The Law of the Land E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 351

Beschreibung

Ralph Kingsmill drew a deep breath as he looked around. It seemed life had suddenly brought him all that man could desire. In his waking dreams he had pictured this, never hoping to see it realised. And now it had all come to him in most unexpected fashion. A week before and what had he been? A poor, struggling author, with one or two minor successes to his credit, burning with unsatisfied ambition, strong at one moment, lamentably weak the next; in short, a brilliantly clever man, cursed with the temperament that usually goes with the artistic faculty. He had had his debts and his dissolute companions, he had known a full pocket and a purse so lean that starvation had stared him in the face. The sordid side was the more painful, agonising, because Ralph had known the luxury of a refined home, and was an old public schoolboy.

Leseprobe

The Law of the Land

The Law of the LandCHAPTER I—THE CUP OF HAPPINESS.CHAPTER II—DASHED FROM HIS LIPS.CHAPTER III—THE LONG NIGHT.CHAPTER IV—WHERE?CHAPTER V—"AND THAT WAY MADNESS LIES."CHAPTER VI—A CLAIMANT TO THE THRONE.CHAPTER VII—AN INJURED INNOCENT.CHAPTER VIII—DICK TO THE RESCUE.CHAPTER IX—THE LAW OF THE LAND.CHAPTER X—THE SYREN.CHAPTER XI—A TINY THREAD.CHAPTER XII—A DOUBLE LIFE.CHAPTER XIII—A TOUCH OF NATURE.CHAPTER XIV—WHERE IS THE MAN?CHAPTER XV—INSIDE THE HOUSE.CHAPTER XVI—A WARM RECEPTION.CHAPTER XVII—A NOTE OF ALARM.CHAPTER XVIII—THE POISON WORKS.CHAPTER XIX—PLAYING THE GAME.CHAPTER XX—A NEAT STRATAGEM.CHAPTER XXI—AT HER GATES.CHAPTER XXII—WARP AND WOOF.CHAPTER XXIII—FENCING.CHAPTER XXIV—A STRANGE MESSAGE.CHAPTER XXV—DRAWING THE NET.CHAPTER XXVI—CATCHING THE TROUT.CHAPTER XXVII—BARCA CLIMBS DOWN.CHAPTER XXVIII—A FULL CONFESSION.CHAPTER XXIX—BALM IN GILEAD.CHAPTER XXX—DICK'S STORY.Copyright

The Law of the Land

Fred M White

CHAPTER I—THE CUP OF HAPPINESS.

