BOOK II--ROMANCE

BOOK II--ROMANCE

Chapter XI. A Harbour of Refuge

It was the cabman who first made it clear to me that my town address was somewhat out of the common. He had stowed my two portmanteaux on the roof (it was a four-wheeled cab), and, descending to hold the door open for me to enter, shut it after me with a bang and waited while I stated my destination.

“I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said, incredulously; “did you say Wellclose Square?”

“Yes. Number sixty-nine.”

Again he regarded me with wrinkled brows. “That won’t be Wellclose Square down by the Docks?” he suggested.

“I don’t know if it’s near the Docks,” I replied, “but it isn’t far from Ratcliff Highway.”

“That’s the place, sure enough,” said he. “Number sixty-nine. Well, I’m jiggered.” With this he turned and slowly climbed to the box, looking in at me through the front window as he mounted; and even when he had taken his seat and gathered up the reins, he took yet another confirmatory glance over his shoulder before starting.

These mysterious proceedings occasioned me some surprise, not entirely unmixed with anxiety. Dr. Thorndyke had admitted that the neighbourhood was squalid, and the question arose, How squalid was it? The first part of the journey, through Eastcheap and Great Tower Street, was rather reassuring; and as we crossed Tower Hill and the grey pile of ancient buildings loomed up above the trees, I was quite pleasantly impressed. But then came a change for the worse. Long streets of characterless houses, all of a dingy, grey colour--the colour of all-pervading dirt--and growing greyer and dingier as we proceeded; populated by men and women, and especially children, of the same cobwebby tint, with something foreign and unfamiliar in their aspect and manners--a deficiency of artificial head-covering with a remarkable profusion of the natural, and a tendency to sit about on doorsteps; these, with a general outbreak on the shop signs of Wowskys, Minskys, Steins and Popoffs, were the features of the neighbourhood that chiefly attracted my attention as the cab rattled eastward. But there was not much time for extended observation, for I had barely noted these appearances when we turned into a short side-street and emerged into a square, the dingyness of which was somewhat relieved by a group of faded trees in the central enclosure.

Round the square the cab trundled slowly until it drew up opposite a tall house of the Georgian type, with white window frames and a green door. As the cab stopped, the green door opened and a small elderly lady came forth, while three younger women lurked in the background. Escaping from the cab, I advanced to meet the elderly lady, who received me with a singularly pleasant smile and a few quietly-spoken words of welcome; a proceeding that was observed with furtive interest by the cabman as he transferred my portmanteaux from the cab-roof to the pavement and thence to the hall; nor did his curious observation of me cease until it was brought to an end by actual invisibility, for, as the cab moved out of the square, I saw his face still turned towards me over the roof, with the same expression of puzzled surprise.

“You would like to see your room, I expect,” said the elderly lady whom I had correctly assumed to be Miss Polton; “then we will have tea and talk over your arrangements.” She moved towards the stairs (up which I had just seen one of the young women hopping with surprising agility, with one of my portmanteaux in either hand), and conducted me to a room on the second floor, where the portmanteaux had been duly deposited, though the bearer had vanished.

“It’s rather bare,” said Miss Polton, “but you can have some pictures and ornaments if you like. My young ladies usually prefer to have their own things and arrange them in their own way. Your workroom is downstairs. I consulted my brother about it, and he said he thought you would like a room with a stone floor if you were going to do hammered work and use a furnace. So, as I had one with quite a good light, I have kept it for you--that is, of course, if you like it.”

“I expect I shall,” I replied. “A wooden floor is dreadfully noisy when one is hammering on a stake, and not very safe when there are red-hot crucibles about.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and you can have a mat for your feet when you are sitting at the bench. And now I will leave you and go and see about the tea.”

Left to myself, I looked around at my new home. The room, though spacious, was undeniably bare, but yet it gave me an impression of comfort. For its bareness was due merely to the absence of superfluities. The empty walls, distempered a pale cream colour, were severe to baldness; but how much better than the usual boarding-house walls, covered with staring flowered paper and disfigured with horrible prints or illuminated texts! They, like the empty book-shelves, were ready to receive the personal touches and to become friendly and sympathetic. Of actual necessaries there were more than in many an over-furnished room; a small wardrobe, a good-sized, firm table, a chest of drawers with a looking-glass on it, a small writing chair, a comfortable folding arm-chair, a washing-stand and a sponge bath, besides the book-shelves aforesaid, and a daintily-furnished bed, gave me a foundation of material comfort and convenience on which it would be easy to build and make additions. As I concluded my survey and refreshed myself with a wash, I decided that, whatever the surroundings of the house might be like, its interior seemed to have the makings of a home.

Nor was I less favourably impressed when I went downstairs. The dining-room, in which I found the ladies assembled, was pervaded by an air of spotless cleanliness with a severity approaching bareness. The absence of superfluous furniture and useless ornaments and bric-a-brac struck me, indeed, as rather odd in a household composed--so far as I knew--entirely of women.

“I must introduce you to the family,” said Miss Polton, with a pleasant wrinkly smile, “at least those who are at home. There are three more who will come in to dinner. This is Miss Blake, and these ladies are Miss Barnard and Miss Finch.”

I shook hands with my new comrades--the last being the little lady who had skipped up the stairs so actively with my luggage--and then we sat down to the table, at the head of which Miss Polton presided, and made the tea in a delightful Delft teapot from a brass kettle on which I cast an expert and somewhat disapproving eye, for it was of a blatantly commercial type and quite unworthy of the teapot.

At first, conversation was spasmodic and punctuated by considerable pauses. Miss Polton was evidently a silent, self-contained woman, though genial in a quiet, restful way. Miss Finch, too, who sat by me, was quiet and a little shy, speaking rarely but silently plying me with food. Miss Blake, on the other hand, had a restless manner, and, though she spoke little at first, was undisguisedly interested in me, for whenever I looked at her I caught her wide-open, blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. She was a rather remarkable-looking girl, with a wealth of red-gold hair, a white and pink complexion, and a profile which, with its sharp, projecting chin and retroussé nose, might have been taken direct from one of Burne-Jones’s allegories; indeed, my first glance at her had made me think of the “Briar Rose” and the “Golden Stairs.” And now, as I caught her intense gaze again and again, I had the feeling that she was wanting to say something to me; and the more so since I thought I detected a certain expectancy in the expression of her neighbour, Miss Barnard. Nor was I mistaken; for, after one of the periodic pauses in the conversation, she leaned over the table towards me and said in low, portentous tones:

“Mrs. Otway, I want to ask you a question, if you won’t think me too inquisitive.” Here she paused--and Miss Barnard also paused in the conveyance to her mouth of a large piece of bread and marmalade.

“I don’t suppose your question would be too inquisitive,” I said, guardedly.

“It isn’t really,” said she. “You know, I have been looking at your face, and I’ve been wondering--it’s an extraordinary psychic face, do you know?”

“Is it?” said I, noting that Miss Barnard had broken out into a slow smile, which she was trying to obliterate with the lump of bread and marmalade.

“Oh, very. Intensely so. It is a face, you know, in which the workings of the subconscious appear, as it were, like an undercurrent moving beneath the surface of the conscious. I have been watching it with deep interest, and I have been wondering if you are, as I am, a dweller in the larger world beyond that inhabited by the conscious self, beyond the mere material universe. Is it not so, Mrs. Otway?”

Now this was a “facer.” As my dear father would have expressed it in his playful fashion, it “knocked me sideways.” I cast a bewildered glance round the table, and was aware of a very extensive outbreak of the subconscious, Miss Polton was blandly indulgent, her face transformed into a network of amiable wrinkles; Miss Finch was engaged in an intense scrutiny of the bowl of a jam spoon; while Miss Barnard’s feats, with the bread and marmalade, were becoming positively dangerous.

“I am not sure that I quite understand your question,” said I.

“You generally don’t,” murmured Miss Finch, as Miss Polton explained that “Miss Blake was somewhat of a mystic.”

“Like her famous namesake,” said I.

“And ancestor,” Miss Blake added, eagerly.

“Really!” I exclaimed, clutching at this straw; “you are actually a descendant of William Blake? And I daresay you are a great admirer of his works?”

“I should think she is!” exclaimed Miss Barnard. “You should just see her fashion plates.”

Recalling Blake’s usual rendering of the human figure and its unadaptability to the conditions of our climate, I secretly resolved to take an early opportunity of examining those fashion plates. Meanwhile, I remarked, “I was thinking of his poems rather than the drawings.”

“Yes,” said Miss Blake; “though the drawings are very spiritual, too. But to return to my question. You see, I had been looking at your intensely psychical face, and hoping that, at last, I had met with a kindred spirit. And I do hope--I feel convinced--that I have. Perhaps I did not put my question very clearly--it is difficult to be very definite when one is speaking of the psychic life; but I was wondering if you had ever had experiences that had made you aware of that larger world beyond the world of mere matter and sense-perception; if you had sometimes felt the thoughts of other minds stealing into your own without the aid of speech or bodily presence and even, perhaps, held converse with those dear to you who, while they have passed out of this little, material world, still share with you the greater world in which soul speaks to soul unhampered by the limitations----”

The humorous wrinkles had suddenly faded from Miss Polton’s face, leaving it grave and quiet; and now, in a quiet, grave voice, she interposed:

“I think, Lilith, dear, that Mrs. Otway’s griefs are too new and too real----”

“I know!” Miss Blake exclaimed, impulsively. “I am an egotistical wretch. It was horrid of me to be so wrapped up in my own interests. I am so sorry; so very, very sorry. Please forgive me, dear Mrs. Otway! Let us talk of something else.”

“I don’t think we must talk of anything much longer,” said Miss Polton. “We have finished tea and we ought to get on with our work. Besides, Mrs. Otway will want to unpack her things and set her room in order.”

On this there was a general up-rising. Miss Finch immediately fell to work gathering up the débris and returning the cups and saucers to the tray, while Miss Blake renewed her apologies and expressions of sympathy. Then Miss Polton took possession of me, and, having shown me my workshop--a smallish, well-lighted room, with a paved floor and a large window looking on an unexpectedly pleasant garden--took me upstairs to a box-room in which my personal luggage had been deposited.

“Supper is at eight o’clock,” said she. “We have made it rather late so that everyone may have a good, long day’s work and all the wanderers may have come home. It is the social event of the day. And now I will leave you to your unpacking.”

She tripped away up a narrow flight of stairs that opened from the landing, towards what I took to be the attics; from whence presently came a rhythmical “click-clack” that I associated with the loom of which Dr. Thorndyke had spoken. Meanwhile, I fell to work on my trunks, with a view to transferring their contents to my room; but I had hardly got them open when Miss Finch appeared at the open door.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “If I carry some of the things down you won’t have so many journeys.”

“But aren’t you busy?” I asked in return.

“Do I look like it? No, I’m lazy this afternoon, but I should like to help you, if you will let me.”

Of course I was only too glad, and forthwith loaded her with an armful of books, following her with a second consignment. For some time we continued our journeys up and down the stairs with very little said on either side, and gradually my room began to lose its emptiness and severity, and to take on the friendly aspect of an inhabited apartment.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” said Miss Finch, surveying it critically. “Looks as if someone lived in it. Do you like the wash-stand?”

“I’ve been admiring it. It’s so simple and so tasteful and unusual.”

“Yes; and yet it is only stained deal, with a few touches of gesso. Phillibar made it--Phyllis Barton, you know. You’ll meet her at supper.”

“Is she a carpenter?”

“No; she makes frames for mirrors and pictures; wooden frames decorated with gesso, or compo, or else carved. But she’s very thorough. Does it all herself. Makes up the frames from the plank, makes the compo and the moulds and does the gilding. And she is quite a good wood-worker and carves beautifully.”

“And does she make a pretty good living?” I asked, bearing Dr. Thorndyke’s observations in mind.

“She does quite well now, though she had a hard struggle at first. But now she works direct for the artists and gets as much as she can do. You will often see her frames in the exhibitions. The floor-cloth is rather nice, too, isn’t it, though it is only stencilled sacking. You’d be surprised to see how durable it is. The more it is worn, the better it looks--if it is properly done. This is stencilled with a stain. Lilith did it.”

“Lilith? Is that Miss Blake?”

“Yes. Her name is really Winifred, but we call her Lilith because she looks as if she had come out of a stained-glass window. You might think that she was a little--well, a little barmy. But she’s awfully clever.”

“She does fashion-plates, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, poor Lilith! She hates them, but she does them rippingly all the same. She would rather paint pictures or mural decorations or design tapestries, but you’ve got to do what you can sell, you know, if you want to make a living; and Lilith has a little brother whom she keeps at school--an awfully nice little kiddie. She’s a really good sort, you know, though frightfully spooky--planchette, crystal ball and all that sort of tosh; and she thinks she has found a fellow-spook, so you will have to look out.”

As Miss Finch paused to take another survey, her eye and mine fell upon the wash-stand, or rather on what it supported.

“I think,” I remarked, “that I shall have to treat myself to some new crockery. That jug and basin are hardly worthy of Miss Barton’s masterpiece.”

“No; they’re horrid, aren’t they? Regular Whitechapel china-shop stuff. But I believe I’ve got some--I’ll just run up and see.”

She tripped away up the stairs and presently returned, bearing a basin and pitcher of simple, reddish-buff earthenware glazed internally with a fine green glaze.

“They are frightfully crude and coarse,” she said apologetically (and with cheeks several shades redder than the ware), “but they aren’t vulgar. Would you like to have them until you can get something better?”

“I shall have them a long time, then,” said I. “They are charming--delightful, and they suit the wash-stand perfectly. What a house this is for pottery! I noticed the teapot and the beautiful cups and plates, all so interesting and uncommon. And now you produce these wonderful things like some benevolent enchantress. How do you do it? Do you keep a crystal ball, too?”

Miss Finch laughed and blushed very prettily. “We all do our little bit towards making the home presentable and saving expense. Miss Polton distempered these walls, and Joan Allen painted the woodwork--you’ll like Joan, I think; she paints portraits when she can get them, and fills in her time by doing magazine covers and book-wrappers. We shall expect a diploma work from you, too. You’re a goldsmith, aren’t you?”

It was my turn to laugh and blush as this magnificent title was applied to me. “Not exactly a goldsmith,” I protested. “Say, rather, a very elementary jeweller and metal-worker, or perhaps a coppersmith. And, as we have finished with this room for the present, I had better begin to get my workshop in going order.”

“And you’ll let me help you with that, too, won’t you?” said Miss Finch, with a wheedling air; and as I gladly accepted her help, she linked her arm in mine and we descended together to the scene of my future labours.

My experience of various workers has led me to observe that manual skill is a much more generalized quality than is commonly realized. The old saw of the “Jack of all trades and master of none” is entirely misleading; for manual skill acquired in the practice of one art is largely transferable to others. The acquirement of a particular kind of skill results in the establishment of a generally increased manual faculty, so that a person who has completely learned one handicraft is already more than half-way towards the attainment of skill in any other. This fact was impressed upon me as I watched little Miss Finch and noted her extraordinary handiness with probably unfamiliar appliances and her instant comprehension of the uses of things that she had probably never seen before. My two benches--the jeweller’s and the general bench--had fortunately been made in a portable form, and now had to be joined up with their screw-bolts. But my little assistant took this in at a glance, and, before I had half finished unpacking the tool cases, she had the bench-tops up-ended, had sorted out the legs, struts and the appropriate bolts, and was hard at work with the spanner. Yet, as she worked, she kept an alert and interested eye on the tools and appliances that came forth from the cases.

“What a jolly little muffie!” she exclaimed, as I deposited the small enamel furnace on the floor, pending the erection of its stand; “but won’t it eat up the gas. You’ll have to have your own meter--and watch it, too, to see that your earnings don’t all go to the gas company. And what a little duck of an anvil! But what on earth are those things?” pointing to a bundle of body-tools and snarling-irons.

I explained the use of these mysterious appliances and of sundry others; and so, with a good deal of gossip, partly personal and partly technical, we worked on until the sound of the first supper-bell sent us to our rooms to make ourselves presentable; by which time the fitting out of the workshop was so far advanced as to make it possible for me to begin work on the morrow.

The great social function of supper introduced me to the rest of my comrades; Phyllis Barton, who turned out, to my surprise, to be a tiny, frail-looking middle-aged woman of meek aspect--I had pictured her as a large, muscular, boisterous young woman; Joan Allen, who really corresponded somewhat to this description, and whom I detected more than once in the act of inspecting me with one eye closed; and a tall, rather shy girl, by name Edith Palgrave, a scrivener and calligrapher, who, I learned from Miss Finch, wrote, by choice, Church service books and illuminated addresses, but, by necessity, gained her principal livelihood by writing shop-tickets.

It was a pleasant genial gathering: homely, informal, and yet quite regardful of the indispensable social amenities. What the social class of my companions might have been I could hardly guess. They were all educated women, of good intelligence and pleasant manners, all keenly interested in one another’s doings, but each fully occupied with her own activities. The agreeable impression was conveyed that, in this little human hive, the companionship arising from the community of domestic life tended in no way to hinder a self-contained person like myself from living her own life and pursuing her own interests and satisfactions.

