Kitabı oku: «The Duke in the Suburbs»

Dedication

TO

MARION CALDECOTT

WITH THE AUTHOR'SHOMAGE

Author's Apology

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.

Part I
THE DUKE ARRIVES

I

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: —

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 —

"THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER,"

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.

II

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

"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."

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.

* * * * *

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.

III

"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.

IV

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.

"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!"

V

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.

VI

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.

VII

"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.

VIII

"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 mustbe 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."

Part II
THE DUKE DEPARTS

I

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.

II

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 Magnetis 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.

III

"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 affaireof – 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'."

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."

X

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.

XI

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 "№ 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 Ironichad 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.

XII

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.

Part III
THE DUKE RETURNS

I

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.

DEAR SIR, —

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.

Awaiting your favour,

We are, etc.

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.

II

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.

ON DIT

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

* * *

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?

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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.

* * *

Compare Storey's prices with elsewhere!

Boys' School Boots a speciality – never wear out!

* * *

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

* * *

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.

* * *

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

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.

III

"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 – "

Part IV
THE DUKE REMAINS

I

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.)

"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.

II

"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.

III

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 Reviewand 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.

IV

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.

V

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."

VI

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. Mailhad 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.

VII

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 Mailin 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.

Part V
THE DUKE ADVENTURES

I

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."

II

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.