Ralph Kingsmill drew a deep breath as he looked around. It seemed life had suddenly brought him all that man could desire. In his waking dreams he had pictured this, never hoping to see it realised. And now it had all come to him in most unexpected fashion. A week before and what had he been? A poor, struggling author, with one or two minor successes to his credit, burning with unsatisfied ambition, strong at one moment, lamentably weak the next; in short, a brilliantly clever man, cursed with the temperament that usually goes with the artistic faculty. He had had his debts and his dissolute companions, he had known a full pocket and a purse so lean that starvation had stared him in the face. The sordid side was the more painful, agonising, because Ralph had known the luxury of a refined home, and was an old public schoolboy.More than once he had fallen very low indeed—in moments of despair nothing seemed to matter. But he could not quite crush self-respect and the feeling that he was born to better things. Nor had he ever crossed the borderland from which no traveller can return unscathed. He was wildly, even hysterically, glad of it when he had realised what the wand of fortune had done for him.He stood up in the pride of his six feet of splendid manhood, his passionate brown eyes bedewed with moisture. The spirit of the athlete still burned within him. And here—almost incredible though it was—was the chance that he had dreamt of.He might wake presently and find he had been dreaming. But the fine old house was real enough; so were the Elizabethan furniture, the pictures and the plate, the glorious gardens and the park with the historic oaks beyond. And all this was Ralph's, with a good eight thousand pounds a year to dress the part.How had it all come about? Well, the thing was simple. Every day one hears stories of large fortunes left to comparative beggars, and Ralph's was a case in point. Abbey Close had belonged to a literary misanthrope, who knew nobody and boasted that he had not a single relation in the world. He sneered at everything sentimental, and yet his very loneliness was the outcome of an unrequited attachment years before. And one day there came in his way a short poem of Ralph's which touched a hidden chord. Ralph had written it from his heart after some mad dissipation. But the owner of Abbey Close did not know that, and thought he recognised a kindred spirit. It would be fine to leave all his money and property to the writer of that poem. The thing was done. Doubtless it would have been undone again in a fortnight, had not a sharp attack of pneumonia cut Mr. Ripley off, and Ralph, to his astonishment, found himself in possession of the Close. Strange things had happened before to-day.So here it was all for Ralph to do as he liked with. At that particular moment no selfish thoughts were occupying his attention. He was thinking of Enid Charteris. It was a curious coincidence that Charteris Park, the seat of Sir Charles Charteris, Enid's father, should be situated not four miles from Abbey Close. And Ralph had adored her ever since the night when he had met the girl at a reception in Grosvenor-square. Pretty low as he had fallen, there were times when Ralph accepted the invitations of his father's old friends, and was tempted to "revisit the pale glimpses of the moon." How well he recalled the glorious July night now.And Enid? Well, Ralph was handsome, and as to his brilliant intellect there could be no doubt. The young people had met many times, when Enid's lovely face would flush and mantle, and there was something in her blue eyes that told Ralph a tender story. But he had never spoken; he was too proud for that.Now everything was changed. He had hoped to tell Enid of his good fortune, but others had been before him, and she had written him a little note of congratulation. Could she come and advise him as to the ordering of his new house? And so Enid was coming; coming alone, too, for one of her charms was her easy unconventionality. She would be here in a few moments, the sunshine of her presence would fill the rooms.Oh! the setting was worthy of the jewel; the charming Tudor drawing-room, with its old furniture and display of flowers, was a picture in itself. A priceless set of old silverware stood on the tea-table. Ralph started as a shadow flitted across the room. His face lost its eager expression for a moment."I am disturbing you," the figure said, "and I know how you dislike to be interrupted during your hours of inspiration. However, I am not going to stay more than a moment, and then I will leave you to yourself for the rest of the day. Upon my word, the longer I stay here the more I envy you. After all, there is something in luck, though most men who have attained fortune seem to think otherwise."Ralph smiled as he looked around him, his eye filled with beauty in whichever direction he glanced."I suppose I ought to consider myself very fortunate," he said, "and, indeed, as yet I can hardly believe that it is true. I was not seeking inspiration just now so much as dwelling—"But the other man had vanished. Indeed, he had gone so softly that Ralph had not heard the sound of a footfall. That was a thing about his friend that he rather disliked. He had the gift of appearing and disappearing in this fashion, painfully suggestive of eavesdropping."Now, do I like that man or do I not?" Ralph mused to himself. "At any rate, he is a link with the past, which I must get rid of sooner or later. I should not care to have him about me very much. Later, when Enid—"Ralph broke off abruptly and his face coloured slightly. He noted, with surprise, that the other man was in the room again, just as if he had the gift of making himself invisible at will. A feeling of irritation gripped Ralph."I thought you had gone, Barca," he said. "Have you forgotten something?"The man addressed as Barca shook his head. He was a small, dark man, with a pleasant smile and brown eyes hidden behind gold rimmed glasses. Despite his name, Barca was English to his