And so, when, somewhat early, I retired to my room to spend an hour with my books before going to bed, my thoughts turned gratefully to Dr. Thorndyke, and I congratulated myself not a little on having found this quiet anchorage in which to rest after the stormy passages of my troubled life.

Chapter XII. The Hidden Hand

I had been settled in my new home about a month when I received a letter from Mr. Jackson. It was principally devoted to a report on business matters concerned with the disposal of my father’s practice and the sale of the surplus furniture and effects, but it contained one passage that gave me considerable food for thought. The passage in question had been added as a postscript, and ran thus:

“You have probably heard that Mr. Otway has left Maidstone. I fancy things had become rather uncomfortable for him. From what transpired at the inquest, an impression got abroad that he was, to a great extent, responsible for your father’s death, and there was consequently a rather strong feeling against him. I don’t know where he has gone, but rumour has it that he has migrated to London.”

This was, in more than one respect, somewhat disquieting news. I turned it over again and again as I sat at my bench and tried to estimate its significance. The inquest had “gone off quite smoothly,” as Mr. Jackson had expressed it, but it was clear that some, at least, of the persons present had read a meaning into the evidence which the coroner and his jury seemed to have missed. Dr. Thorndyke was one of these; but, as no rumour could be traceable to him, there were evidently others. What did this portend? To Mr. Jackson it meant no more than a local prejudice. To me, conscious of a secret covenant which I had not dared to confide even to Dr. Thorndyke, it conveyed an uneasy feeling that suspicion was abroad, that it might become cumulative, and that, even yet, that covenant might be dragged into the light of day which it would bear so ill. Ever since my talk with Dr. Thorndyke, my conscience had been somewhat ill at ease. I felt that, as a witness giving testimony on oath, I had been at least uncandid, if not positively untruthful; and the word “collusion” had acquired an unpleasantly personal quality.

And then, what of Mr. Otway? Had he slipped away out of my life to hide himself where suspicion would not reach him? Or had he really migrated to London, and would his sinister shadow presently fall upon my new life as it had done upon the old? My hopes pictured him driven by his fears--for he was a timorous man--far afield, perhaps beyond the seas; but a presentiment whispered that I had not heard or seen the last of him.

And the presentiment was right. Less than a week after the arrival of Mr. Jackson’s letter came one from Mr. Otway; and its contents were even more disquieting than those of the former. It was headed “Lyon’s Inn Chambers, W.C.,” and its contents were as follows:--

“My dear Helen,

“As you will see by the above address, I have moved to London. You will, no doubt, easily understand that, after the late distressing events, the neighbourhood of Maidstone was intolerable to me, and I am writing this to give you my new address. But, also, I have two other matters on which I want to speak to you. One is to recommend to you a dealer to whom I think you may be able to dispose of your work, which you might otherwise have to sell at a great disadvantage. His name is Campbell, and his premises are in Wardour Street, near the Oxford Street end on the west side. Mr. Campbell deals in pictures and works of ancient and modern art, jewellery, goldsmith’s work, etc.; and, as he is personally known to me, I have taken the liberty of writing to him to the effect that you may possibly call on him, and describing you as a relative of mine without mentioning the nature of the relationship.

“And now I come to a rather difficult matter, which I hope you will not misunderstand. I am going to ask you to meet me, either here or in any other place that you may choose, to talk over something that has happened recently. I have, in fact, received a letter the contents of which have greatly disturbed me. I will not go into details now, but when I say that the matter is of importance to you as well as to me, I think you will understand what I mean and what the letter refers to. I beg you very earnestly not to refuse this request. The letter in question has caused me deep anxiety, and, in fact, some alarm, and I think you ought to be put into possession of its contents.

“Trusting that you will not withhold your help and support in these new and harassing circumstances.

                                        “Believe me,
                                        “Your devoted husband,
                                        “Lewis Otway.”

It would have been wiser of Mr. Otway to adopt some other mode of ending his letter. The disgust and repulsion the phrase “your devoted husband” occasioned me had nearly determined my refusal. But on reflection, not only reason, charity and a certain reluctantly admitted sense of duty, but curiosity, not unmixed with anxiety, counselled compliance. His letter was vague enough, yet it made pretty clear to me that trouble of some kind was brewing, and I was not in the position of a disinterested spectator; that, in short, my forebodings of the last few days were, perhaps, already receiving some justification.

Accordingly, I decided to agree to the meeting, and the question arose, where was it to take place? His own rooms were out of the question; for the fact of my having visited him there would greatly weaken my position if I should have to resist a claim to end the separation. Finally, I selected the Tower Wharf as a place sufficiently public and yet unfrequented enough to allow of a confidential talk secure from eavesdroppers. It had, of late, become a favourite resort of mine, for it was a pleasant place, with the trees and the old Tower on one side and the broad river on the other, and was but ten minutes’ walk from Wellclose Square. I wrote by return, naming six o’clock on the following evening; and at half-past five on that evening I set forth by way of Ship Alley and Upper East Smithfield.

Although I had walked slowly, it wanted yet ten minutes to six when I passed under the side span of the Tower Bridge and came out on to the gravelled walk overlooking the river. But already Mr. Otway was there, pacing up and down a sort of bay at the east end, with his hands behind him grasping a stout cane; and though he made a pretence of inspecting the old guns that, on their side, make a pretence of defending the fortress, he was evidently watchful and expectant, for he saw me almost as soon as I saw him, and quickened his pace to meet me.

His appearance impressed me deeply, even before we met. When I had seen him last he had been looking anxious and worried. But now he was positively haggard, and he had a furtive, hunted look that, little as I was disposed to be sympathetic, made me glad that I had not refused to meet him.

“This is really very good of you, Helen,” he exclaimed, with obvious sincerity. “But I felt sure that you would--er--respond to my appeal. It is strange,” he added, “considering what our relations are and what your feelings are towards me, that I seem to look to you, and to you alone, for support and counsel in this--er--this unexpected trouble.”

“I don’t suppose,” said I, “that any counsel of mine will be of much value to a man of your experience. But perhaps you had better tell me what the trouble is--Shall we sit down here? You spoke of having received a letter.”

“Yes,” he replied, as we sat down on a seat near the bridge. “It is an anonymous letter, and its purport is--ah--very singular, and is--ah--to the effect that--er--in fact----”

“Is there any objection to your repeating the actual wording of the letter?” I asked.

“Well, no. Certainly not. Perhaps it would be better. You are really remarkably business-like and clear-headed. I suppose it is your up-bringing and being so much with your father. No, there is no objection. In fact”--here he produced from his pocket, with evident reluctance, a leather wallet, from which he extracted a folded paper--“in fact, you may as well see the letter for yourself.”

I took the paper from him, and opening it found it to be a quite short letter, typewritten upon ordinary typist’s paper, without any address or other heading, and undated save for Mr. Otway’s written and signed endorsement. There was no signature, but in place of one was written in typed characters, “A Well Wisher”; and this is what it said:

“Mr. Lewis Otway,

“The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death, and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look out for your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present.

                                           “A Well Wisher.”

I read it through twice, noting, the second time, the peculiar construction, the faulty grammar and punctuation, and especially the confusion in the pronouns which is so characteristic of the writing of an uneducated person. Of course, these peculiarities might have been assumed as a disguise; but they established a probability that the writer was a person of indifferent education; to which class, indeed, the bulk of anonymous letter-writers belong.

I handed the document back to Mr. Otway, and asked:

“Does this letter convey anything to you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Absolutely nothing. It speaks of somebody knowing something. But that is impossible. There was no one in the house but you and I and--er--your father. Besides, there is nothing to know--excepting what you know.”

“Have you any idea or suspicion as to who the writer of this letter may be?”

“None whatever. I have not the faintest clue. You see, there is nobody in the world who has any--er--any special knowledge of the--ah--the exact circumstances but yourself.” He paused for a few moments, and then, in a lower tone, asked hesitatingly: “I suppose, Helen, you cannot--er--guess or--ah--surmise who might have----”

I looked up quickly and caught a furtive glance which was instantly averted; and in a moment it was borne in on me that he suspected me of either being the writer or concerned in the writing of this letter.

“Mr. Otway,” said I, speaking slowly and quietly, the better to command my temper, “if you have any idea that I know anything of this wretched production, dismiss it. If you have any idea that there lurks in my mind any suspicion that your account of my father’s death was untrue, dismiss that, too. If I had known, or even had the smallest grounds for suspecting, that my father met with foul play, you would not have had to wait till now to hear from me; nor would my communication have reached you in this form or through these channels.”

As I said this, looking at him, I do not doubt, sternly and forbiddingly enough, he turned horribly pale and seemed to shrink visibly. He was completely cowed; so much so that, cordially as I detested him, I felt really sorry for him.

“You mistake me, Helen. You misjudge me,” he protested, huskily; “you do, indeed. I had no intention--I never, for one moment, suspected--but why do I say this? Of course, you must know I did not. I merely thought it possible that you might be able to guess--that you might know of some person----”

“I do not, Mr. Otway,” said I. “No one connected with me has any knowledge that is not public knowledge. Nor do I believe that anyone else has. I should say that this person--apparently a person of the lower class--is just a common blackmailer, who was present at, or has read the report of, the inquest, and is trying to make you believe that some suspicion attaches to you.”

Mr. Otway drew a deep breath and reflected gloomily. Perhaps my suggestion was not a very comforting one, for a blackmailer is a rather formidable enemy to a man who is concealing an incriminating fact.

“Probably you are right, Helen. But you notice that there is no threat--no direct threat, at least--and that there is no suggestion of any attempt to obtain money from me.”

“Perhaps that will come later,” said I.

Again he drew a long breath and cast a furtive glance at me. “Perhaps it will,” he agreed. “This may be the preliminary move, the laying of ground-bait, so to speak. It’s a harassing business, Helen. What do you think I had better do? You see, I rely on you for counsel, although I am so much older. But you have your father’s gift of clear judgment and perfect coolness in emergencies.”

It was rather a tactless observation, for it recalled vividly my dear father’s coolness in that last, fatal emergency; his composure and unruffled cheerfulness when the menace of ruin and disgrace--set up by Mr. Otway--had seemed poised over his head, ready to fall at any moment; and the recollection did not tend to increase my present sympathy.

“For my part,” I said, coldly, “I should do nothing at present. I should ignore this letter and wait for the writer to show his hand more clearly. If he should make any threats or demands for hush-money, I should at once put the matter in the hands of the police.”

I could see that this advice--particularly the latter part of it--did not greatly commend itself to Mr. Otway. Nor did it to me. But circumstances offered no choice. Any risk is better than that of life-long subjection to a blackmailer.

“It would be very unsafe,” said Mr. Otway, “to have any dealings with the police. They are pretty severe on blackmailers, but they are naturally ready to listen to anyone who professes to have information to give them. And a blackmailer may be very dangerous if he is brought to bay. We couldn’t afford to have any enquiries made that might seem to establish what they would call collusion to suppress evidence. We know that the facts that we withheld were not material. Other people would not.”

I could not but admire the adroitness with which Mr. Otway made me a participator in his own difficulties and secured me as an ally against his unseen enemy. And the uncomfortable aspect of the case was that he was right. We were partners in an unlawful act. That, I had already recognised; and the different significance of that act in our respective cases did not so very much affect our position in the present circumstances. I had nothing further to say, but to repeat that I should ignore the letter; and for a time we sat silent, looking out on the river.

“Well,” said Mr. Otway, at length, “so be it. We will wait and see what happens. And now let us put this miserable affair away and talk about your future. I have seen some of your work, and I am sure that you could get good prices for it if it were placed in the proper quarter. But the ordinary shops would be of no use to you. The common retailer does not know or care anything about individual work. He just buys from the wholesaler or the manufacturer, and sells to the public. He would probably not look at your work, or if he were willing to buy it, he would pay no more than he pays to the manufacturer who rattles off his goods by the thousand, with the aid of cheap labour and machinery. But there are people who know the difference between artists’ works and manufactured goods, and are willing to pay for the better things. And there are dealers who supply them. Mr. Campbell is one. I have known him for many years, and I can assure you that he is an excellent judge of works of art and very anxious to get the best for his customers, who are mostly good judges, too. He is well known in artistic circles, and, as he is able to dispose of things of real value, he can afford to pay the artist a fair price. I strongly advise you to give him a trial. Of course, I would infinitely rather that you accepted an allowance from me, but, if you really----”

“It is very good of you, Mr. Otway, but I assure you that it is out of the question.”

“Very well, then. If you are quite resolved, I can only advise you to make the most profitable use of your talents. Go to Mr. Campbell, and I am sure that you will be treated fairly.”

I thanked him for his advice and promised to act on it; and very shortly after this I brought the interview to an end.

As I took my way slowly back to Wellclose Square, I reflected on the new developments that my meeting with Mr. Otway had disclosed. That some mischief was brewing there could hardly be a doubt. The disguise of the “Well Wisher” was too thin to create any illusion. As to the somebody who knew something, he was an obvious myth, for, as Mr. Otway had said, the circumstances did not admit of anyone knowing even what was known to me. My own explanation was that some person, who had been present at the inquest, had observed Mr. Otway’s excessive nervousness and had marked him as a likely subject for blackmailing operations. It was a chance shot and nothing more.

But Mr. Otway’s evident alarm was not difficult to account for. He was a naturally timorous man; he had been subjected to a great and prolonged strain, and he had an incriminating secret. His position was, in fact, one of appreciable danger, as he fully realized. If the details of my father’s death had been fully disclosed at the inquest, Mr. Otway’s statement and explanation would probably have been accepted without demur. But the suppression of certain material facts put a different complexion on the matter. If the inquiry were now revived, he would have to explain, not only the original circumstances, but his motives for suppressing them. He had very good reason for alarm.

And yet his abject terror produced an uncomfortable impression on me. I could not disguise from myself that the whole tragedy of my father’s death was due to an error of judgment on my part. The secret marriage was the outcome of a mistake. Woman-like, I had acted on a strong conviction; and that conviction had been wrong. What if I had once again acted on an erroneous belief? I had assumed that Mr. Otway’s account of my dear father’s death was correct. There had seemed to be excellent reasons for the assumption. But what if I had been wrong, after all? If I had actually misled a Court of Justice to shield the murderer of my dearly loved father? It was undeniably possible. I had formed my opinion on mere probabilities, backed by a statement that, however plausible, was manifestly worthless as evidence. And that opinion might have been utterly wrong. It was a dreadful thought. So dreadful that, though I tried to put it away and remind myself that I did not entertain and never had entertained it, it haunted me during the whole of my walk home, even to the exclusion of the menace to myself that lurked in this blackmailer’s letter.

Chapter XIII. A Crystal-Gazer and Other Matters

The cheerful atmosphere of the old house in Wellclose Square soon dissipated my gloomy thoughts. It was nearing supper-time when I arrived, and an agreeable clink of china proceeded from the dining-room, accompanied by a faint aroma suggestive of curry. On my landing I found Lilith and Miss Finch engaged in earnest discussion, and both greeted me as if I had returned after a long absence.

“We have been wondering,” said the former, “what had become of our Sibyl” (she had bestowed this title on me, presumably, by reason of my peculiarly “psychic” cast of countenance). “As for the poor Titmouse” (this was Miss Finch’s pet name), “she has been wandering about like a cat that has lost its kitten.”

“Or like a kitten that has lost its cat,” I suggested, bestowing an affectionate pinch on my little comrade’s ear. “Well, I haven’t been far afield, but I have done quite an important stroke of business.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve sold something!” the Titmouse exclaimed, incredulously.

“Not actually sold. But I have discovered a market. I have tidings of a benevolent person--of the Scottish persuasion, I believe--who traffics in works of art and other productions of the human hand.”

“A Scotchman!” exclaimed Miss Finch. “I thought all art dealers were Jews. When are you going to call on the Laird?”

“It is hardly worth while to call on him until I have a fair collection of work to show him,” said I.

“I don’t agree with you, Sibyl,” said Lilith. “The first thing to do is to catch your dealer. To do that, you must find out what he wants. He is sure to have his own personal fancies, and he knows what he can sell most easily. Take him all that you have ready. He will be able to see from that what you can do, and he will tell you what kind of work he will take from you. And don’t lose any time. I should go to-morrow if I were you.”

“Does an artist have to work to order, then, like salaried journeymen?” I asked.

“Practically, yes,” replied Lilith. “And why not? He makes things that he wants people to buy. Surely it is only reasonable that he should consider the needs and the wishes of the buyers. And all good craftsmen do. Chippendale’s chairs were not only good to look at; they were comfortable to sit on and serviceable in use. The only difference between an artist craftsman and a commercial producer is that the artist always does his best, for his own satisfaction apart from the question of payment; whereas the commercial producer thinks of the profit only, and turns out the worst stuff that the buyer will put up with.”

“But surely an artist may choose what he will make,” said I.

“Of course he may,” replied Lilith, “if he is willing to keep the thing when he has made it. Not if he is going to ask someone to pay him money for it.”

