be this as it may, it is certain that between him and Mr. Jack Milborne there were constant disputes and bickerings, which, at the present time had settled down chiefly into a contention about a belt of zone of ground and a small covert, that lay on the borders of the two estates, and as to the proprietorship of which each asserted exclusive rights. This cause of quarrel naturally became most acute during the shooting season, when one or the other followed game on to the disputed territory.

Presently Helen appeared, daintily dressed in a neat-looking hat and long sealskin jacket, and started off across the park towards the little town or village of Merton-on-the-Moor. The chill wind brought the rich, glowing color into her cheeks, and blew stray wisps of her fair hair about as she walked; and, with her sparkling clear eyes and her pretty face she made a fascinating figure as she stepped lightly along the path that had been trodden down by other pedestrians. On her way she met her brother, who laughingly demanded if she were on her way to meet Dr. Delmore. The Squire, who had his gun and a couple of dogs with him, had already been out for an hour or two, and was now returning laden with a brace of birds. He was a tall, good- looking and good-humored fellow, inclined to stoutness, and with hair turning grey. Otherwise he was dark; a strong contrast to his fair young sister.

“I see you’ve got something this morning,” Helen observed, by way of turning the conversation, and escaping her brother’s banter.

The Squire’s face clouded. “I should have got more,” he grumbled, “if that beggar Dering hadn’t been there yesterday, and driven nearly everything out of the copse on his own side and mine too. It’s like his cheek, you know; really, I shall have to take some serious steps. I can’t put up with his impudent trespassing much longer. That ground is ours, and he knows it well; and I mean to put a stop to it.”

Helen sighed; the bright smile vanished, and she looked grave.

“I do so wish you could get that matter settled,” she said. “Can’t you offer to divide or something? Mother is greatly bothered about it, and fears that trouble will come out of it one day.”

“I have offered to divide,” Jack answered testily, “and the cad won’t agree. What more can I do? I’ve even put landmarks here and there, right across, and promised I won’t go on his side of them if he will not come on mine. But he won’t make any promises; he’ll agree to nothing that’s reasonable. So what am I to do? The ‘give-and-take’ business is all very well, but it shouldn’t be all ‘give’ on my side, and ‘take’ on his, you know. But, there–don’t let us bother about it just now. If you see Delmore remind him that I am expecting him over to lunch. It’s some time since I saw him, you know.” For the Squire had been away visiting, though not with his mother and sister.

And with that he called to his dogs and went on; while Helen continued her way across the park.

Now, when she reached the gates and turned into the road, whom should she observe coming towards her but Dr. Delmore. It was very surprising, of course; at least, so she declared it to be; but her air of astonishment did not prevent her from extending a very warm greeting to him.

“This is very unexpected,” she said demurely. “I was on my way to make a call in the town, and thought I should be back by the time you arrived. We did not expect you before lunch.”

“Well,” Delmore returned, “the fact is I am like the Irishman in the story who had ‘just stepped over to say he couldn’t come.’ I have some business in hand which I cannot well put off, so will you make your excuses to your mother and brother, and explain?”

The girl looked anything but pleased at this information. She tossed her head and wanted to know what the urgent business could be. But he evaded the question and laughed it off. Then she asked him what the good news was that he had promised to tell her. At this he suddenly became grave.

“Ah! Well, as to that, I scarcely know how to tell you just now,” he declared. “It would take rather long. Shall I leave it till to-morrow, instead? Won’t that do?”

No; that wouldn’t do at all. She and her mother were going away on a short visit to-morrow, and might be away for a day or two, as well. And having promised to tell her, he had roused her curiosity, and she was not inclined to have it all put off. He could tell her as they strolled together towards the town.

“Very well, then,” he began, in a tone, of resignation. “You know, of course, what I am always working at in my laboratory; always experimenting about, thinking of, trying for, scheming, calculating, studying, working for?”

A shade passed over his listener’s fair face as he asked this question. She nodded, and said, gravely:

“Yes, I know; and you know, too, that I do not agree with you. I wish you would give it up. It is but the wildest dream I feel, somehow, assured. Give it up, Arthur, and devote the talent God has given you to some line of legitimate scientific research. I am sure you will then have your reward and make a name. Whereas, this chimera that you are pursuing–that your father and grandfather pursued before you–will lead to no result, in your case, anymore than it did in theirs.”

She spoke earnestly and with great feeling. It was evident that she had thought much upon the subject, and had made up her mind to use all her influence to gain him over to her own views. And he gave her a tender glance of admiration and appreciation of the loving interest that her words and manner expressed. But he smiled–a curious smile.

“But what will you say, then,” he went on slowly, and with emphasis, “if I tell you that I believe the end is gained? That it is found?”

“What?” she exclaimed, “the Elixir?”

“Hush!” he returned, looking round. “I do not wish to speak openly of it until I am more certain as to the fact. Can I trust you not to say anything–save, of course, to your brother–until I give you leave?”

“Certainly, Arthur, I will not talk of it till you say I may. But–oh, no! It can’t be; the thing is absurd!”

“Strange–extraordinary, almost incredible, I know it is–or seems,” he told her, quietly, “but absurd–no! for I have seen it proved under my own eyes, in my own laboratory, within the past forty-eight hours. At least,” he added, thoughtfully, “partially proved; proved so far that I do not see how there can be much doubt about it.”

“What have you discovered?” Helen asked, almost with a gasp. “You take my breath away, Arthur. You almost make me fear–”

“That I am a little bit crazy; I suppose, Helen,” he responded, laughingly; and his open laugh and clear, keen look were reassuring. “You think my researches have turned my head? No, it is not so, Helen. You may rest quite free from, anxiety upon that score. Indeed, this is no discovery of mine at all; it has come about accidentally, as far as I am concerned. It is, in fact, another man’s, not mine. But he has given the secret into my hands in return for something as wanted that I happened to have–”

“Money?” asked Helen.

“No; not money–something else; left me by my grandfather. In return for this he has given me the secret to make use of at my discretion. He has no wish for fame, he says; but it is a thing that will make famous the man who demonstrates it to the world; and that man will now be myself, Helen.”

But instead of showing any pleasure at this, his hearer shivered, and looked troubled.

“I don’t like these bargains,” she declared. “We have heard of such things before. It sounds like those compacts with the Evil One told of in the old-time legends.”

At this Dr. Delmore could not help another hearty laugh.