finger tips. Nobody quite knew who he was or where he came from; he was a doctor by profession, and his friends foretold a great future for him. Why he was staying a day or two at Abbey Close, Ralph would have been puzzled to say. But Barca had his own way of managing these things."It is nothing," he said, "I have found what I required. I am going as far as Stonehouse and shall not be back before dinner. A most interesting operation on an old follow student of mine. I had the telegram a little time ago. If I am late, do not wait for me."Ralph looked relieved. Perhaps Barca noticed the expression, for he smiled slightly. Just for a moment his brown eyes flashed like electric points of flame. Ralph wondered why he had asked this keen-witted, hard little man of the world at the very time when he most desired to be alone."Very good," he said. "If you are late I will see that some dinner is kept for you."Barca departed whistling, but when alone he laughed quietly, and his eyes flashed again. There was a snarl on his lips a greedy cautious look on his face. Once more he smiled as he saw the solitary figure of a horsewoman coming along the drive."A pretty romance," he said to himself. "A pity to spoil it! And yet here is the opportunity of my lifetime. That dreamer has everything, I nothing. Well, well. Richard Barca is not going to starve whilst Ralph Kingsmill is wallowing in plenty."The rider came slowly up to the house; a groom appeared from somewhere and took her horse. She made her way into the old panelled hall; her blue eyes took in the old pictures, and the trophies, the piled up ferns and flowers. Enid was glad that Ralph loved flowers; it was another bond of sympathy between them. Ralph was standing at the drawing-room door now with a tender smile on his face; Enid flushed a delicate pink in response. For a long time Ralph held her hands in his."This is all I wanted to make my pleasure complete," he said tenderly. "I was half afraid lest something should detain you at the last moment—""You will not think me dreadfully unconventional," Enid said, with an unsteady laugh. "My father half promised to come, but business prevented him. Of course, I ought not to be here at all. How shocked some of our old friends would be! But curiosity was too strong for me, and—I came."Ralph thrilled to his finger-tips. Tender words rose to his lips. He talked indifferently enough as Enid lay back in the depths of an old beehive chair and sipped her tea. She was so full of sweetness and easy sympathy, and listened to all that Ralph had to say with a flush of pleasure on her dainty face. She seemed to feel exactly as he did. Ralph came over to her side and took her empty cup away. He could see the gleam of her pearly teeth and catch the fragrance of her chestnut hair."What a wonderful gift of sympathy you have," he said at length. "It was the first thing I noticed in you the night we met in Grosvenor-square...Let me tell you a secret, Enid. I went there to get a meal. My fortunes were at their lowest ebb that night. I had less money in my pocket than the Junior footman. It was a case of Chatterton over again. And then I met you. As I walked home I seemed to have new hope and courage. We met again and again, till I was almost afraid to see you. I was afraid that I should tell you the truth. And I feel that in some way you divined my feelings, Enid."The girl's golden head was bent for a moment; Ralph could see the rosy pink flushing to the roots of her hair. Then the delicate creamy face was lifted to his glance."I—I think so," Enid almost whispered. "I—I seemed to understand. And I admired you for your pride and reticence. Still, that is all over now.""All over, thank God," Ralph said, with a deep thrill in his voice. "I don't know what I have done to deserve this good fortune, Enid. I meant to win it by my own unaided efforts, and lay it all at your feet. But fate decided for me otherwise. And I have not been all that I should; I have fallen pretty low at times. But that is past and gone. In the future my life is to be worthy. I am getting to love this place as one who possesses a soul in him to love the beautiful, but there is something lacking. My darling, will you come into my life and fill the void? I need not tell you that I love you—I am certain that you have known that for a long time.""Why should I deny it?" Enid cried. "It seemed so hopeless at one time. I knew that so long as you were poor you would never speak. I will be more candid still, and own that I—I pictured something like this as I rode here to-day. You will not think that my confession—""No, no," Ralph exclaimed. "There is no need for more. Enid, say you love me and will be my wife."Ralph's whole soul was shining in his eyes; he could see the love-light reflected on Enid's face, flushed and rosy with a new strange happiness. With a sudden impulse the girl rose and placed both her hands in his. Ralph drew her to him, and pressed his lips passionately to hers. There was a long, delicious silence. Outside the sun was shining gloriously, and a blackbird piped madly in the big cedar on the lawn. Then Enid drew herself gently away, and her clear blue eyes sought Ralph's brown ones."I love you, dearest," she said quietly. "Nothing can alter that fact. I am going to give myself to you as Ruth did, till the end comes. But there is nobody else, Ralph; tell me that there has never been anybody else? Do not think me unreasonably jealous, but you are the only man I ever cared for, and I should like to know that, that—""You are the only girl," Ralph laughed. "Passing fancies, perhaps, but no more. I swear to you, Enid, that all that is in me belongs to you. Will that suffice?"Enid's smooth cheek lay close to that of her lover. She could not know that at that very moment he was thinking of another pair of blue eyes just as deep and tender. But that episode was closed; the page was turned down. And Enid would never know. Surely, he had never cared for any girl as he did for that one who lay nestled up to his heart now?