I was inwardly somewhat taken aback by this exhibition of hard-headed reasonableness on the part of the mystical Lilith; so much so that, when she had gone to her room, I remarked on it to Miss Finch.

“Yes,” she agreed; “Lilith is an extraordinary girl. In fact, there seem to be two Liliths; one is as cranky as a March hare, and the other is perfectly sane and really very shrewd. I sometimes wonder whether she really believes in all that crystal-gazing tosh and telepathic bunkum. But she practices what she has just been preaching. She does her fashion-plates according to orders--but ever so much better than she need--and does other work to please herself and is content to keep it. You should look in at her studio and see her at work; then you’d understand.”

“And you think I had better take her advice?”

“I do. First catch your dealer; and if he wants to keep you turning out the same things over and over again, try to catch another dealer who wants something different. The great thing is to get a market. It’s frightfully disheartening to keep on doing good work and having it all left on your hands.”

Impressed by this wise counsel, I betook myself after supper to my workshop and reviewed my stock. A month’s work had produced no great accumulation, for I was still a slow worker, though the continuous practice was improving that. On the other hand, I had brought with me a certain number of unfinished pieces as well as some of my finished work; so that I had enough to give Mr. Campbell the means of judging my capabilities. When I had looked over the collection and withdrawn one or two pieces that were not up to my present standard, I packed the approved specimens in a hand-bag which I took up with me in readiness for the morrow. I was just opening the door of my room when Lilith came running up the stairs.

“You see,” I said, holding up the hand-bag. “I am acting on your advice. I have packed up a selection from my stock to take to the dealer to-morrow morning.”

“I am glad of that,” said she. “The business side of art is tedious and disagreeable, but you have got to sell if you are to live by your work. Would you mind giving me a private view of your masterpieces?”

“I shall be proud to show them to you,” I replied, conducting her into my room and placing the arm-chair by the table, “Let us put out the whole collection.”

I emptied the bag of its contents, which I set out on the table to the best advantage, and she examined the pieces one by one.

“They are charming,” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I can’t judge the work, though it looks most expert to my inexpert eye, but the design is delightful. They are all so individual and full of character, and so simple and restrained. You have a fine colour-sense, too. I think your use of enamel quite masterly, and I like your employment of bronze in place of the precious metals. It is fortunate that your dealer is a Scotchman, for the Jews, from Solomon downwards, have always had a leaning towards gold.”

“Yes,” said I; “bronze is my favourite material, even for personal ornaments. And it is capable of great variety in the patina, especially if one uses the Japanese methods of surface treatment. I wish it took the enamel better.”

“You seem to have overcome the difficulties pretty completely,” said Lilith. “This pendant, for instance, is beautiful, and so is the belt-clasp. Do you know, Sibyl, I think we might collaborate. Some of my designs might very well include metal ornaments--clasps, buckles, and buttons forming part of the decorative scheme. We must talk it over. And now, my dear Sibyl, I want to say something to you--something quite serious--and I want you to listen without prejudice.”

I looked at her, and was instantly aware of a change that had come over her. The shrewd, business-like, capable Lilith had suddenly become transformed into the mystic--wide-eyed, dreamy, yet intense.

“I have avoided talking to you about the things that are to me the great things of life,” she said in low, earnest tones. “I have wished to, but I have been fearful of intruding on your strongly individual, self-contained personality. But I have felt that you have great gifts--great psychic gifts. You are a woman of power. The common herd live their little lives locked up in the prison of the visible and the conscious. If they would convey their thoughts to other minds they must use the unwieldy means of speech and visible signs. What they know of their fellow-immortals reaches them crudely through the organs of sense; and through those primitive and inadequate media they must needs communicate with others, bound by the limitations of time and space and mere material contact--at least, so long as they are prisoned within a material body. But there are others for whom no such limitations exist; specially gifted souls who can see without mere material eyes, who can hear without ears, who can speak their thoughts across the gulfs of time and space; who can look into the remote past, and even into the future; who can make their will-power operate at limitless distances and without the aid of gross bodily action. And you are one of these, Sibyl. I am convinced that you are endowed with these powers. But they are latent, unsuspected, because you have never tried to exercise them; because you have never sought to bring the subconscious within the domain of the conscious, or rather to make a contact between the two.”

To this strange and rather wild harangue (which the matter-of-fact Titmouse would have called “barmy”) I listened with grave attention, though with little enough conviction--for I could not but recall my ignorance and my mistaken judgment in the greatest crisis of my life--noting how like a prophetess the picturesque Lilith looked, with her golden aureole of auburn hair and her great, blue eyes and parted lips. But I made no reply--there was, indeed, nothing to say--and after a short pause she continued:

“Don’t think I am saying this with any impertinent intention of trying to force my own views on you. I have a definite practical purpose. You are going to-morrow to make your first essay in a vitally important branch of an artist’s calling. On your success depends the possibility of your following art as a profession--that is, if you have not enough to live without work.”

“I have not,” said I.

“Then artistic success is not sufficient. You must achieve industrial success; you must get a livelihood out of your work. As far as the creation of beautiful things is concerned you are quite competent and will become more so with more practice. Now you have to learn how to dispose of those works profitably; how to make people buy them.”

“But surely that will be decided by the suitability of the things themselves.”

“Partly, no doubt. But you mustn’t leave it at that. You must learn to exercise the power of silent willing combined with suggestion.”

“I don’t think I quite understand,” said I.

“We must talk about this more fully some other time,” said Lilith, “and go into the theory and the results of experiments. For the present you must try to take my word for the fact that silent willing and suggestion are real powers. I don’t ask you to believe it without proof--I will give you the proof later--but I do beg you, dear Sibyl, to give the method a trial. If it fails in your hands you will be none the worse; but it won’t fail if you make up your mind to succeed.”

“What do you want me to do, Lilith?” I asked, not a little bit bewildered by her mysterious and rather vague expressions.

“I will tell you what I do myself,” she replied. “When I take a batch of drawings to a publisher, I stand outside the office for five minutes and silently will that he shall accept them. Sometimes I write on a piece of paper a command to the publisher to accept my work, and while I am waiting for the interview I keep my eyes fixed on the writing and mentally endorse the command. The writing, you see, helps me to concentrate my will-power. Then, at the interview, I use the method of suggestion. Whatever the editor or publisher may say, whatever objections he may make to my work, I continue steadily to impress on him that he is going to accept it, that, in fact, he has accepted it. If he refuses it, I ignore the refusal and go on talking as if he had accepted it--not rudely, of course; one must do these things tactfully--and all the time that he is talking, I continue silently to concentrate my will-power on him.”

“And what is the result?” I asked.

“The result, my dear Sibyl, is that I sell all the drawings that I offer for sale.”

This sounded convincing enough, and would have been more so if I had not happened to know that Lilith’s drawings were of the very best of their kind, and that she submitted them to the most rigorous criticism before letting anyone see them. Still, the fact that she sold her work was undeniable, and it was impossible to say how many excellent drawings had failed to gain acceptance. Certainly every capable artist is not a successful one.

“And what is it exactly that you want me to do?” I asked.

“I want you,” she replied, “to do just what I do, myself. I want you to stand outside the shop for five minutes and silently will that this dealer shall buy your work. It would probably help you if you were to write down the command and keep your eyes fixed on the writing while you are willing; but if the dealer himself should happen to be visible, it would be well to fix your eyes on him so as to direct the will-force with more precision. And when you go into the shop, keep on willing with the greatest concentration that you can command, and when you are talking to the dealer, talk as if he had bought your work; keep on impressing on him that he has bought it, and don’t take any notice of contrary statements on his part. If he seems to think that he has refused it, you must correct his mistake and guide his thoughts into the proper channels.”

I suppose I must have looked somewhat dismayed at this rather startling programme, for Lilith continued, eagerly: “Now, don’t raise objections, Sibyl, dear. It will be quite easy if you will only make up your mind. You have abundant will-power, and I am certain that you have the gift of projecting your mental states into the minds of others. And I am so anxious that you should succeed and that your great gifts should not be wasted. Say you will try, Sibyl, if only to please your friend.”

What could I do? Utterly as my mind refused to accept the connection between the alleged cause and effect, I could not say that no such connection existed. I was completely unconvinced; but my unconviction might conceivably be less rational than Lilith’s whole-hearted belief. For she declared herself able to support her belief with proof, whereas I had to admit that my scepticism was largely a matter of temperament. And she was so eager, and it was so sweet of her to be so full of anxiety on my behalf, that it would have seemed ungracious to make difficulties. The end of it was that I agreed to carry out her plan of conquest, on which she further inducted me into the arts of silent willing and suggestion and even supervised me while I wrote out, at her dictation, a peremptory command to the dealer, which I promised to use, as directed, for the reinforcement of my will-power at the appropriate time.

On the following morning, after a careful study of my father’s atlas of London, which I had brought with me from Maidstone, I set forth, hand-bag in hand and encouraged by the good wishes of my comrades and of Lilith in particular. Entering the Underground Railway at Mark Lane, I came to the surface at Charing Cross Station and bore away northwards across Leicester Square. During the journey, I had turned over in my mind the plan of attack to which I stood committed, with increasing distaste, I must admit, as the time for its execution drew nearer. And as my dislike grew, so also did my scepticism. I found myself recalling the fact that Lilith, successful as she claimed to be, was yet a fashion-plate artist very much against her own wishes, and reflecting that, if her silent willing were as efficacious as she believed it to be, she might surely compel the purchase of the kind of work that she enjoyed doing, instead of being herself compelled to follow a distasteful occupation. However, it was useless to think about it now. I had promised to give the method a trial and must carry out my promise.

These reflections brought me to the bottom of Wardour Street, and my attention was now fully occupied by the search for Mr. Campbell’s shop. Mr. Otway had omitted to give me the number of the house, but I remembered his saying that it was on the west side near the Oxford Street end; so I walked slowly up the east side and scanned the shop-fronts across the road. Near the top of the street my eye lighted on a smallish shop, above the window of which was inscribed in faded gold lettering “Donald Campbell,” and I immediately crossed the road, becoming aware as I did so of a sudden access of nervousness. For this was a new experience to me. Hitherto all my transactions with shopkeepers had been in the character of a purchaser; and my transformation into a vendor was accompanied by a diffidence and shyness that I had not expected or foreseen. Indeed, in the course of that short journey across the road, my bashfulness increased so much that I had nearly forgotten my promise to Lilith and was on the point of entering the shop when it flashed into my mind.

But even when I recalled Lilith’s instructions, they were not easy to carry out. I swerved from the shop door to the side of the window and stood there trying to concentrate my will-power. But it would not be concentrated. In the window was displayed a fascinating array of base metal spoons which instantly rivetted my attention; particularly a set, of the late seventeenth century, wrought in a fine-coloured latten, and exhibiting in a most charming manner the combined effect of delicate workmanship, with the patina of age and the softening of outlines from use and wear. Unconsciously, I had begun to compare them with my own cruder productions before I realized that my will-power had escaped control. Then I jerked myself back from the spoons to my present task, and, hastily drawing the paper from my pocket, fixed my eyes on the written command and struggled to concentrate my thoughts on it and to suppress a growing consciousness of the absurdity of the whole proceeding. Presently I raised my eyes from the paper, and as they sought to dodge the spoons, they encountered another object equally disturbing. “It was only a face at the window,” as the ridiculous song has it, but it instantly engrossed my attention and transported me in spirit, not to any Highland glen, but straight away to the banks of the Jordan; a fattish face, framed with glossy, black hair that broke out at the temples into rows of little crisp curls like a barrister’s wig; a face with small, grey eyes, full under the lids, and surmounted by strong, black eyebrows, with full, red lips and a rather sketchy nose of the general form of a William pear with the stalk uppermost. It was clearly not Mr. Campbell’s face, but it appertained to the establishment; and, recalling Lilith’s instructions to direct my will-power with more precision by fixing my eyes on the dealer, I directed a stony stare at the face and willed silently. But here I was countered again; for the owner of the face was also apparently possessed of psychic gifts, and fixes on me a gaze of such intensity that I was covered with confusion. On this I straightway forgot all about will-power, and, hastily pocketing the paper, walked nervously and guiltily into the shop.

The proprietor of the face confronted me impassively across the counter; and such was my trepidation that, although he obviously was not Mr. Campbell, I could think of nothing better than to ask him if he was; whereupon he completed my discomfiture by replying in the affirmative.

“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I; at which he suddenly grew keenly attentive, and I continued: “I understand that Mr. Otway--Mr. Lewis Otway--has written to you about me. I had a letter from him to that effect.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Campbell, “he has; and, if I remember rightly, he suggested that I might be able to dispose of some of your work. I think he said you did some repoussé or something of the kind.”

Apparently Mr. Campbell was preparing to treat me as an amateur, and my work as the product of a hobby. This would not do at all. Before saying anything further, I opened my bag and handed out the pieces one by one, setting them on the counter before him.

“Oh!” said he. “Yes; ha--hum; this isn’t exactly what I expected.” He picked up a teaspoon, turned it over between his fingers, closely examined the joining of the shank and bowl and the little bust that formed the knob, and then held it at arm’s length with his head on one side. There was something in the action and the facial expression that accompanied it which encouraged me even before he spoke.

“Nithe thpoon that,” was his comment as he laid it down (I observed that he tended to develop a lisp when preoccupied or off his guard); “well made, well designed; quite original, too. Spoons are my fancy--you saw that set in the window. If I could afford it, I would specialize in them more than I do. Not but what I’m fond of all goldsmith’s work if it’s good--or any other art work, for that matter; but I do love a good spoon.”

This was pleasant hearing, for I had a weakness for spoons myself. They are useful objects, they admit of infinite variety in design, and their small size adapted them peculiarly to my rather limited resources.

“But there is one thing that you must bear in mind,” continued Mr. Campbell. “Single spoons are not very saleable unless they are antique or collectors’ pieces. Modern spoons are bought for use as well as ornament, and buyers like them in sets; not all alike, of course, but with a general design running through the set. Twelve spoons, all different, but all brothers; that’s what they want.”

“Like the apostle sets,” said I.

“Yes,” he replied, “but we don’t want any more apostles. Too many on the market already. The apostles are done. They’re a back number. Everybody does them because they can’t think of anything else connected with the number twelve. But there is an opening for something original. If you can do me a set with a good striking design, I think I know where I can place them at a liberal price.”

I made a note of this proposal, and Mr. Campbell proceeded with his examination of my samples, accompanying the process with shrewd comments and useful hints. “Now, I’m rather doubtful about this,” said he, picking up a bronze paper-weight on which was a little figure with an open book; “it’s pretty and might take the fancy of a bookish man, but I question whether you’ll get paid for the work that you’ve put into it. People don’t always realize the value of a bronze casting. You must have done this by the cire perdue process.”

“I did.”

“Well, I should save that for more important pieces. Simple modelling and sand-casting is good enough for paper-weights. And you are too lavish with your silver. Just feel this candlestick. You could have done it with half the silver and got paid just as much. The extra cost of the unnecessary silver will have to come off the workmanship--at least, that is the tendency although it is nominally sold by weight.”

As Mr. Campbell was speaking, a woman came out of an inner room and advanced to the counter. I glanced at her casually and then looked again more attentively, for I had instantly the feeling of having seen her before, though I could not recollect where. She was a Jewess of the dark and sallow type, about my own age, and of a sombre and rather forbidding aspect; and the glance that she cast on my samples, though impassive, was faintly disparaging.

“This is Mrs. Otway, me dear,” said Mr. Campbell. “You remember the letter I showed you about her. And these pretty things are her work.”

Mrs. Campbell--as I assumed her to be--raised her eyes and bestowed on me a quietly insolent stare, but made no remark. Then she cast another disparaging glance at my wares and said coldly:

“They are all right of their kind; but you don’t want to fill the place up with modern stuff.”

Disagreeable as the remark was, its matter impressed me less than its manner. For again I was sensible of a certain vague familiarity in the voice, the intonation and the accent. She gave me, however, no opportunity for studying either, for, with the curt observation that “she supposed he knew his own business,” she retired to the inner room without taking any further notice of me.

“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “there’s some truth in what my wife says. I can’t afford to lock up my capital in things that I can’t sell. But I like your work. It is good work, and you’ll improve. I am willing to buy this lot of pieces--at a price. But it will have to be a low price, because I don’t know how they will go. If you take my advice, you’ll leave them with me and let me try the market with them. When I have sold one or two I shall know what I can do with them, and then I can offer you a fair price based on what they fetch. How will that thoot you?”

It seemed, on the whole, the most satisfactory arrangement, though I should have liked to have some definite idea as to the value of my work. I mentioned this, pointing out that I wanted to know if it would be worth my while to continue this kind of occupation.

“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “you leave the things with me, and I will look them over carefully and weigh the silver. Then I will make you the best offer I can for the lot, and you can either accept it or refuse it, or wait and see what the things fetch. Give me your address and I will write you out a receipt for what you leave. Will that do?”