CHAPTER II—DASHED FROM HIS LIPS.

"I might ask you the same question," Ralph said playfully, after a long pause. "Are you quite sure, darling, that I am the only man?"

"Passing fancies," Enid said with a little laugh. "Of course, I have met men that I liked. At one time it was Stephen Holt. I fancy you met him at the Ronald-Claytons. He used to be at Eton with my brother. But I am talking nonsense, Ralph. Still, it is good for me to lie in your arms and tell you these things."

"I know the man," Ralph said. Try as he would, he could not keep a little hardness out of his voice. "I had forgotten that your brother and Holt were friends. We were all at Eton together, as a matter of fact. I have met Holt recently. Where is he now?"

There was anxiety in the question, but Enid did not seem to notice it.

"How small the world really is!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Holt is staying with a friend near us, and is dining with us to-night. He goes back to town by the last train. Can't I persuade you to come over to-night and meet him?"

But Ralph shook his head. He was far more disturbed and uneasy than he would have cared for Enid to know. He had hugged himself with the delusion that he had buried all the old ghosts, and yet here was one in his path, far away from the haunts that he had left for ever.

"I don't think so, dearest," he said. "My first visit to your place must be to pay a formal visit to your father and tell him what has happened. To-morrow afternoon. And if Sir Charles listens favourably to my suit I may be asked to dinner afterwards."

"As if dad ever refused me anything!" Enid laughed. There was a wonderfully tender happiness shining in her blue eyes. "If you like I will keep our beautiful romance a secret a little longer. And what a delightful thing it is! I feel as if I shall have to tell it to everybody as I go along. And I hope I shall never be jealous of you, Ralph. Where we Charteris women love we have no halfway house. You know something of our family history."

A slight shadow crossed Ralph's face. There was more than one dark story in the family archives, and jealousy had been at the bottom of them all. But there was no sign of that mad passion in the melting blue eyes that Ralph was looking down into; he shook off the sense of impending evil and kissed the smiling red lips again.

"And now I must go," Enid said. "Do you mean to say that it is half-past six. I shall barely have time to get home and dress for dinner. Ralph, I positively command you to ring the bell and order my horse round at once."

Enid was on her horse at last, and flung down the drive with Ralph gazing after her. It seemed as if something was going out of his life again. But it was not for long. He would go over to Charteris Park to-morrow and put the engagement on a proper footing. Yet there was a frown on Ralph's lace and a puckering of his brows as he stood on the terrace with a cigarette between his strong teeth. He was uneasy to find how near to him the dim past had come. He had almost forgotten that other pair of blue eyes. They were the same as Enid's, and yet how utterly different!

"Why do I dwell upon it?" he asked himself impatiently. "What have I to fear? I had quite forgotten that Holt was a friend of Dick Charteris. And so Holt was making love to Enid before I knew her! What an escape for her! What a lucky thing that she did not give her heart to that black-guard! And yet there was a time when I was very little better. And he knows all about Kate Lingen, too. So does Barca for that matter. It would have been better to have told Enid everything, to have made a clean breast of it. And yet to-day.....I couldn't. Still......"

Ralph threw his cigarette away and strode moodily into the house. Physically he was no coward; he was ready to face any danger, and had his nerves under perfect control.

And yet there were one or two things that he should have told Enid. Episodes of his past...... He should have trusted her love for him further than he had done.

The dark clouds had cleared away by dinner time, when Ralph sat alone. Barca came back before dark; he seemed on good terms with himself. He had had a perfectly successful operation, but was rather tired, and meant to go to bed early. He asked no questions about Miss Charteris, and Ralph was grateful. Like most Bohemians, he was the soul of hospitality; at the same time, he was anxious to know how much longer Barca was going to stay at Abbey Close. He desired to cut away the old life as speedily as possible. Barca's eyes flashed murderously for a moment, and he played with his dessert knife as if it been a lancet.

"You are anxious to get rid of me, my friend," he said. "Well, perhaps it is natural. I shall go and tell the others that Ralph Kingsmill has turned respectable; that he is going to divert his brilliant intellect in the direction of broadcloth and square-toed boots; that he is going to be married. And what will the fair Kate say?"

"What makes you think I am anxious to get rid of you?" Ralph asked uneasily. "I have never said a word to you which would convey that impression."

Barca smiled in his dark, inscrutable fashion. He took a peach from the dish before him and peeled it deliberately. He might have been dissecting a human heart. Ralph could imagine those cold, steady hands working calmly on some unhappy creature in the last stages of a fell disease.

"You have said absolutely nothing," Barca replied. "In that way you are the soul of discretion, but when a man has made up his mind to marry, it is no unusual thing for him to find it prudent to cut off the friends of his youth. I don't suppose Miss Charteris will have much sympathy with a casual like Richard Barca."

"I don't recollect mentioning Miss Charteris's name at all," Ralph said coldly, "beyond casually remarking that she had been here this afternoon. Apart from that—"

"Is there really any reason for more?" Barca laughed. "I can tell what has happened from the expression of your face and the dreamy look in your eyes. Since we sat down you have glanced several times at the clock, as if wondering how much longer it would be before I left you to pursue my evening experiments as usual. Still, a man can't altogether escape from the indiscretions of his youth, and, as I ventured to ask before, quite in the way of chaff, what will the fair Kate say? You must not forget that certain tender passages—"

Ralph writhed uneasily in his chair. It seemed to him that there was a distinct menace behind the bantering tones of his companion. Just for an instant he detected a steely flash in Barca's brown eyes. If there was, he ignored it.