I replied that it would do admirably, whereupon he supplied me with a slip of paper and pen and ink, and retired to the desk with my collection to write out the receipt. I had taken off my glove and was beginning to write when somebody entered the shop with a quick, light step, suggesting a young and active man. Just behind me the footsteps shopped short, and a pleasant, masculine voice addressed the dealer.

“All right, Mr. Campbell; don’t let me disturb you. I’m in no hurry.”

“I’m afraid, sir, your things are not quite ready, but if you don’t mind waiting a moment I’ll make sure.”

“I suspected,” the voice rejoined, “that I might be a little over-punctual. However, you finish what you are doing, while I browse round the museum.”

At the first sound of the voice my pen stopped short; and it seemed as if my heart stopped, too--though it soon began to make up for lost time. I was disconcerted and vaguely annoyed that a small surprise should set up such a disproportionate disturbance. Perhaps, too, I was a little startled to find a voice so long unheard elicit such instant and undoubting recognition. But I recovered immediately and resumed my writing, though, to be sure, the pen-point no longer traced the firm and steady lines of the first-written words. Meanwhile, Mr. Campbell had completed his receipt, and we now exchanged our documents, I checking his list of my sample works, and he scanning my address with apparent surprise.

“Wellclose Square,” he read out. “There is a Wellclose Square somewhere down Wapping way. It won’t be that one?”

“Yes. But I think it is actually in Ratcliff. When shall I hear from you?”

“I will write and post the letter this evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Good morning.”

As we exchanged bows, I turned and met the newcomer approaching the counter. He glanced at me, at first without recognition; then he looked again.

“Why, surely it is Miss Vardon!” he exclaimed.

“Wrong, Mr. Davenant,” said I. “It is Mrs. Otway. But that is a mere quibble. I am the person whom you knew as Miss Vardon.”

“Well, well,” said he, “what a piece of luck to meet you--and here of all places!”

“Is this a peculiarly unlikely place, then?” I asked.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t, really; at any rate, I mustn’t let Mr. Campbell hear me say that it is. Do you mind waiting a moment while I settle my little business with him? I want to hear all your news.”

His little business amounted to no more than an arrangement that he should call in about three days for his “things,” whatever they were, and when this had been settled, we left the shop together.

“Which way are you walking?” he asked.

“I really don’t know,” I answered. “I think I had some dim idea of seeing the town and taking a look at the shops.”

“Then,” said he, “as you are a country mouse, whereas I am a town sparrow of the deepest dye, perhaps I may be permitted to act as conductor and expositor of the wonders of the Metropolis, while you give me the news from Maidstone.”

“There is little to tell you excepting that I have lost my father. He died quite suddenly, about two months ago, from heart failure.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Davenant, “I had a presentiment that it was so. Seeing you in mourning, I was afraid to ask after him; and I need not tell you how deeply I sympathize with you. I remember how much you were to one another. What a mercy it is that you were married!”

To this I made no reply, and for a time we walked on slowly without speaking. But though nothing was said, much was thought, at least by me. For I had to make up my mind now, and once for all, on a point that I felt to be of vital importance. Should I tell him how things were with me? Or should I let him think that all was well, and that I was a normal married woman? Something--I did not ask myself what--urged me to tell him everything. But caution, prudence, whispered--and that none too softly--that it were better not. The sudden wave of emotion that had surged over me at the sound of his voice was still a vivid and startling memory; and it counselled reticence.

Thus two opposing forces contended; on the one hand, an emotional impulse, on the other the admonitions of reason; and it is needless to say that reason played losing game. Swiftly I argued out the issues. Sooner or later, the inevitable question must come, and with it the choice of an evasion or a straightforward answer. If it was to be evasion, then must I put Jasper Davenant out of my life at once and for ever, for the evasion could never be maintained; must shut out this gleam of sunshine that came to me from the old, happy days as if to light up my sombre, lonely life, and wend on my pilgrimage without a friend save the companions of my working days.

And reason whispered again that it were better so.

Chapter XIV. Jasper Davenant

The silence that had fallen between me and my companion remained unbroken (with one exception, when he briefly drew my attention to the old stone name-tablet, inscribed “Wardour Streete 1686”) until we came opposite a church, standing back from the road, and distinguished by a sort of tumour--containing a clock--on its spire. Here Mr. Davenant halted, and looking up at the tower, remarked:

“A quaint-looking church, this; odd and ugly, but yet not without a certain character and picturesqueness. Quite an aristocratic church, too, for it is the burial place of a king.”

“Indeed,” said I. “Which of the kings is buried there?”

“He was but a shabby little king--Theodore of Corsica--and he has the shabbiest little moralizing monument. But he was a somewhat original monarch in his way, for, being in acute financial difficulties, he conceived the brilliant idea of making over his kingdom to his creditors. Would you care to see the monument?”

I assented, without enthusiasm, and we mounted the steps to the grimy churchyard, where presently, against the wall of the church, we found the monument. And still, as we deciphered the weathered inscription, I debated the question whether I should or should not tell him; and still I reached no conclusion.

“By the way,” my companion said, suddenly, “I am acting the showman on the assumption that you are the complete and perfect country bumpkin. But perhaps you are, by now, a fully acclimatized Londoner. How long have you been living in town?”

“About a month.”

“Then the hay-seed is still in your hair, so to speak. I still address a country cousin, and have not presumed unduly; though, no doubt, you are beginning to learn the rudiments. I heard Mr. Campbell speak of Wellclose Square, for instance, as a region known to you.”

“Yes. That is where I live.”

As I caught his look of astonishment my heart began to race; for I knew that the inevitable question was coming.

“I suppose your husband is connected with the docks?”

“No,” I replied. “And he doesn’t live at Wellclose Square. I am not living with my husband, Mr. Davenant. I never have lived with him, and it is not my intention ever to live with him.”

The deed was done. The murder was out. And though I knew that I had taken the wrong course, I drew a deep breath of relief. As to Mr. Davenant, he was, for a few moments, too much taken aback to make any comment. At length he said, somewhat gloomily:

“I am sorry to hear this, Mrs. Otway. Very sorry. It sounds as if your domestic affairs were not very comfortable.”

“They are not,” I answered. “But, as I have told you so much, I should like to tell you what the position really is. Would you mind?”

“Mind!” he exclaimed. “Of course I want to know, if you are willing to tell me. Aren’t we old friends? I am most concerned about you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davenant. I should like to tell you how this extraordinary position has come about. Shall we sit down? This place is quieter than the street.”

He dusted the wooden bench with his handkerchief, and we sat down just below the shabby monument of the poor, little, bankrupt king. And there I told once again that tragic story of cross-purposes and well-meant blundering. I had intended to give him but a bare outline of the catastrophe; but it could not be. For the bald fact was that I had sold myself to Mr. Otway for money; and my womanly pride and self-respect would not be satisfied with anything short of a complete justification such as might be accepted by a scrupulous, high-minded man. And as I poured out my miserable history, glancing at him from time to time, I was surprised and almost alarmed at the change that came over him. He was a sunny-natured man, buoyant, high-spirited, playful and humorous, though all in a quiet way. But now, as he listened to my story, the genial face grew rigid, the humorous mouth set hard and stern, and the short, sharp questions that he put from time to time, came in a voice that was strange to me.

“So now,” said I, when I had come to the end of my recital, “you will understand why I refuse to recognize this marriage; and why I elect to live the life of a spinster, though without a spinster’s privileges.”

In a moment his face softened, and his clear, hazel eyes looked into mine with grave tenderness.

“Yes,” he said; “I understand. I wish I could say more. I wish I could tell you adequately how I grieve for you--for all the sorrow that you have had to endure and for the maimed life that lies before you. But words are poor instruments.” He laid his hand on mine for an instant, and added: “Yet I hope you will feel what I want to express in these threadbare phrases.”

I thanked him for the sympathy, which he had indeed made very clearly evident, and for a time neither of us spoke. Nevertheless, I could see that he was cogitating something. Once or twice he seemed about to speak, for he looked at me, but then again bent his gaze reflectively on the ground. At length, with some hesitation, he said:

“I hope you won’t think me inquisitive or impertinent, but I feel rather anxious as to--as to how you are placed. I gather that this man Otway does not--er--contribute----”

“He is quite willing to. But I can’t allow him to maintain me if I repudiate the marriage.”

“No; at least I think you are quite wise not to. But--you don’t mind my asking, do you? Are you properly provided for? I’m really not----”

“Of course, you’re not,” I interrupted, smiling at his diffidence. “As to my means--well, I don’t quite know what they will be eventually, but at present I am living in a reasonable state of comfort. I am not anxious about the future.”

My answer did not seem to satisfy him completely, for he continued to cogitate rather uneasily. But, now that I had the key, I could read pretty clearly, without the aid of any magic crystal, what was passing in his mind. He knew that I lived in a squalid east-end neighbourhood. He had seen me at the dealers, and evidently surmised that I was not there as a buyer; that I was in straitened circumstances--perhaps in a state of actual poverty--and that I was disposing of my jewellery and valuables to enable me to live. That, I had no doubt, was what he suspected; and the question that he was debating so earnestly was whether he could, without impertinence, extract any further information and whether our friendship was intimate enough to allow of his making any kind of offer of help.

I should have liked to set his mind at rest, but, in truth, I was none too confident about my future. That depended largely on the nature of Mr. Campbell’s offer; on my ability to earn a reasonable livelihood.

“Well,” Mr. Davenant said, at length, “I hope your confidence is justified. But in any case, I suppose you have friends?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about me,” I replied, evasively--for I had no near relatives from whom I could claim assistance. “I am in quite comfortable circumstances at present. And now let us put away my bothersome affairs and talk of something more pleasant.”

“Very well,” said he. “Let us choose an agreeable topic and discuss it in all its bearings as we used to do.” He drew his watch from his pocket, and, glancing at it, continued: “It is now nearly one o’clock. What do you say to the question of lunch as an agreeable topic for our debate?”

I admitted that the subject was not without its attractions.

“Then,” said he, “I will suggest that a club is an appropriate place in which to consume it, and that a mixed club satisfies the most extreme proprieties.”

“I should hardly have suspected you of a mixed club.”

“In strict confidence,” he replied, “between you and me and our friend Theodore of insolvent memory, I have another--unmixed--for normal club purposes. This one is my lunch club. It is quite near to my chambers, and is quieter and more pleasant than a restaurant. And it has a special character of its own, as is indicated by its name. It is called the ‘Magpies’ Club.”

“That sounds rather ominous.”

“Doesn’t it? But it isn’t a burglars’ club. Its members are collectors and connoisseurs--furniture and china maniacs and so forth; and the main function of the club is to enable them to show their specimens to one another and to exchange or sell duplicate pieces. May I take it that you consent to honour the ‘Magpies’?”

I accepted the invitation gladly, for a month’s residence in the East End had made me decidedly appreciative of the amenities of the more civilized regions. We decided to walk to Essex Street, in which the club had its premises, and to go by way of the side streets for greater quiet and ease of conversation.

“You spoke just now of your chambers,” said I. “Does that mean that you are in practice now?”

“Yes. But not in the law. I finished my legal studies and got called, but then I decided to give up the Bench and the Woolsack, though they shouted for me never so loudly, and return to an old love. I am now an architect.”

“Is a barrister allowed to practice as an architect?”

“On that I am not quite clear; but it really doesn’t matter to me. It is a question for the benchers or other authorities.”

“Have you been in practice long?”

“Exactly three weeks to-day. And when I tell you that I have already received a commission to design and erect a greenhouse no less than twelve feet by eight in plan, you will realize that I am mounting the ladder of professional success, with the speed of an eagle with a balloon attachment. My client, by the way, is a member of the club.”

Thus gossiping, we made our way by devious routes through the less frequented streets, by Garrick Street, Covent Garden and Drury Lane, until, by the Law Courts, we emerged into the Strand, crossed to Essex Street, and presently arrived at the roomy, old-fashioned house in which the Magpies had their meeting-place.

It was a pleasant, homely club, and certainly there could be no question as to its eminent respectability, for the aspect of the members--mostly middle-aged and many of them elderly--bordered on the frumpish. The room in which we selected our table was a large, oblong apartment, quietly furnished and decorated and provided with a glazed museum case, which occupied the centre; while a sort of daïs at one end was devoted to the display of pieces of furniture exhibited by the members. I noticed, too, that the walls were occupied by pictures, each of which bore a written descriptive label.

“Are you interested in ancient ivories?” Mr. Davenant asked, as we looked into the glass case, in which a collection of very brown and cracked specimens were exhibited by a Mr. Udimore-Jones. “For my part, I find it difficult to develop great enthusiasm over the dental arrangements of superannuated elephants, carved into funny shapes by piously-facetious middle-agers. Look out! Here comes my client. Let us sneak off to our table. Aha! Too late! She’s seen us.”

“Which is your client?” I asked, looking round furtively.

“The elderly damsel with the smile--a Miss Tallboy-Smith. There! She has caught my eye now. Did you ever see such a set of teeth? She had better be careful or Udimore-Jones will have her.”

We were edging away towards our table, with a feeble hope of escape, when she caught us.

“Now, I don’t believe you’ve seen my cup,” she exclaimed, with an engaging smile. “You must see it. It is not only genuine Nantgarw, but the roses on it are unquestionable Billingsleys.”

“Observe,” said Mr. Davenant, “the pride of the inveterate collector. You’d think she had painted those roses herself.”

“Indeed, you wouldn’t,” retorted Miss Tallboy-Smith; “not if you had seen them and knew anything about ceramic painting. And as to pride, isn’t it something to be proud of? Nantgarw porcelain is rare, and roses painted by Billingsley are rare; and when you have them both in a single piece, why then, you see, you----”

“Then,” said Mr. Davenant, “you multiply the rarity of the one by the rarity of the other, and the product of the multiplication is the rarity of the piece as a whole.”

“Isn’t he absurd?” she simpered, treating me to a complete private view of the “ancient ivories.” “Perfectly incorrigible. Don’t you agree with me, Miss--Mrs----”

“Otway,” said I.

“Oh, really! Now I wonder--my brother knew a Mr. ----. Oh but he was a money-lender. That wouldn’t be--but won’t you come and look at my cup?”

We returned to the glass case, of which Miss Tallboy-Smith opened a door and lifted from its shelf a dainty porcelain teacup.

“Just feel how thin and light it is,” she said, holding it out to me.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Mr. Davenant. “This Nantgarw stuff crumbles like a baked egg-shell; and it’s hideously valuable.”

“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Miss Tallboy-Smith. “Just feel it--it’s positively delicious to touch; and look at the lovely roses; no one but William Billingsley could have painted those roses. And, if there could be any doubt, you have only to turn the piece up and look at the bottom. There is Billingsley’s personal mark--the Number 7. That’s infallible.”

I took from her hand the delicate, translucent cup, and was admiring the freedom and softness of the flower-painting when she drew nearer and said in a warning whisper:

“Here comes Major Dewham-Brown. If he tries to sell you anything, don’t buy it. He only brings his bad bargains here.”

She had barely uttered her warning when a brassy voice behind me exclaimed: “How d’you do, Miss Tallboy-Smith? and how are you, Davenant?” and a tall, smart, rather stupid-looking man with a large nose--which seemed to have been produced at the expense of his eyes and chin--sailed into my field of vision.

“Ha!” said he. “Pretty cup, that. Worth a pot of money, too, I expect, though I don’t know much about ’em. And that reminds me that I’ve got rather an interesting thing that I picked up the other day; bit of old church plate; seventeenth century, if not earlier. Like to see it?”

Without waiting for a reply, he fished out of a “poacher’s” pocket a flat object wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

“Curious piece, this: interested me very much. The repoussé-work on it is remarkably fine.” He unfolded the handkerchief as he spoke, and at length extracted, with a sort of conjuror’s flourish, a small, circular, silver platter--apparently a paten, to judge by its size. This he handed to Miss Tallboy-Smith, who grinned at it indulgently and passed it to Mr. Davenant, who, having looked it over without enthusiasm, handed it to me. A very brief inspection, with the piece in my hand, was enough to make Miss Tallboy-Smith’s warning unnecessary; for, apart from the unsuitability of the ornament--if it was really meant for a paten--it was an obvious electrotype, which had, however, been pickled, polished and sulphured with intent to deceive. Having noted this fact, I returned the piece to its owner with a few words of polite and colourless commendation of the design; and the Major, chilled by the lack of enthusiasm, invested his treasure once more in its silken wrapping and went off in search of a more appreciative audience. Under cover of his parting courtesies to Miss Tallboy-Smith, Mr. Davenant and I retreated to our table.

“That antique of the Major’s looked to me rather like a fake,” said my companion, when we had ordered our lunch. “It was so very venerable.”

“It is an electrotype, sulphured to give an appearance of age,” said I.

“Is it, by Jove? Now, how did you spot it as an electrotype?”

“It was the disagreement between the back and the face that first attracted my attention. The face was repoussé--pretty coarse too--but there was not a vestige of a toolmark on the back, where, of course, most of the punch-marks would be; nothing but the smooth surface of the deposited metal.”