"Mrs. Lingen is nothing to me," he said. "It is a year since we parted. I shall be glad if you will not refer to the subject again, Barca. It displeases me. And I had always suspected you of a tenderness in that quarter. If my opinion is worth anything."

Barca's eyes flashed with a consuming fire. The handle of his dessert knife was gripped so tightly that his knuckles showed clean white to the bones. The man was trembling from head to foot with passion. And yet his laugh was steady.

"I am not so favoured," he said. "And I have no time for the tender passions. I who have only myself to depend upon. What has the obscure doctor whose first recollection is the whitewashed wall of a foundling hospital to do with love? It is not as if I had come into a lovely place like this. Upon my word, I envy you. I have made a study of the house. There are art treasures, tapestries, and the like, in a great storeroom in the attics that would furnish the place twice over. And the grand old Persian carpets. Why, the one on the floor here is priceless."

Ralph agreed eagerly. He was grateful to Barca for changing the conversation. And in sooth, the dining-room carpet was a marvellous affair, cream and gold and pallid blue, unfaded and unchanged after the lapse of three centuries. Ralph stood contemplating it long after Barca had pleaded fatigue and gone to bed. It was getting late now, and all the servants had retired. The long window leading to the lawn was not closed; the silken curtains flitted to and fro in the breeze. Ralph had no inclination for bed; he preferred to sit where he was, in a glow of delight, contemplating his new great happiness.

The past lay behind him, forgotten for the moment. The curtains before the window shook ominously, but Ralph took no heed. He did not hear footsteps on the gravel, and looked up in mild surprise as the curtains parted and a man stepped into the room.

A puff of wind closed the door gently but firmly, and the shaded lamps smoked to the breeze.

"I am about the last visitor you expected," the intruder said harshly.

He advanced to the centre of the room, a tall, slim figure, with good-looking features marred by the traces of dissipation. The grey eyes were a little too close together, the lips under the fair moustache too sensual. But the eyes were blazing, and the man's whole frame quivered with impatient anger.

"Stephen Holt," Ralph said. "It is some time since we met. I should have thought after our last meeting that you would not have ventured to intrude upon me again. What do you mean by coming here in this fashion at this hour?"

The stranger laughed hoarsely. There was a studied insolence in his manner.

"One question at a time," he said. "It will be my turn presently. I left Charteris Park to go to town by the last train. I got as far as the Junction, and then left my carriage and came here by way of the fields. I should not have come at all had I not discovered something at dinner to-night. You are engaged to Enid Charteris?"

Ralph smiled at the impetuosity of the question. He had all the feeling of the man who has been successful, and could afford to deal leniently with his ousted rival. It seemed hard to believe, though, that the man who stood before him had once been on friendly, not to say affectionate, terms with Enid. But then Stephen Holt had been a different man in those days, before the poison had entered his blood, and he had drifted down hill towards the brink of social ruin.

"You have been drinking," Ralph said. "You must have been somewhere since you left Charters Park. Now, just think a moment before you take a step which you may have occasion bitterly to regret. Few men would stand here and argue the question out as I am doing now, for I tell you candidly my impulse is to give you a minute to leave the house or kick you out through the window. At any rate, I decline to enter into a vulgar row with you on the subject of Miss Charteris."

"Hear this beggar on horseback talk," Holt sneered. "Listen to the struggling poet, who only a few weeks ago hardly knew what it was to have a decent meal. Perhaps you will not ride so high a horse after I have seen my sister. Yes, I see I have touched you on a soft spot there. And now once more I ask you plainly, are you or are you not engaged to Enid Charteris?"

Ralph stepped forward, fierce rage gleaming in his eyes. It suddenly occurred to him, however, that this man was a guest of a sort in his house, and that violence was out of place. With an effort he controlled himself. Coolly shrugging his shoulders, he turned away with a smile.

"You have no right to ask the question, and I am certain that she did not tell you."

"That is true enough. But I have eyes to see. And to-night at dinner she was transformed, glorified! Even then I did not guess who it was till your name was mentioned. Then as I looked at her face again and learnt where she had passed the after-noon, I knew. And, but for you, that girl would have been mine, the only woman in the world that could have held me straight. You come in and steal her from me like this. You will give her up, Kingsmill."

"My good fellow," Ralph said warmly, "you have been drinking!"

"Well, what of that?" the other asked sullenly. "I had some time to wait at the station, and I was wild with disappointed love and jealousy. Who are you to step in between any man and the woman he cares for? There was Kate Lingen, for instance, and Barca. And you will not deny that at one time your passion for Kate Lingen—"

"You had better be careful," Ralph said between his teeth. "Fortunately for me, I found out what Mrs. Lingen was before it was too late. We parted friends—"

"Yes, but you did not get your letters back," Holt sneered. "Such letters! Written by a poet with the love frenzy upon him! And I can place my hand on those letters to-morrow. Recall some of the tender phrases. If you will be so good! And think of Enid Charteris's face as she reads those letters of yours. Now, what are you going to do?"

Ralph's first impulse was to take the miscreant by the throat and shake the life out of him. There was hot passionate blood in his veins, and Holt was pushing him far. He must be careful.

"Go on," he whispered; "go on. I can see that you have a proposal to make."

"Oh, I have. You are rich, and I am desperately in need of money. Give me L2000 and break off your engagement with Enid, and those letters are yours. Enid is my one hope of salvation: she alone can keep me from going headlong to the devil. Kate played you false when she said that she had destroyed those letters. And I know where to find them. Nobody need be any the wiser, nobody knows that I have been here. I am supposed to be half-way to London by this time. Give me your promise, and you shall never hear from me again."

Mechanically Ralph took up a long-bladed paper-cutter from the table. It was an Eastern toy, but capable of being a dangerous weapon in a strong man's hands.

"And if I refuse this preposterous offer?" he said in a deep whisper.

"Then I go to Enid and tell her everything. I give her those letters to read. I can't give her up; you do not know how I love her, Kingsmill. To me she is salvation itself. Once she sees those letters you are done for, and you know it."

Ralph rose to his feet. He was seeing red before his eyes now, lost in a tempest of whirling passions. The worm must be killed, this loathsome thing swept aside. Ralph seemed to feel that he had somebody by the coat collar, somebody who was crying out in alarm. Something flashed in the air and fell with a dull thud against white living flesh; then a red stream of spurting fluid lay like a swelling river on the carpet. ...

CHAPTER III—THE LONG NIGHT.

The deed was done, done beyond recall. It seemed to Ralph as if he had been the victim of some hypnotic force. Surely, with his own hand, he had never struck a fellow creature down like that! And there had been no provocation, no battling of one life against an other, no mere struggle for existence. It seemed impossible—but there it was.

And all in the twinkling of an eye. A red patch had blazed and burned before him. As to the rest, he could not speak definitely. He could feel the handle of the paper-knife in his grasp, a grasp so painful that the flesh of his palm was bruised. There was crimson on his right hand, dull glowing patches like carbuncles on the shining surface of the dining table. On the carpet, Stephen Holt lay stretched at length, face downwards, his hands flung over his head. A great band of crimson stained the delicate cream and gold and blue of the priceless Persian carpet; there were specks of horrid red on the great bowl of tea roses on the table. All those minute details Ralph noticed with an astounding grasp of little things. As a writer he had always had an eye for details, but never was that faculty more keenly developed than now. Ralph wondered at his own calmness. As he stood there he could feel his heart beating with normal regularity.

He bent over the dreadful thing lying on the floor, the dull husk of what had been a palpitating human being a few moments before. Stephen Holt was dead. There was not the faintest pulsation; the hands were already turning to a clammy blue. The murderer had no delusion on that score. Stephen Holt was dead.

And he, Ralph, a murderer. He started as the thought came home to him. A cold-blooded, wilful, and deliberate murderer. That is what the jury would say. And he would not have even one single plea in self-defence. He could not drag Enid's name into this horrible business; he could only say that Stephen Holt had come to blackmail him. There were no signs of a struggle, no suggestion of a quarrel and mutual violence. So far as Ralph could see, there was no incriminating evidence.

He would be taken to the place from whence he came and hanged by the neck till he was dead. Ralph had heard those dreaded words fall from the lips of a Judge once, and had never forgotten them nor their effect on a crowded court. And now he would stand in the dock and hear another judge say the same thing—to him! It sounded incredible.