Mr. Davenant chuckled. “I seem to have imported an expert Magpie. Oh! But I remember now that you and your father used to do all sorts of wonderful works in metal. Ha, ha! Poor old Dewham-Brown! He little suspected that he was dealing with a practical artificer.”

Here the advent of food put a temporary stop to conversation, for we were both pretty sharp-set; but during the progress of the meal I looked about me and was vastly entertained by the proceedings of the Magpies. The glass case was the centre of interest, around which a small crowd of enthusiasts gathered, eagerly discussing the exhibits, which the proud owners expounded, with their noses flattened against the glass, or tenderly lifted out for closer inspection. And now and again a new exhibitor would arrive with a bag or attaché case, from which fresh treasures were disgorged into the glazed sanctuary.

“I suppose,” said I, “your members will have nothing to do with any but antique works?”

“Not as a rule,” Mr. Davenant replied. “The collector is usually a lover of old things. But there are exceptions. A good many of the pictures shown here are modern; some, I suspect, are shown by the artists themselves. Then we have one member who collects modern pottery exclusively--not commercial stuff, of course, but the work of modern artist-potters, like De Morgan, the Martin Brothers and other individual workers. Fine stuff it is, too. I have a few pieces myself. And, talk of the old gentleman--there he is. I’ll fetch him over and make him show us what he has got in that bag.”

He rose from the table, and crossed the room, and I saw him accost a very tall, pleasant-looking young man who was bearing down on the glass case with a good-sized hand-bag, but readily allowed himself to be led over our table.

“Now, Hawkesley,” said Mr. Davenant, “my guest wants to see what really high-class modern pottery is like. What have you got?”

“I have only three pieces with me,” replied Mr. Hawkesley, “and they are all of the same type; what I call ‘mystery-ware.’”

“What is the mystery about it?” Mr. Davenant asked.

“The mystery is, who makes it? As far as I know, there is only one dealer who has it, and he absolutely refuses to say where he gets it. I have never seen any of it exhibited--excepting here--and nobody can tell me the name of the potter or anything about it beyond the fact that it seems to be the exclusive monopoly of this one dealer, and that he has very little of it, and charges accordingly. But it is wonderful stuff.” He lifted out of his bag a couple of jars and a bowl--handling them with that curious delicacy that one often notices in persons with large, strong, supple hands--and placed them carefully on the table.

“You see,” he continued, “there are two methods of treatment, which are sometimes combined, as on this jar; and these two styles are based on two very different types of old work--the old English slip-ware, such as the Wrotham and Staffordshire and Toft-ware, and the old French Henri Deux, or Oiron ware. In the one, the ornament is produced by laying on pipes or threads of coloured slip--that is, clay in the semi-liquid state; in the other by inlaying coloured paste or enamel in cavities in the body, which seems to be made with tools like those used by bookbinders. This covered jar--which looks almost like a piece of fine Japanese cloisonné--and this bowl show the inlay method, and this other jar is an example of the slip decoration, but with one or two spots of enamel inlay.”

“I think I prefer the pure inlay,” said Mr. Davenant.

“So do I,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “and so, I think, does the artist. All his finest work is done by the inlay method, though he uses the slip decoration with such skill and taste that it is virtually a new method. The old Wrotham and Toft-ware looks very primitive by the side of this scholarly, refined work.”

I turned the three pieces of pottery over in my hands and warmly commended the judgment of the collector. No modern work that I had ever seen approached it for perfection of finish or grace of design; while the colour-scheme combined richness, delicacy and restraint in a truly marvellous manner. It seemed to unite the brilliancy of enamel to the sober beauty of old tapestry. And even the little blue bird, inlaid on the bottom of each piece to form the potter’s mark, was finished with care and taste.

“May one inquire as to the local habitation and name of the dealer?” Mr. Davenant asked.

“You may,” was the reply. “His name is Maurice Goldstein, and he is to be found at Number 56, Hand Court, Holborn. And I should like to wring his neck.”

We both laughed at the vindictive tone in which this benevolent wish was uttered, and at the sudden ferocity of aspect that swept over the usually good-humoured, kindly face.

“Why this homicidal craving?” Mr. Davenant asked.

“Don’t you see,” the other demanded, indignantly, “that this infernal Goldswine--I beg your pardon----”

“You needn’t,” said I.

“That this miserable huckster is grinding the face of some poor artist; that he is not only devouring the earnings of this industrious, painstaking worker, but--for his own paltry profit--he is robbing that artist of the credit--of the fame--to which his genius and his enthusiasm entitle him. Look at this lovely jar! I gave that mean worm ten guineas for it. How much do you suppose he gave the potter?”

“Ten shillings, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Davenant.

“Probably not much more, though there is getting on for a week’s work in it.”

“Still,” I said, with a mischievous desire to stir up his indignation afresh, “the potter probably enjoys making these beautiful things. The work is its own reward.”

“I can’t agree to that,” Mr. Hawkesley rejoined, warmly. “He doesn’t enjoy being hard up and having to work for a pittance. Besides, it isn’t just. This man makes a jar that is going to give me a life-long pleasure. I want to pay him for that pleasure. I want to know who he is, to shake his hand and thank him and tell him that he is the salt of the earth. And this Shylock hides him away and just feeds on him like the beastly parasite that he is.”

He gathered up the treasured masterpieces, and having wished us adieu, with a sudden return to his customary geniality, crossed to the glass case to find a vacant niche for his samples of “mystery ware.”

“I like Jack Hawkesley,” said my companion, as we watched him.

“So do I,” I agreed warmly. “He takes a human interest in the artist. I wish more collectors were like him.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Davenant. “He is a good type of rich man. Would that there were more Hawkesleys.” He poured out the coffee which the waitress had just brought and then asked: “What do you think of this club--as a feeding and resting place, I mean?”

“It seems a comfortable, homely place, and the members and their exhibits are quite interesting.”

“I find it so. You wouldn’t care to join, I suppose? It is cheap, as clubs go: five guineas a year and no entrance fee. I should think you would find it a great convenience, living so far from the centre of town.”

“It would be a great convenience. But should I be eligible? I am not a collector, you know.”

“No, but you are something of an expert. At any rate, Hawkesley and I would manage the formalities. Think it over, and if you decide to honour us, drop me a line. This is my address--56, Clifford’s Inn.”

He handed me his card, and when he had made a note of my address, I prepared to depart.

“I have wasted a fearful amount of your time, Mr. Davenant,” said I; “but it has been a very pleasant interlude for me.”

“Has it really? I hope it has. For my part, I have enjoyed myself just as I did in the old days when you used to let me wag a philosophic chin at you, and I am reluctant to let you go so soon. Mayn’t I see you to the station, or wherever you are going?”

“I thought of walking back to get myself acquainted with London.”

“Then let me put you on the right road and show you some of the short cuts.”

“But what about your work?”

He regarded me with that quaint, humorous smile that I had always found so attractive. “My work is, at present, of a somewhat intermittent type. This is one of the intermissions. Let us fare forth and study the architectural beauties of the Metropolis.”

And we fared forth accordingly.

The short cuts discovered by my companion did not in the least conform to Euclid’s definition of a straight line; and their brevity was relieved by sundry excursions into alleys and by-streets and incursions into churches and other ancient buildings. They led us by way of the Temple and its old round church, Mitre Court, Fetter Lane, Nevill’s Court, Gough Square, and so to St. Paul’s Churchyard and into the Cathedral; thence by Paul’s Alley, Paternoster Row, Cheapside and Lombard Street, dropping into one or two churches on our way, until we came out on Great Tower Hill, and drifted slowly down Royal Mint Street. And all the while we gossiped pleasantly of this wonderful city and its wonderful, inexhaustible past; and my guide expounded, with all his old gaiety and brightness--and with astonishing knowledge of his subject--until I had almost forgotten Wellclose Square and the sinister shadow that hung over my life, and seemed to be back in the untroubled days of my girlhood.

But not quite. For, even as I talked--or more often listened--with the liveliest interest and pleasure, a project was maturing in my mind. I had, in fact, conceived a brilliant idea. Mr. Davenant’s suggestion that I should join the club had started a train of thought that ran as an under-current--in the subconscious mind, perhaps, as Lilith would have said. It had begun vaguely when I saw the modern pictures on the walls, and the modern works in the glass case and the Major hawking round his little platter. Here was a place in which the work of the unknown artist could be shown and perhaps sold; my own work, Lilith’s work, the Titmouse’s, Philibar’s, even Miss Polton’s. For five guineas a year I could open this emporium, not only to myself, but to my fellow-workers; could slip past the dealer and secure his profits for us all. I say it was a brilliant idea--at least, it appeared so to me; and throughout that long peregrination, made delightful by the sympathetic companionship of my newly-recovered friend it germinated and grew until, as we halted to say good-bye at the corner of Cable Street, it had grown to full maturity.

“I have been thinking,” said I, “of your suggestion--about joining the club, you know. It would be nice to have a place to go to for a rest or a meal, in the centre of town. And I shall often want such a place.”

His face brightened perceptibly--perhaps at the implied assurance that I could afford to spend five guineas.

“Then, may I put your name up for election?”

“Will you be so kind?”

“Won’t I? It will be jolly, and we shan’t lose sight of one another again; though that was my fault for not writing. I was often on the point of sending you a letter, and then I felt a silly diffidence--thought that you might consider I was presuming on a mere acquaintanceship. However, I will propose you for membership at once, and in about a week’s time you will be a full-blown Magpie. Then I will send you a line, though, of course, you will get the official notification.”

He handed me my bag, and with a hearty hand-shake, we said “Good-bye,” and went our respective ways.

It was but a few minutes’ walk to Wellclose Square, and I took it slowly; for now that my companion was gone and I was bereft of his buoyancy and vitality, I was suddenly aware of intense bodily fatigue. Moreover, I felt a certain reluctance to bring to a definite close what had been an interval of quiet but perfect happiness. And so, in spite of my fatigue, I sauntered on, loitering awhile in St. George’s churchyard and stopping to look up at the quaint stone name-tablet at the corner of Chigwell Lane, until weariness and growing hunger drove me homewards. And even then, it was not without regret that I pulled the brass bell-knob and, as it were, wrote “Finis” to this pleasant and eventful chapter.

Chapter XV. The Magic Pendulum

The weighty question whether my handicraft would yield me a livelihood was answered on the following morning by the arrival of a letter from Mr. Campbell; and it was answered, though not very emphatically, in the affirmative. The prices that he offered, provisionally--and advised me not to accept--were appallingly low; very little above those of mere commercial goods. But even so, it would be possible, by hard work and spare living, to eke out a bare subsistence. And it was fair to assume that Mr. Campbell’s offer was, as indeed he explicitly stated, a minimum, on which an advance might be expected. Accordingly, I declined the offer and decided to await the results of actual sales to his customers.

I was turning these matters over at the breakfast table, when Lilith came and took a vacant chair by my side.

“Well, Sibyl,” she said, in a low voice, “how did you fare yesterday? Did you have any success?”

“Yes. I came back with an empty bag.”

“And a full purse?”

“Ah! That is another matter. The tide of handicraft doesn’t seem exactly to lead on to fortune.”

“I want to hear all about it,” said Lilith. “But we can’t discuss it here. Let us have a quiet talk up in my room after breakfast. If you will run up when you’ve finished, I will join you in a few minutes.”

I assented gladly, for Lilith, apart from what the irreverent Titmouse characterised as her “crystal-gazing tosh,” was a sound adviser on business affairs; and a few minutes later I betook myself upstairs to her studio. I had scarcely seen this room before, for there was an unwritten law, sternly enforced by Miss Polton, forbidding the boarders to enter one another’s workrooms except by invitation and on specific business, and I now looked about me with a good deal of curiosity.

It was a queer room. The two sides of Lilith’s personality, like two separate persons, seemed to have parcelled it out into two distinct territories. There was the working territory, neat, precise, business-like, strangely free from the usual muddle and disorder of a woman-artist’s studio; the big water-colour easel, the orderly painting cabinet, the papier-maché lay figure, quaintly arrayed in a walking costume such as might have been seen in a Regent Street shop window (miraculously built up, as I observed, of draperies, pinned, tied or lightly stitched together), the charcoal studies from the figure, pinned up on the wall for reference, with careful pencil drawings of heads, hands and feet, and one or two casts of faces and hands. The working department was a model of matter-of-fact efficiency.

In curious contrast to this was the domain of Lilith, the mystic. In a well-lighted corner stood a small table supporting a black velvet cushion on which reposed a crystal globe of the size of a cricket ball. Above the table a couple of book-shelves exhibited a collection of volumes treating of Spiritualism, Telepathy, Apparitions, Psychical Research, and other occult subjects. On the upper shelf stood a bowl filled with the letters of a dissected alphabet; while, hanging on the wall, was a small heart-shaped object with tiny castors, which I assumed to be Planchette, and by its side a single Egyptian bead suspended at the end of a silken thread.

Yet these two aspects of this strange girl’s character were not without a connecting link. On the walls were several framed paintings signed “Winifred Blake,” mystical figure subjects, recalling, but not imitating, the works of Burne Jones and Rossetti, exquisitely drawn and delicately painted in water-colour. The work on the easel was a similar drawing of a frieze-like character, the figures nude but with lightly indicated draperies; and one of the nude figures had been traced on to a fashion-plate board and was already partly clothed in the walking costume.

My survey of the room and its contents was interrupted by the arrival of its occupant, who having seated me in the easy chair, perched herself on her painting-stool and opened the examination.

“Now,” said she, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but I do want to know just how you got on. Did you carry out the methods that I proposed?”

“I did--at least as far as the silent willing was concerned--though not very thoroughly. I don’t think I did much in the way of suggestion.”

“And did you sell your work?”

“Yes, I think I may say I did,” and here I gave her an account of Mr. Campbell’s two alternative offers.

“You have done admirably, Sibyl,” she said enthusiastically. “Your first essay has been a perfect success. And now, tell me: are you convinced?”

As I could not truthfully say that I was, I took refuge in polite evasion, which, however, Lilith brushed aside with some impatience.

“I can never understand this kind of scepticism,” said she. “You have the cause and effect before your eyes, but yet you refuse to recognise the connection. You take your work to this man. Outside the shop you will that he shall buy it. You go in and he does buy it. What more could you want?”

“But he might have bought the things if I hadn’t willed, you know.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “he might. But that is not the way we reason about material things. I strike a match and apply it to a laid fire, and the fire burns. It might have burned if I had not applied the lighted match, but no one doubts the connection between the lighted match and the lighted fire. Physical causes and effects are accepted with unquestioning faith, but as soon as we come to spiritual or psychical phenomena, this extraordinary scepticism springs up--this curious refusal to admit and accept the obvious.”

“I am not asserting that there was no connection between the silent willing and the purchase of my work,” said I. “All I say is that I don’t regard the connection as proved. I can’t decide for or against because there doesn’t seem to be enough evidence either way.”

“Yes; I suppose you are right,” she admitted, reluctantly. “But I should like to convince you, because I am sure you have very unusual powers.”

She was silent for a short space, and then, suddenly, she asked:

“Have you ever been to a séance, Sibyl?”

“Never,” I replied.

“Well,” said she, “you ought to go to one--not to any of those silly public shows conducted by mere mountebanks, but to a private séance, carried out by really earnest people who are seeking to extend our knowledge. Would you care to come to one with me?”

“It would be rather interesting,” I replied, without much enthusiasm.

“It would,” said she. “You were speaking of evidence just now. Well, at a genuine séance you would obtain evidence that I think would convince you of the reality of psychical phenomena. I have a friend--a Mr. Quecks--who has given me some most remarkable demonstrations, and I have no doubt that he would be very pleased for you to accompany me to one of them.”

“Is Mr. Quecks a medium?” I asked.

“No; I shouldn’t describe him as a medium, though he is very sensitive and has most extraordinary powers. But he is a profound student of super-normal phenomena and deeply interested in psychical research. May I ask him to show you some of his experiments?”

“Thank you, Lilith; and I hope you will find me less disappointing than you have to-day. I am really quite curious about these things, although I admit a rather sceptical frame of mind. I was wondering, before you came up, what you do with that bead on the string.”

“That,” replied Lilith, all agog at the question, “is the pendule explorateur--the magic pendulum. It is an instrument of the kind known in psychical science as an autoscope--an appliance for, as it were, bringing the subconscious into view.”

“But how does it work?”

“It works by the influence of the subconscious mind upon the muscles. Let me show you--but you shall try it yourself because you are an unbeliever.”

She removed the crystal ball and its cushion from the table, and taking the bowl of loose letters, turned out its contents and rapidly arranged the letters in a circle, forming a clock-wise alphabet. Then she took the pendulum down from its hook.

“Now,” said she, “what you have to do is this: you rest your elbow on the table to steady your hand, and you hold the string with the thumb and finger, letting the bead hang just clear of the table in the centre of the circle; and you must keep your hand perfectly still and steady.”

“But if I do, the bead will remain still, too.”