A few minutes ago he had been one of the happiest men alive. It seemed deplorable that he should have everything and suffer like this for such a creature as Stephen Holt. He was better dead than alive; Ralph had done the State some service after all. And nobody knew that Holt had been there; he had crept into the house like a thief in the night. Nobody could know that he had come to Abbey Close; nobody had seen him leave the railway train at the Junction. If he were missed, it might be assumed that he had fallen out of the carriage. By this time his portmanteau had reached the London terminus. Ralph was listening to the honied voice of temptation now. Nobody had been near to see the tragedy. The whole house was perfectly still. And down at the foot of the garden was a deep lake that would for ever hold its ghastly secret. It was only necessary to drag the body there and fill the pockets of the dead man with stones. . . . . . .

Ralph bent over the prostrate figure. But he could not touch it. His impulse was to scream—the hysterical scream of a frightened woman. Besides there was the hideous crimson pool on the carpet, which would have to be accounted for. That priceless carpet could not be changed, or cleaned, or spirited away. There were the red spots on the tea roses, but they did not matter much.

No, that idea would have to be abandoned. Surely there was some other way? What was the use of being a creative novelist if he could not devise a way out of a situation like this? Thee great idea of sensational fiction was to find the way of safety for the hero, and Ralph had cultivated this line with distinct success. But somehow in fiction the thing seemed different—then facts could be fitted to the situation, here the situation was inviolate. A score of schemes rushed through Ralph's mind.

Finally it came to him, he would do nothing. He would go to bed and leave the window open. It would be an easy matter to fill the pockets of the dead man with little art treasures, and leave him there to be found by the servants in the morning. The inference might be that there were two burglars, and that they had quarrelled. A poor story, but in the circumstances the best that Ralph could invent.

Ralph was himself again by this time; he was even conscious of a certain indignation. He might have rung the bell and summoned the household to hear that he had killed a man in self-defence. But Ralph was as poor an actor as authors generally are, and shrank from the make-believe of it. He did not realise that his acting powers would be more severely taxed by his adopted scheme. But he made up his mind to go through with it now; nobody should know, and he would marry Enid and live happily ever afterwards. His mind was beginning to move more rapidly. To be quite safe he must go to bed. He extinguished the lights, purposely leaving open the window by which Holt had entered. He crept up the stairs and along the corridor. A silt of light from one of the doors attracted his attention. He could just see into Barca's room. The latter had removed his dress-coat and vest and had assumed a workmanlike apron. A prettily shaded lamp was on a side table, and under it Barca was doing something mysterious with liquids and a pair of test-tubes. He appeared to be engrossed in his labours.

A sudden thought came to Ralph. He slipped quietly along to his room and took off his clothes. Then he slipped into his pyjamas and rumpled his hair. After that he walked down the lobby till he came to Barca's room. Without hesitation he flung open the door, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

"Not gone to bed!" he exclaimed. "Very busy?"

"I thought you had not come upstairs yet," Barca suggested.

"Been up a long time," Ralph replied. He was surprised to find how readily the lie came to his lips. "Fact is, I followed you up. I suppose I must have been asleep an hour when I thought I heard a voice downstairs. I came to investigate, and found your door open. Did you hear anything?"

Barca replied quite gravely that he had heard nothing. He had just broken a test tube, and perhaps that sound had disturbed Ralph. Barca appeared to be engrossed in his work, and did not once look at his companion. Ralph was grateful for that.

He had made up his mind what to do now, he could see it through to the end. He ought to have gone back to bed, but feared the silence of the night. It would be broad daylight at 4 o'clock, but it wanted three hours for that time. And to lie tossing in the darkness with that stark body lying below was more than Ralph could bear.

"How long are you going to be over that experiment?" he asked. Barca shrugged his shoulders, but did not look up.

"I can't say," he explained. "Perhaps an hour, perhaps all night. When once I get fascinated, I pay no heed to the flight of time. I have worked for 40 hours at a stretch without food or rest. You see that spot of liquid at the bottom of the tube? That is a new kind of acid. It is wonderful stuff; it will take stains, what are called indelible stains, out of anything, and never hurt the fabric a bit."

"Useful in case of crime," said Ralph with a shudder. He was thinking of the great purple patch on the Persian carpet. "I was speaking of forgery and the like. Could you remove the writing on a cheque without destroying the water-mark?"

"Quite easily," Barca said in the same level tone of voice. "The murderer need not fear the tell-tale stain of blood with this in his possession. And it permeates. A few spots sprinkled on a packet of letters, for instance, would in a short time leave all the sheets blank. Your letters to Kate Lingen, for instance."