“No, it won’t, excepting just at first. Presently it will begin to swing, apparently of its own accord, but really in accordance with your mental state. For instance, if you let it hang inside a glass and you will that it shall strike the hour, it will strike the hour. If you will--or I hold your other hand and will--that it shall swing round in a circle to the right or left, it will swing round in the direction willed. But that is an exercise of the conscious will. In the experiment that we are making now we tap the subconscious. If there is any thing or person occupying your subconscious mind, the pendulum will spell out the name of that thing or person by swinging towards the letters. Let me put the chair comfortably for you, so that you can keep quite still.”

As I listened to Lilith’s explanation I began to wish heartily that I had never embarked on this experiment. Of course, I did not believe for a moment that this absurd pendulum would develop the occult powers that Lilith claimed for it; but yet her confidence shook mine. And I had a very strong feeling that, on this day of all days, I should prefer to keep my subconscious mind to myself. However, there was no escape; so I seated myself and proceeded to carry out Lilith’s directions.

For nearly half a minute the bead hung quite motionless from my steady hand. Then it began almost imperceptibly to oscillate. My eye had already taken in the positions of the letters which might be incriminating, and now I observed with uneasy surprise that the faint oscillations of the pendulum were taking a direction towards the letter J. I could detect no movement in my hand, but, nevertheless, the oscillations grew wider and wider until the bead, as if possessed by a private demon, swung briskly half-way across the circle.

“That is pretty definite,” said Lilith. “It is swinging towards U--or is it J? The circle ought to have been bigger, so that the letters need not have been opposite to one another. But I’ll write down both; U or J.”

The swing of the pendulum now began to shorten; and then, almost abruptly, it changed its direction to one at right angles, and I observed with astonishment that it was pointing direct to A.

“It’s either A or P,” said Lilith. “I’ll put them both down.”

Once again the pendulum changed the direction of its swing, and Lilith noted down E or S; and so, to my growing consternation, it continued to take up quite distinct changes of direction until six variations had occurred, when the pendulum became stationary and then began to swing round in a circle.

“It has finished,” said Lilith--whereupon I instantly dropped the pendulum. “It is a word of six letters: U or J, A or P, E or S, A or P, E or S, F or R. Let us see if we can make out what the word is. It is a pity the letters were opposite; it muddles it up so. They ought to be in a half-circle, but then they would be too close. But let us try a few combinations. U-P-E-A-S-F; it can’t be that. U-P-S-A-S-F; it can’t be that. We’ll try it with J J-A-E-P-E-F; that isn’t it. J-A-S-E-S-F; that can’t be the word. Do the letters suggest anything to you, Sibyl? Is there any name that might be lurking in your subconscious mind, beginning with U or J? Try to think. What did you do in town yesterday?”

“Oh, various things. I went to the dealer, of course; and then I went to a private show of pottery and antiques.”

“Pottery,” mused Lilith, scanning the letters that she had written down. “Let me see: Upchurch? No, that won’t do.” She looked the letters through again and then asked eagerly: “There wasn’t any Wedgwood there I suppose?”

Now it happened that while Mr. Hawkesley was talking to us I had noticed an old gentleman tenderly placing a very fine green Wedgwood cup and saucer in the show case. So I could, and did, answer truthfully.

“Yes, there was; a beautiful green Jasper-ware cup and saucer.”

“There!” Lilith exclaimed triumphantly. “Jasper! That is the word! And yet I don’t suppose you have given that cup and saucer a thought since you saw it.”

“I had forgotten its existence until you spoke of Wedgwood.”

“Exactly,” said Lilith. “And that is the mysterious peculiarity of the subconscious. You see a thing or a person perhaps only for a moment, and straightway forget it. It seems to be gone for ever. But it is not. It has sunk into the subconscious, to remain there unnoticed possibly for years until some chance association, or perhaps a dream, brings it to the surface. But all the time it has been there. And at any moment it can be brought into view by the use of some kind of autoscope such as the pendulum or the crystal.”

“The crystal is an autoscope, too, is it?” I asked.

“Yes; but of quite a different kind. The pendulum acts by the effects of the subconscious mind upon the muscles; the crystal by the effects of the subconscious mind on the centres of visual perception.”

“That sounds very learned; but tell me exactly what you do with the crystal.”

“As to me, personally,” replied Lilith, “I do very little with it. Crystal vision--or ‘scrying,’ to use the technical term--is a rather rare faculty. I am a very poor scryer. But in the case of a really gifted observer, the most astonishing results are obtained. The method of using the instrument is this: The scryer sits in a restful position with the crystal before her (all the best scryers, I think, are women) and gazes steadily at the bright lights in it, keeping the conscious mind in a passive state--thinking of nothing, in fact. After a time the lights in the crystal grow dim; a kind of cloud or mist seems to float before it, and in this cloud, and gradually taking its place, the picture or vision appears; sometimes dim and vague, but often quite clear and bright, like the little pictures that you see in a convex mirror or a silver ball.”

“And what is this picture? I mean what is its subject?”

“That varies. It may be a scene from the past that had been forgotten by the conscious memory, or something that never happened at all--just a jumble of bits of memory like a dream. Or it may be the picture of some event that is going to take place in the near future.”

“But,” I objected, “how can an event which has not yet occurred be in your subconscious mind?”

“I know,” said Lilith. “The whole subject of precognition is a very difficult one. But there seems to be no doubt that prophetic visions do really occur. And then there is clairvoyance--seeing across space and through obstacles. A really gifted scryer, by concentrating her thought on a particular person or place as she looks into the crystal, can see that person or place, no matter how great the distance may be; can see exactly what the person is doing or what is happening at the place.”

“Really!” I exclaimed. “That sounds like rather an undesirable faculty. Doesn’t it strike you, Lilith, as a very great intrusion on the privacy and liberty of the subject to scry a person without his or her consent? Supposing the scryer should happen to discover the scryed one in the act of taking her--or his--morning tub. Wouldn’t it be rather a liberty?”

Lilith laughed (but I could see that the idea was new to her): “You are dreadfully matter-of-fact, Sibyl. But, of course, you are quite right. We shouldn’t misuse our powers. As for me, I have very little power of the kind to misuse, for I have never seen anything more than a sort of vague picture of unrecognisable figures in undistinguishable surroundings. But I think you might do better, for I am still convinced that you have special gifts. Would you like to try the crystal, Sibyl?”

“Not now, thank you, Lilith. We ought to get to work after all this gossip. And that reminds me that, before you came up, I was looking at your exquisite paintings and wondering if you are not, to some extent, wasting your great talents.”

“In what way?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said, “these designs would make magnificent tapestries or wall decorations. But if you can’t get a wall, you might condescend to a smaller surface. Have you ever tried designing and painting a fan?”

“No,” she replied.

“I wish you would,” said I. “You would do it splendidly with your power of design and your delicate technique. And Phillibar could make the sticks and carve the guards, or I could do you a pair in silver repoussé, and a jewelled pin and loop. Will you think over the proposal?”

Lilith picked up the crystal on its cushion and, smiling at me, said:

“I will make a bargain with you. If you will take the crystal to your room and give it a thorough trial whenever you have time, I will get out a design for a fan. Do you agree?”

I held out my hand for the crystal. Primarily, my desire was to introduce Lilith to Fame and Fortune through the medium of the Magpies Club; but the startling success of the magic pendulum had aroused my curiosity in regard to the other “autoscope,” though I have to confess that, when I had borne it to my room, I concealed it guiltily in a locked drawer, where it should be secure from the prying eyes of the servant-maid, and above all from the observation of the sarcastic and sceptical Titmouse.

But there were other matters than crystals and magic pendulums to be thought of. There was, for instance, the set of twelve spoons which Mr. Campbell had asked me to make and to which he had again referred in his letter. I knew now that I should be paid for them at a reasonably remunerative rate, and this, and the congenial nature of the task, encouraged me to get to work. But before I could begin there was the motive of the design to be considered; and since the apostles were ruled out as obsolete, I had to find some other group of twelve related objects. After a whole day’s anxious thought, I fixed upon the Signs of the Zodiac as furnishing a picturesque and manageable motive, and with this scheme in my mind, I fell to work in earnest, first with the pencil and then with the wax and metal.

But busy as I was, and happy in the interest of my work, I was yet aware of a change, of a something new that had come into my life. From the little workshop which had been my world, I found my thoughts straying out into the larger world, and particularly that part of it which is adjacent to Temple Bar; and if at times I viewed this change with some misgivings, I was more often conscious of a sense of exhilaration such as one feels when embarking on some new adventure.

In due course I received notice of my election as a member of the Magpies Club, and by the same post a letter from Mr. Davenant asking me to celebrate the event by lunching with him there; and, as I had occasion to go into town to replenish my silver and some other materials, I accepted his invitation, intending to return to Wellclose Square in the afternoon. But it appeared that a loan collection of antique silver was being exhibited at the South Kensington Museum, and that he had hoped to have the pleasure of inspecting it under my expert guidance. Now, to a craftsman (or craftswoman) of small experience, there is no technical education to compare with the study of admitted masterpieces. I felt that strongly, and I felt that I needed that technical education; furthermore, I felt that the attempt to explain the merits of the old work to an attentive and sympathetic listener would help me to concentrate my own attention. And perhaps it did. At any rate, I spent a long and pleasant afternoon at the museum, and we subsequently discussed the exhibits (and various other matters) very companionably over the dinner table at the club.

“It has been a jolly day for me, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Davenant, as he wished me “good-bye” at the Underground Station. “I’ve learned no end about silver--you are a perfect encyclopædia of knowledge in regard to goldsmith’s work. And the delightful thing to think of is that we’ve only scratched the surface of the museum. The place is inexhaustible. Do you think I may hope for the pleasure of another visit there with you before long?”

I gave what I intended to be an ambiguous answer. But it was not ambiguous to me; and I suspect that Mr. Davenant went on his way with a feeling that a precedent had been created.

When I arrived home, I found a letter awaiting me from Mr. Otway. It was not entirely unexpected, for I had felt pretty certain that he would presently hear further from his mysterious correspondent. It now appeared that he had received one or two short letters, ostensibly of the nature of warnings, but actually threatening, though in vague, indefinite terms, and one more recently of a more explicitly menacing character. These he wished me to see and discuss with him, and he asked me to make an appointment, at my convenience, to meet him for that purpose. I replied, suggesting, as before, the Tower Wharf; and there, a couple of evenings later, I met him.

In appearance he had by no means improved. His pale face had a strained, wild expression, his eye-lids were puffy and covered with curious, minute wrinkles. His hands were markedly tremulous, and his fingers bore the deep stains that mark the inveterate cigarette smoker. His dress was noticeably less neat than it had used to be; indeed, he presented a distinctly shabby and neglected appearance. Oddly enough, too, he seemed to have grown somewhat stouter.

I should have been less than human if these plain indications of sustained misery had awakened in me no feeling of pity. That his sufferings were the indirect result of his indifference to the happiness or misery of others, could not entirely stifle compassion, and I found myself speaking to him in a tone almost sympathetic.

“I am afraid, Mr. Otway,” said I, “you are letting these nonsensical letters worry you quite unnecessarily. You are not looking at all well.”

“I am not at all well, Helen,” he replied, dejectedly.

“And I think you are smoking too much.”

“I am. And I am drinking too much--I, who have been a temperate man all my life. And I have to take drugs to get a decent night’s rest. This worry is breaking me up.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Otway,” I protested, “you mustn’t give way in this manner. What is it all about, after all? Just a wretched blackmailer whom you know to be an imposter, whose threats you know to be mere empty vapourings.”

“That is not quite true, Helen. The man is an impostor, no doubt. He doesn’t really know anything. There is nothing for him to know. But he could create a great deal of trouble. He could, in fact, cause the--ah--the inquiry to be re-opened and--ah----”

“Exactly. And if it were re-opened? There would be unpleasant comment on the fact that a detail of the evidence had been withheld at the inquest. But that is the worst that could happen.”

Mr. Otway looked at me with a sort of dumb gratitude that was quite pathetic, but his gloom was in nowise dispelled by my optimism.

“It is very good of you, Helen,” said he, “to speak in this cheerful, confident tone. But I assure you, you minimize the danger. There is no saying what construction might be put upon the suppression of that detail; what considerations of motive might be read into it--especially as there was what they would call collusion between us to suppress it. But let me show you the last letter--the others are of no consequence.”

He produced his wallet, and, after some awkward fumbling, drew out the letter, which he held out to me with a hand that shook so that the paper rattled. Like the last, it was typewritten unskilfully, and characterized by the same semi-illiterate confusion in the wording, which ran thus:

“Mr. Lewis Otway,

“The writer of this warns you once more to look out for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.

                                       “From a Well Wisher.”

I returned the letter to Mr. Otway after reading it through twice, and I must confess that my confidence was somewhat shaken. If the writer was merely guessing, he seemed to have an uncanny aptitude for guessing right. As to his claim to possess some further knowledge, I did not see how that could be possible. When the fatal interview took place between my father and Mr. Otway, there were--to the best of my belief--only three persons in the house. Of those actually present at the interview there was only a single survivor--Mr. Otway himself--and he alone knew with certainty what occurred. The claim was therefore almost certainly false. And yet, even as I dismissed it, there crept into my mind once again a vague discomfort, a doubt whether there might not be something that I was unaware of, and that Mr. Otway knew; some dreadful secret that I, of all persons in the world, had been instrumental in guarding from discovery. And as I glanced at Mr. Otway--haggard, wild, trembling, and terrified out of all proportion to the danger, so far as it was known to me--the horrid doubts seemed to deepen into something like suspicion.

“Of course,” said he, when he had returned the letter to the wallet, “I realize that you are right; that there is nothing to be done but to wait for this person to show his hand more plainly. It would be madness to apply to the police. They would immediately ask if there had been any evidence withheld and why you were not living with me. And if they succeeded in getting hold of the writer of this letter, we should have more to fear from them than from the writer himself. He may be, as you believe, a mere blackmailer who is preparing to extort money, but if he were brought to bay he would try to justify his threats.”

With this I could not but agree. The implied allegations in this letter were, in point of fact, true; and any attempt to obtain help from the police would probably result in their truth being made manifest.

“Have you no idea whatever,” I asked, “who might be the writer of this letter? He can hardly be a complete stranger. Have you no suspicion? Can you think of no one who might have written it?”

He looked at me furtively and cleared his throat once or twice before replying; and when he did answer, his manner was hesitating and even evasive.

“Suspicions,” he said, “are--er--not very--ah--helpful. I have no facts. The mere--ah--conjecture that this person or that might possibly be concerned--if a motive could be supplied--and--ah--if one can think of no motive----”

He left the sentence uncompleted, giving me the vague impression that he was reserving something that he did not wish to discuss.

We were silent for some time, and I was beginning to consider bringing the interview to an end when he suddenly turned to me with a gesture of appeal.

“Helen,” he said earnestly, “is it not possible for me to prevail on you to--ah--to reconsider your decision and--ah--to--to--to terminate this--er--this unhappy separation. Consider my loneliness, Helen, my broken health and this trouble--which is our joint trouble--and--ah----”

“Mr. Otway,” I answered, “it is not possible. I assure you it is not. I am deeply distressed to think of your unhappiness and to see you looking so ill, but I could not entertain what you suggest. You must remember that we are strangers. We have never been otherwise than separated. As we are, so we must continue.”

“You don’t mean that we must always remain apart?” he exclaimed. “It was only meant to be a temporary separation.”

“At any rate,” I rejoined, “the time has not come to consider a change. But I shall be glad to hear how things go with you and to give you any help that I can.”

I rose and held out my hand, which he took reluctantly (though it was the first time that I had ever offered to shake hands with him).

“I am driving you away, Helen,” he said.

“No, indeed,” I replied. “I had to go. You will write to me if anything fresh happens?”

He promised readily, and we turned and walked away in opposite directions. When I had gone a little way, I paused to look back at him; and as I noted his dejected droop and his air of something approaching physical decrepitude, I felt a pang--not of remorse, but of regret that I could not in some way lighten the burden of his evident misery. It is true that his unhappiness was of his own making, and that in wrecking his own life he had wrecked mine and my father’s. But vindictiveness is a character alien to the civilized and developed mind. For what he had done I still loathed him; but it pained me to think of the haunting dread, the abiding fear that was his companion night and day.

Chapter XVI. The Sweated Artist

I had told Mr. Otway that I had to go; but I did not tell him why. If I had, he would probably have been considerably startled. For the fact is that while we were talking I had formed a resolution which had rapidly matured--the resolution to go to Dr. Thorndyke and make a clean breast of the whole affair. He had invited me to call on him and report from time to time, especially if I should be in need of advice or help, and I had been intending to write and propose a visit. Now, however, I decided to call on the chance of his being disengaged, and if he should be unable to see me, to make an appointment.

From the Tower Wharf I made my way quickly to Mark Lane, noting as I entered the station that it was a quarter to six; and as the train rumbled westward I turned over the situation and decided on what I should say. That some trouble was brewing I had little doubt, and though I did not share Mr. Otway’s alarm, I was more than a little uneasy. For, at the best, the re-opening of the inquiry into my father’s death must entail a scandal and exhibit my conduct in a decidedly questionable light; and such a scandal would be a disaster. As a discredited witness, how could I face my comrades at Wellclose Square? And how should I stand with Jasper Davenant? These were unpleasant questions to reflect on. And underneath these reflections was the uneasy feeling that perhaps there was something more in Mr. Otway’s fear than was known to me; something of which I had hardly dared to think.

From the Temple Station I found my way without difficulty to Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers at Number 5A, King’s Bench Walk, and was relieved to find the outer oak door open and a small brass knocker on the inner one tacitly accepting the possibility of visitors. I plied it modestly, and was immediately confronted by Mr. Polton, whose countenance, at the sight of me, became covered with a network of benevolent and amicable wrinkles.

“The doctor is up in the laboratory looking over his apparatus, but I expect he has nearly finished. I’ll go and tell him you are here. Have you had tea?”

I had not and admitted the fact, whereupon Mr. Polton nodded meaningly, and having offered me an arm-chair, took his departure. In a minute or two Dr. Thorndyke entered the room and greeted me with a cordiality that put me at my ease instantly.

“I have been wondering when you were coming to see me; in fact, I have seriously considered calling at Wellclose Square to see how you were getting on. Polton will bring you some tea in a moment, and then you must tell me all your news. I hope you are comfortable in your new home.”

“I am very happy, indeed, Dr. Thorndyke, and very grateful to you for finding me such a congenial home. And I have made quite a promising start in my new profession, too. But I have really come to ask your advice--and to make a confession.”

“A confession,” said Dr. Thorndyke, looking at me gravely. “Is it necessary? and have you given it due consideration?”

“Yes, I think so. There is only one point. I should have told you this secret before, but as another person is involved in it, I felt that it would be a breach of confidence. But I now feel that my legal adviser should be told everything.”

“That is so. Advice can only be based on known facts. And I may say that anything that you may tell me in my professional capacity is a privileged communication. A lawyer cannot be compelled to reveal anything that his client has told him, and is, in fact, forbidden to do so. You are, therefore, committing no breach of confidence in giving me any necessary information.”

“I am glad to know that, because, when I last spoke to you about my affairs, I held back something that you may consider important.”

“Something relating to the inquest?” he asked.

“Yes. Did you suspect that I had?”

“I suspected that Mr. Otway was holding something back when he gave his evidence--but here is your tea, with all the little lady-like extras, just to show you what an old bachelor can do in the way of domestic miracles. I am ashamed of you, Polton. I call that embroidered tea-cloth sheer ostentation.”

Mr. Polton laid out the dainty service, beaming with satisfaction at the doctor’s recognition of his efforts to maintain the credit of the establishment, and as he went out I heard him close the outer door.

“Polton evidently smells a conference,” commented Dr. Thorndyke. “The infallible way in which he always does the right thing without a word of instruction almost makes me believe in telepathy--which might be awkward if he were not as secret as an oyster. Now don’t hurry, but tell me quietly what you want me to know.”

Thus encouraged, I gave him the suppressed facts relating to the loaded stick that I had seen in Mr. Otway’s hand, and then told him about the mysterious letters. He listened very attentively, and seemed deeply interested, for he questioned me at some length about Mr. Otway’s establishment at Maidstone, his mode of life and such of his antecedents as were known to me.

“Is the stick in your possession or has Mr. Otway got it?” he asked.

“I suppose he has it. At any rate, I have never seen it since that day.”

“And you know nothing of any of his associates, other than the housekeeper?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Is Mrs. Gregg still with him?”

“I believe so, but I am not sure.”

“And you know nothing of his present mode of life excepting that he lives in Lyon’s Inn Chambers?”

“No. I really know nothing about him.”

“It is very satisfactory for you,” Dr. Thorndyke observed. “You are quite in the dark. These letters suggest an intention to extort money, but they may come from a personal enemy or from someone who has some design other than direct blackmail. And the question is, what cards does that person hold? Is he acting on a mere guess or has he any actual knowledge? The problem involves two questions: was there anyone in the house, that morning, besides you, your father and Mr. Otway? and did anything occur on that occasion beyond what Mr. Otway told you? The answer seems to be in the negative in both cases; but we cannot be certain on either point. Meanwhile, your position is very unpleasant, and Mr. Otway’s still more so, for his apprehensions, though perhaps exaggerated, are not entirely groundless. He has behaved with consummate folly. Whether his account of the tragedy be true or false, if he had had the courage to give it in full at the inquest, it must have been accepted in the absence of contrary evidence. But that is by no means the case now. If the inquiry were re-opened, a jury would tend to regard his suppression of certain facts as evidence of the importance of those facts.

“As to advice: there is nothing that you can do but try to forget these menacing letters. I will make a few cautious enquiries--though we have very little to go on; and you must let me know at once if there are any fresh developments.”

This ended the conference, but not the conversation, for Dr. Thorndyke insisted on a full account of my progress as a craftswoman, and even called down Mr. Polton to give an expert opinion on Mr. Campbell’s prices; which opinion was to the effect that they were as good as could be expected.

“So,” said Dr. Thorndyke, as I rose to depart, “you have justified your rather bold choice of a profession. You have already made it an economic success, and with more experience on the commercial side, you will probably earn a very satisfactory livelihood.”

This was encouraging enough, backed as it was by Mr. Polton’s practical experience. But with the other results of this conference I was much less satisfied. Indeed, my talk with Dr. Thorndyke, though it had relieved me of the burden of concealment, so far from setting my apprehensions at rest, had rather increased them. Not only was it evident that he regarded these mysterious letters as indications of a real danger, but he clearly entertained the possibility that Mr. Otway might have something more than I knew to conceal; in fact, I was by no means sure that he did not suspect Mr. Otway of having killed my father.

Here, then, was abundant matter for reflection, and that none of the most pleasant; and during the next few days my mind was very full of these new complications, of this dark cloud which had arisen over my brightening horizon. Again and again I recalled in detail the incidents of that terrible morning when my dear father was snatched from me, but no new light, either on the tragedy itself or on these sinister echoes of it, came to me. I even tried Lilith’s crystal--having first locked my door--but either my faith was weak or I lacked those special psychical gifts with which its owner credited me. I did, indeed, get as far as the cloud, or mist, of which Lilith had spoken; which gathered before my eyes and blotted out the crystal. But that was all. When the mist cleared away, no picture emerged from it, but only the crystal ball with the diminutive image of my own head reflected on its bright surface.

But anxieties sit lightly on the young and healthy. As the days passed, the gloomy impressions faded and I became once more absorbed in my work. The Zodiac spoons were progressing apace, and were going to do me credit; and daily I became conscious of growing facility, of increasing skill, which not only lessened my labour but was itself a source of pleasure. To do a thing with ease is to do it with enjoyment; and, incidentally, added skill means added speed and greater earning power. Already I began to speculate on what Mr. Campbell’s idea of “a good price” would turn out to be.

Moreover, there were other distractions. Once or twice a week I looked in at the club, and these visits had a pleasant way of developing into impromptu jaunts--to picture galleries, exhibitions, museums, and even on one or two occasions a concert or a matinée. Of the relations which were growing up between Jasper Davenant and me I did not care to think much. Perhaps the ostrich is a wiser bird than we are apt to imagine, for it does, at least, avoid the pains of anticipation. Sooner or later, no doubt, some understanding would have to be arrived at; but meanwhile Mr. Davenant was a delightful companion--gay, cheerful, buoyant, humorous, but withal a man of earnest purpose and a serious outlook on life. In all our junkettings there was little, real frivolity; the fun and gaiety were but the condiments to season the more solid and serious interests. In so far as a friendship between a young man and a young woman, which must necessarily stop at friendship, can be, our friendship was unexceptionable. But, of course, there was the qualification. However, as I have said, I let the future take care of itself and drifted pleasantly with the stream.

About this time, I made quite a startling discovery. It happened that in one of my journeys to town I had seen in a bookseller’s window a book on studio pottery, and, thinking that it might be useful to Miss Finch, I had bought it, but had forgotten to give it to her. In the middle of my morning’s work I suddenly remembered the book, which I had put in a cupboard in the workshop, and got up from my bench to take it to her. Her “works” were at the bottom of the garden, in an outhouse which had once been a shipsmith’s shop; but, close neighbours as we were, and close friends, too, I had only once been in her workshop, when, on an off day, she had shown me her wheel, her lathe and her small glass kiln. About her work she was extraordinarily secretive; but then, she was a reticent girl in general, so far as her own affairs were concerned, though she showed a warm interest in her friends, and was, indeed, very affectionate and lovable.

As I came round the clump of bushes that hid her premises from the house, the silence and repose of the place gave me some qualms, and for a moment I hesitated to interrupt her work. However, I pocketed my scruples and rapped boldly on the door; whereupon the familiar voice at its highest pitch--several ledger lines above the stave--demanded who was there.

“It is I, Peggy; Helen Otway,” I replied apologetically. There was a pause of nearly half a minute, and then she unlocked and opened the door, looking rather embarrassed and very pink.

“I always lock myself in when I am at work,” she explained.

“Well, Peggy, don’t let me disturb you. I’ve only brought you a book that I got for you in town.”

“Oh, come in, Sibyl,” said she. “Of course I don’t mind you.”

She took the volume from me, and quickly turning over the pages and glancing at the illustrations, exclaimed, “What a ripping book! I shall enjoy reading it. And how sweet of you to think of getting it for me!” She linked her arm affectionately in mine and conducted me into her domain, passing through the outer room, which was devoted to plaster work--the making of moulds and “bats”--to the clay room, where the little gas engine and the mysterious wheel stood idle and a general tidying up appeared to have taken place. Here we stood chatting rather disjointedly, she still turning over the pages of the book with approving comments, and I looking about me with a craftsman’s curiosity respecting the materials and appliances of an unfamiliar craft. And here I got my first surprise; for, on a side bench I noticed a collection of what were evidently bookbinder’s tools. Was it possible that the secretive Titmouse was a bookbinder as well as a potter? I determined to inquire into this, but meanwhile my attention was attracted by the bench at which she had evidently been working, as suggested by the displaced stool. On this bench stood an object of some size--about twelve inches high--enveloped in a damp cloth. By its side were a spray-diffuser, a number of little spatulas and tiny bon modelling-tools, and several little covered pots of a creamy, white earthenware delicately ornamented with floral decoration in a warm blue. Venturing to lift the cover of one, I found it to be filled with little rolls of brightly-tinted clay that looked like coloured crayons.

“You are mighty fastidious about your apparatus,” I remarked, picking up the dainty little pot and wiping some smears of clay from its surface.

“And why not?” demanded Peggy. “Why shouldn’t one have pretty things to work with? The old craftsmen did. I’ve seen some old planes and chisel-handles beautifully carved, and I am sure they did better work for having beautiful tools to work with. I would have pretty tools myself if I could make them.”

“You shall, Peggy,” said I. “You shall show me what you want and I will make them for you.”

As I was speaking I absently turned the little pot upside down and glanced at the bottom. And then I really did get a shock. There was only a single spot of ornament on the base, but that spot was a revelation: for it was a little blue bird.

I smothered the exclamation that rose to my lips and put the pot down on the bench. What could be the meaning of this? Had Peggy, like Mr. Hawkesley, been attracted by Mr. Goldstein’s wares? Or was it possible----

“Won’t you show me what you were doing, Peggy?” I asked.

She turned scarlet at the question, and looked so distressed that I felt it a cruelty to press her. But cruel or not, I meant to get to the bottom of the mystery.

“I’d rather not, Sibyl, if you don’t mind,” she said, shyly.

“But why? What an extraordinary little person you are.”

“Well,” she said, doggedly, “if you must know, I am not allowed to show my work to anyone.”

“Not allowed by whom?”

“By the dealer who takes all my work. For some reason, best known to himself, he makes a secret of it; won’t allow anyone to know who makes it.”

“But apart from the dealer, Peggy, you wouldn’t mind my seeing your work?”

“Of course I shouldn’t. I should like you to see it. But a promise is a promise, you know.”

“Of course,” I agreed; and then I stepped quickly up to the bench and very carefully picking up the damp cloth, lifted it clear of the object which it covered; which turned out to be a jar standing on a small turn-table. Peggy sprang forward with a gasp of consternation; but she was too late. The deed was done; moreover, the murder was out; for in the moment when my first glance fell on the jar, Mr. Hawkesley’s “mystery ware” had ceased to be a mystery so far as I was concerned.

The appearance of the jar was rather curious, but perfectly unmistakable. The clay, in its “green” state--unbaked and still somewhat plastic--was of a cool, grey colour, and the surface of the squat, octagonal body and the short neck and rim was covered with rich and intricate floral ornament, very minute, sharp and delicate. In the completed part this ornament was of dull blue and finished flush with the surface; in the unfinished part it was simply indented and had the appearance of what bookbinders call “blind tooling,” but was somewhat deeper.

From the work, my eyes turned with a sort of respectful wonder to the creator, who stood by my side with an air partly embarrassed, partly defiant. To me there was something very impressive in the thought that this unassuming, little lady was actually a master craftsman (I am compelled to use the masculine form, there being no feminine equivalent); the creator of masterpieces which would live in the great collections of the future for the admiration of generations yet unborn. And in the first shock of surprised admiration and pride in my friend’s achievement I had nearly blurted out all that I knew. But reflection suggested a better plan.

“My dear Peggy!” I exclaimed. “I never dreamed that you did work of this quality.”

“There’s nothing very wonderful about it,” she replied, regarding the jar with a kind of affectionate disparagement. “It is only a poor imitation of the beautiful Oiron ware. That pottery has always interested me; partly because it is so lovely, and partly because, according to tradition, it was made by a woman--Helene de Hangest-Genlis. But my work isn’t a patch of hers, and it isn’t even as good as I could do.”

“How is that?”

“Well, you see, it ought to have more modelled ornament than I put on. It ought to be more important. Her pieces were most elaborately modelled--many of them had figures in the full round. But I can’t afford to carry my work as far as that. It would take too long. Besides, I have to work to order, to some extent, and my orders are to keep to moderately, simple pieces.”

“Your orders! From the dealer, I suppose? Tell me about him, Peggy, and how it is that you are such a slave.”

“I’m not a slave,” she retorted doggedly. “But I have a contract with a dealer. He takes the whole of my work, and he makes it a condition that I shan’t sell anything to any one else or let anybody know what kind of work I do. I oughtn’t to have let you in, but I know that I can trust you not to breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen here.”

Mr. Hawkesley was right, then; and I recalled with sympathetic vindictiveness his desire to wring the dealer’s neck.

“Concerning this contract, Peggy,” said I. “You say the dealer has the right to the whole of your work. Did he pay you anything for this privilege?”

“Yes. He paid five pounds when the agreement was signed; but he deducted it from the payment for the first lot of pieces.”

“Then it was only payment on account, not payment for the exclusive right to all your work. And with regard to the prices, how are they fixed?”

“Oh, the dealer fixes the prices, of course. He knows more about it than I do.”

“Evidently. But what sort of prices does he fix?”

“Oh, ordinary prices, I suppose. He will probably give me fifteen shillings for this jar.”

“And how long will it take you to make it?”

“Let me see,” she said, reflectively. “There is the throwing and turning; that doesn’t take very long. Then this one had to be shaped after it was turned. Then there comes the decorating; of course that is what takes the time. Including the cover, I should say there is nearly a week’s work in that jar. And then it has to be fired and glazed; but the firing and glazing are done in batches.”

“And all this for fifteen shillings a week!” I exclaimed.

“Say a pound,” said she. “That is about what I earn. It isn’t much, is it? But I have a little money of my own, though I spent most of it on fitting up the workshop.”

“And what period does this precious contract cover? When does it expire?”

“Expire?” she repeated, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know that it expires at all. No period is mentioned in it.”

“Peggy,” I said, solemnly; “you should alter your potter’s mark. Take out the little, blue finch and put in a little, green goose. But, seriously, we must see into this. I am a lawyer’s daughter--not that I profess to have inherited a knowledge of law. But I am certain that this agreement is not binding. Will you let me show it to a friend of mine who is a lawyer? In strict confidence, of course.”

“Yes, if you like, Sibyl. But I don’t see that it matters. I like doing the work and I do make a living by it. What more would you have?”

“I thought you said you would like to do something more ambitious--the very best work of which you are capable. Wouldn’t you?”

She was silent for a while, and a far-away, wistful look stole into her face. Suddenly she said: “Sibyl, I’m going to show you something; but you mustn’t tell anyone.” She led me to a large cupboard, the door of which she unlocked and threw open. On the single shelf was a model in red wax of a tall candlestick or lamp-holder of the most elaborate design, the shaft and capital-like socket enriched--though sparingly--with fine relief decoration, and the base occupied by a spirited and graceful group of figures, beautifully modelled and full of life and expression.

“That,” she said, “is to be my chef d’œuvre, though it doesn’t look much in the wax. You must think of it in ivory-white, with a rich coloured inlay and perhaps some under-glaze painting. It has taken me months, doing a bit whenever I have had time, or when I couldn’t resist the temptation to go on with it. Now it is finished, as far as the modelling goes, and the next thing will be to mould it. But I shan’t actually make the piece at present, because I don’t mean him to have it--the dealer, you know. If I finished it now, it would be his, of course.”