The suggestion fairly startled Ralph. It so nearly touched the tragedy downstairs that he could feel the rapid beating of his heart. His guilty conscience asked him if Barca knew anything. But that was almost impossible; the remark was a mere coincidence. And Barca had not looked up; he was going on with his work with the same stolid, painstaking gravity.

"Those letters are destroyed," Ralph said coldly. "Kate told me so. And, in any case, she could gain nothing by keeping them."

"Except for purposes of revenge," said Barca, meaningly. "In case you get engaged—"

Again there was the subtle suggestion that Barca knew something.

There was a note of warning in his voice that Ralph could not wholly ignore. He would have liked to challenge the speaker, but Barca refused to look up. He gave Ralph the impression that he was merely talking for the sake of politeness.

"I am engaged," Ralph said, as if accepting the challenge. "I am going to marry Miss Enid Charteris, of Charteris Park. If you think that I have anything to fear—"

"My dear fellow, I did not say so. I merely suggested the possibility of it. 'Revenge is sweet, especially to woman,' as Byron says. Knowing something of your temperament, I should say that your letters were by no moans deficient of what another poet calls 'purple patches.' They might make a pretty wedding present for your bride. It would be by no moans the first instance of the kind."

"In that case I should have to procure some of your wonderful acid," Ralph laughed. The feeling that he could laugh startled, him. "If you could spare enough—"

Barca smiled in his peculiar way, though he did not look Ralph quickly and squarely in the face as he generally did. As a rule, Barca's eyes were notes of interrogation, and when he met a stranger he flashed his dark glance over him like the rays of a searchlight, and from that moment appeared to understand the other thoroughly. But now he was bending over his tubes as if he had no thought for anything else. It was some time before he spoke.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," he said in an absent kind of way. "Upon my word, I am so engrossed in what I am doing that I had forgotten your presence altogether. You were saying something to me about the acid, weren't you?"

"I was," Ralph replied. "I am interested in what you were saying, and I was wondering whether you could let me have a small quantity?"

"What do you want it for?" Barca asked.

"It occurred to me that I might make use of this stuff by bringing it into a story that I have had in my mind. You wouldn't understand—"

"I think I should," Barca responded, with his eyes still bent upon the tubes. "The story would have to be something sensational, I suppose? For instance, let us assume that there is a body in the story. It is necessary to get rid of the body and also the bloodstains left behind. Have I got any sort of grip on the plot of your new romance?"

"Something like that," Ralph said. He was fairly startled by Barca's words. "Can you let me have some of the stuff?"

"Not at present. That spot is all I have; enough to treat a square inch or two, perhaps. It will be weeks before I can manufacture it in bulk. In any case, you will have to submit to the tender mercies of Kate Lingen. She has the face and smile of an angel, the blue eyes of an innocent child, and the air of unsullied purity. And yet there is not a more cold-blooded, designing wretch on the face of the earth. There are men who would die for one of her smiles, or commit any crime for a touch of her lips. And yet she would, care nothing; in fact, nothing after—"

Barca paused and turned aside with a hard laugh. For the moment the pulsating intensity of his passion had startled Ralph. He had never seen the cold and self-centered man of science moved in this way before. He had never heard his voice throb with emotion.

"Do you hate her as much as that?" Ralph asked. Barca laughed again, this time more gently. His hands were steady once more.

"You are a clever man," he said. "Your boast is that you have a subtle interest where humanity and the moving strings of life are concerned. But you are as blind as the rest. And all this money comes to you who will use it to educate your children in the stereotyped way, and entertain your thick-headed neighbours to dinner! Whereas if it belonged to me—but go to bed. You are sadly interfering with the train of my thoughts. But there is no accounting for what a man in love will do. Ask me again in a week's time, and perhaps by then I shall be in a position to give you the thing that you require."

Ralph still lingered, although he could see plainly that Barca wanted to get rid of him, and all the time his mind was tortured by the feeling that Barca knew more than he cared to disclose. As his mind reviewed the lurid and tragic event of an hour ago, he began to see the surroundings more clearly. He recollected now that his quarrel with Holt had not been conducted in whispers. The house was very quiet, and it was possible that some of the sounds of strife had carried as far as Barca's room.

And yet nothing could be gathered from the scientist's sphinx-like face. He was going on with his experiments as if he had forgotten the presence of his companion.