“Yes, by the contract it would. And it mustn’t. This piece ought to give you a position in the front rank of artist potters. But I mustn’t waste any more of your time. You will let me have that agreement, won’t you?”

She promised that I should have it at lunch-time, and with this I went back to my workshop to consider a plan that had come into my mind for her enlightenment and emancipation. But it turned out that there was no need for scheming on my part, for chance or Providence offered me the opportunity ready-made. That very evening I received a short note from Mr. Davenant informing me that Miss Tallboy-Smith had acquired a collection of English and French soft porcelain, and that she proposed to exhibit the whole of her new acquisition for a week at the club.

“She rather wants,” he said, “to make the opening day something of a function, and has asked Hawkesley and me to be there to lunch. Can you come, too? It would please her if you could--and you know how delighted Hawkesley and I would be. Besides, I think it will really be a very interesting show.”

Here was the very chance that I wanted. Forthwith, I swooped down on the unsuspecting Titmouse and secured her agreement to bear me company to a “pottery show,” without giving too many particulars. Then I wrote to Mr. Davenant telling him that I was bringing a guest who was deeply interested in pottery and porcelain, and suggesting that we might form a party of four at a small table.

By the same post I sent off Peggy’s agreement to Dr. Thorndyke, with the request that he would tell me whether it was or was not legally binding. And, having thus laid the train, as I hoped, for the discomfiture of Mr. Goldstein, I felt at liberty to return to my own affairs.

Chapter XVII. The Apotheosis of the Titmouse

The respective merits of hard and soft porcelain have been, from time to time, warmly debated by collectors and experts, but never, perhaps, have they been more earnestly discussed than on the occasion of the opening of Miss Tallboy-Smith’s exhibition. During the half-hour which preceded lunch, the central glass case and the additional show-cases which had been set up for the occasion were surrounded by groups of eager connoisseurs, and the contrasting virtues of the pâte tendre and the more durable, if less beautiful, true porcelain were once more considered and expounded.

The attendance of the members and their friends must have been highly gratifying to Miss Tallboy-Smith, though it was no greater than was warranted by the importance of the exhibition; for the collection included representative pieces, not only of Chelsea, Bow, Nantgarw, Pinxton, and other English ware; but also of the old, French soft paste porcelain, including several early examples of Sevres. The preliminary glance at the collection had furnished material for conversation, as I could see by observing the occupants of the long central table, at the head of which sat the beaming hostess, supported by Major Dewham-Brown (who talked little, but consumed his food with intense concentration of purpose); and even our own small table, tucked away inconspicuously in a corner, was not immune from the influence of soft porcelain, for Mr. Hawkesley and my guest discussed the topic with a wealth of knowledge that reduced Mr. Davenant and me to respectful and attentive silence.

Our two friends were evidently very pleased with one another; and not without reason. For Mr. Hawkesley was much more than a mere collector; he was an enthusiastic and learned student of all kinds of ceramic work; while, as to my friend Peggy, her conversation revealed a familiarity with all kinds of materials and processes that made me feel quite shy as I thought of the artless handbook with which I had presented her.

But, indeed, Miss Peggy was quite transfigured. She had met with a kindred spirit. And under the influence of contagious enthusiasm, the usually silent and secretive Titmouse blossomed out in a manner that surprised me. As I listened to the animated duet of her chirping treble with Mr. Hawkesley’s robust baritone, I found it difficult to identify her with the quiet little potter who was wont to work behind locked doors in the old shipsmith’s shop at Wellclose Square.

After lunch the siege of the showcases began again on a more portentous scale. Glass cases were opened for more complete inspection of their contents, and pieces were even handed out to be handled, stroked and smelled at by the more infatuated devotees. As neither Mr. Davenant nor I could be included among the latter, we were satisfied by a comparatively brief inspection of the treasures, after which we retired to a sheltered seat to look on and talk.

“Just look at those two china-maniacs!” exclaimed Mr. Davenant. “They are as thick as thieves already. And what is Miss Finch going to do with that bleu de roi vase? Is she going to kiss it? No; she has given it back to the Tallboy-Smith. Well, well; enthusiasm is a fine thing. By the way, she is a nice little lady, this friend of yours; pretty and picturesque, too, and uncommonly well turned out. I’m beginning to have a new respect for Wellclose Square.”

I looked at the Titmouse with a sort of motherly pride (though she was about my own age). The word picturesque described her admirably with her warm colour, her graceful hair, and the trim, petite figure that was so well set off by the simple, artistic dress--in which I seemed to trace the hand of Lilith. She was my importation to the Magpies, and I felt that she was doing me credit.

“I have often wondered,” Mr. Davenant said, after a reflective pause, “what made you choose such an unlikely locality as Wellclose Square for a residence, and, indeed, how you came to know of its existence. Very few middle-class people do. I hope Miss Vardon will not consider me unduly inquisitive.”

“Mrs. Otway will not,” said I.

“Mrs. Otway is a myth--a legal fiction. I refuse to recognise her existence. She is a mere creature of documents, of church registers. The real person is Miss Helen Vardon.”

“That sounds rather like nonsense,” said I, “but, of course, it can’t be, because the speaker is Mr. Davenant. Perhaps there is some hidden meaning in these cryptic observations.”

“There isn’t,” he rejoined; “or, at any rate, it shan’t remain hidden. I mean that I refuse to recognise your connection with this man, Otway, or to associate you with his beastly name.”

“But it is my beastly name, too, according to law and custom.”

“I don’t care for law and custom,” said he. “The name Otway is abhorrent to me, and it doesn’t properly belong to you. I shall call you Miss Vardon, unless you let me call you Helen; and I don’t see why you shouldn’t, considering that we are old and intimate friends.”

“It would undoubtedly have the support of a well-established precedent. There was a certain bishop who was called Peter because that was his name. That precedent would apply to Helen, but it certainly would not to Miss Vardon.”

“Then,” he rejoined, “let us follow this excellent precedent. Let it be Helen. Is that agreed?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice; for if ‘Mrs. Otway’ is a legal fiction, ‘Miss Vardon’ is an illegal one.”

“Well, don’t let us have any fictions at all. Let us adhere to the actual baptismal facts.”

“Very well, Mr. Davenant.”

“But why ‘Mr. Davenant’? My baptismal designation is ‘Jasper.’”

“And a very pretty name, too,” said I. “But the precedent does not apply in your case. You have not married Mr. Otway.”

“No, thank Heaven! If I had, there would be a case of petty treason. But neither have you, for that matter. You have only gone through a ridiculous ceremony which means nothing and signed a document which sets forth what is not true.”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that we are not adhering to our agreement to avoid fictions. My marriage, unfortunately, is perfectly real and valid in the eyes of the law.”

“The law!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Who cares for the law? Have we not the pronouncement of that illustrious legal luminary, Bumble C.J., that the law is a ass and a idiot? And, mark you, he was specially referring to matrimonial law. Now, who would base his actions and beliefs on the opinions of a ass and a idiot?”

“And to think,” said I, “that you have abandoned the law for mere architecture! With your gift for casuistry, you ought to have been a Chancery lawyer or else a Jesuit. But here is Miss Tallboy-Smith. She thinks we are neglecting her treasures.”

But our hostess had not come to utter reproaches. On the contrary, she was brimming over with pleasure and gratitude.

“My dear Mrs. Otway,” she exclaimed, beaming on me and grasping my hands affectionately, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing that dear young lady, Miss Finch, to see my porcelain. She is a sweet girl, and she simply knows everything about china. It is perfectly wonderful. She might be a potter herself. And her love of the beautiful things and her enjoyment in looking at them has given me, I can’t tell you how much, pleasure. You must really bring her to see my whole collection. Will you? I shall love showing it to her.”

I agreed joyfully, for this would mean another nail in the coffin of Mr. Goldstein; and as Peggy and Mr. Hawkesley joined us at this moment, I was able to complete the arrangement and fix a date.

As Miss Tallboy-Smith bustled away, Mr. Hawkesley put in his claim.

“I don’t see,” said he, “why I should be left out in the cold. I’ve got a collection, too; and I think it would really interest Miss Finch, for she tells me she has seen very little modern pottery. Won’t you bring her to see it, Mrs. Otway?”

Again I accepted gladly, with Peggy’s consent. My scheme was working rapidly towards a successful conclusion, and I felt that I could push it forward energetically; for that very morning I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke returning the agreement and denouncing it as legally worthless and utterly opposed to public policy.

“As to fixing a date,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “I suggest that we all adjourn to my rooms now. Come and have a cup of tea with me and then we can look over the crockery. How will that do?”

It suited Peggy and me quite well, and we said so.

“And you, Davenant?” asked Mr. Hawkesley.

“Well, I had one or two cathedrals to finish,” was the reply; “but they must wait. Art is long--deuced long, in my case. Yes, let us adjourn and combine crockery and tea--which, as Pepys reminds us is a ‘China drink,’ and therefore appropriate to the occasion.”

On this, we sallied forth and made our way to the Strand, where we chartered a couple of hansoms to convey us to Dover Street, Piccadilly, where Mr. Hawkesley had his abode in one of those fine, spacious, dignified houses that one finds in the hinterland of the West End of London. His rooms were on the first floor, and when we arrived there by way of a staircase which would have allowed us to walk up four abreast, we were received by a sedate and impassive gentleman, whose appearance and manner suggested a Foreign Office official of superior rank.

“Would you let us have some tea, please, Taplow?” said Mr. Hawkesley, addressing the official deferentially. Mr. Taplow opened a door for us, and having signified a disposition to accede to the request, departed stealthily.

As we entered the large, lofty room, well lighted by its range of tall windows, I looked about me curiously, for I was instantly struck by the absence of pottery among its ornaments. The available wall-spaces were occupied by important pictures--all modern; the mantelpiece and other suitable surfaces supported statuettes of marble or bronze--again all modern. But of ceramic ware there was not a trace, with the single exception of a small framed cameo relief. Rather did the apartment suggest the abode of a furniture collector, for one side of the room, opposite the windows, was occupied by a range of armoires, or standing cupboards, mostly old French or Flemish.

“You don’t favour the glass case, I notice, Hawkesley,” said Mr. Davenant.

“No,” was the reply. “They are well enough for public museums, but they are unlovely things. And one doesn’t want to look at one’s whole collection at once. I like to take the pieces out singly and enjoy them one at a time. You see, each piece is an individual work. It was the product of a separate creative effort, and ought to be enjoyed by a separate act of appreciation.”

“You seem, Mr. Hawkesley,” said I, “to have a preference for modern work. Do you think it is as good as the old?”

“I think,” he replied, “that the best modern work is as good as any that was ever done. Of course, I am not speaking of commercial stuff. That is negligible in an artistic sense. I mean individual work, done under the same conditions and by the same class of men as the old craft work. That is quite good. The pity is that there is so little of it. But I am afraid the supply is equal to the demand.”

“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Davenant, “that that is partly the fault of the modern craftsman? Of his tendency to confine himself to fine and elaborate, and therefore costly, productions? Of course, the old work was not cheap in the modern factory sense of cheapness. The pottery and china that was made at the Etruria works or those of Bow or Chelsea was by no means given away. But the prices were practicable for every day purposes, whereas modern studio pottery is impossible for domestic use. And the same is true of other craftwork, such as book-binding, fine printing, textiles, metal work, and so on. If the modern craftsman caters only for the collector and ignores the utilitarian consumer, he can’t complain at being ousted by commercial production.”

Here the arrival of Mr. Taplow with the tea arrested what threatened to prove a too-interesting discussion. I should have liked to continue it--on another occasion; at present, my desire was rather to “cut the cackle and get to the hosses.” Accordingly, while the tea was being consumed, I rather studiously obstructed any revival of the debate by keeping up a conversation of a general and somewhat discursive character; and as soon as we appeared to have finished I introduced the subject of Ceramics.

“Is that plaque on the wall a Wedgwood cameo?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Hawkesley replied. “That is an example of Solon’s wonderful pâte-sur-pâte work. It is done with white porcelain slip on a dark, coloured ground. Come and look at it.”

We all rose and gathered round the plaque while Mr. Hawkesley descanted on its beauties; which were, indeed, evident enough.

“It is lovely work,” said he; “so free and spontaneous. The Wedgwood reliefs look quite stiff and hard compared with these of Solon’s. I have some of his vases with the same kind of decoration, and we may as well look at those first.”

He wheeled a travelling turn-table towards a fine Flemish armoire of carved oak, and opening the latter, displayed a range of pieces of this beautiful work, at the sight of which Peggy’s eyes glistened. One after another they were carefully placed on the turn-table, viewed from all points, admired, discussed and replaced. The other contents of the armoire were less important works--mostly French--but all received respectful attention. The next receptacle, a French armoire of carved walnut, was devoted to modern stoneware by the Martin Brothers, Wells and other individual workers, concerning which our host was specially enthusiastic.

“There,” said he, placing on the turn-table a wonderful Toby jug of brown Martin ware, “Show me any old salt-glaze ware that is equal to that! Look at the modelling! Look at the beautiful surface and the quality of the actual potting! And then go and look at the stuff in the shop windows. Just good enough for the slavey to smash.”

“Well,” Mr. Davenant remarked, “you can’t say that she doesn’t appreciate its qualities and do justice to them. If former generations had been as energetic smashers as the present, collectors of old stuff would have had to seek their treasures in ancient rubbish-heaps.”

“Yes, that is a fact,” agreed Mr. Hawkesley, as we moved on to the next cupboard. “When domestic pottery was more valuable it got more respectful treatment. Now this cupboard is only partly filled. I keep it for the work of one artist whose name I don’t know. I’ve shown you some of the ware, Mrs. Otway, but it may be new to Miss Finch.”

As he unlocked the door my heart began to thump, and I cast an anxious eye on Peggy. For I knew what was coming, but I didn’t know how she would take it. At the moment she was looking at the closed door with pleased expectancy. Then the door swung open, and in a moment she turned pale as death. For one instant I thought she was going to faint, and so, apparently, did Mr. Davenant, for he made a quick movement towards her. But the deadly pallor passed, and was succeeded as rapidly by a crimson flush; but her quick breathing and the trembling of her hand showed how great the shock had been.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hawkesley, all unconscious, was glancing over the row of vases, jars and bowls, and expatiating on the peculiar beauties of the “mystery ware.” The pieces were separated into two groups; the works in pure inlay and those combining the inlay with slip decoration and embossed ornament; and one of the latter he presently lifted from its shelf and placed on the turn-table.

“Now, isn’t that a lovely jar, Miss Finch?” said he. “And doesn’t it remind you of the beautiful St. Porchaire, or Oiron ware?”

Peggy gazed at the jar with an inscrutable expression as she slowly rotated the turn-table. “It is somewhat like,” she agreed; “at least, the method of work is similar.”

“Oh, don’t give my favourites the cold shoulder, Miss Finch,” said Mr. Hawkesley. “I think I prize my pieces of this ware more than anything that I have. It is so very charming and so interesting. For, you see, it is real pottery; I mean that, beautiful and precious as it is, it is quite serviceable for domestic purposes, whereas much of the studio pottery is made for the gallery or the cabinet.”

“You haven’t discovered yet where it is made, I suppose?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Its origin is still a mystery and something of a romance--which may be one reason why I am so devoted to it. I often speculate about the potter, and invent all sorts of queer theories about him.”

“As for instance?”

“Well, sometimes I fancy that he may be in debt to this dealer--that he may have had advances or loans and be unable to pay them off and get free. It is quite possible, you know. Then, sometimes I have thought that he may be one of those poor creatures who drink or take drugs, and that the dealer may keep him slaving in some cellar for his bare maintenance and his miserable luxuries. But I’ve given that idea up. This work is too sane and reasonable and painstaking for a drunkard or drug-taker. But, whoever and whatever he is, I wish I could find him out, and thank him for all the pleasure that he has given me, and help him to get a proper reward for his labour, which I am sure he does not.”

“I don’t know why you are so sure,” said Mr. Davenant. “This ware is pretty expensive, isn’t it?”

“Not if you consider that each piece is an individual work on which a great deal of time and labour has been expended. The price that I paid Goldstein for this particular piece was seven guineas, which wouldn’t represent very high remuneration if the artist had the whole of it.”

“Seven guineas, Mr. Hawkesley!” exclaimed Peggy, incredulously.

“Yes, Miss Finch; and I should say very cheap at the price.”

I glanced at Peggy with malicious satisfaction, for her cheeks were aflame with anger and the light of battle was in her eyes.

“What a shame!” she protested. “How perfectly scandalous! The grasping, avaricious wretch! To charge seven guineas for a piece that he bought for fifteen shillings!”

For a few seconds there was an awesome silence. Peggy’s exclamation had fallen like a thunderbolt, and the two men gazed at her in speechless astonishment; while she, poor Titmouse, stood, covered with blushes and confusion, looking as if she had been convicted of pocketing the spoons.

“You actually know,” Mr. Hawkesley said, at length, “that Goldstein gave only fifteen shillings for that jar?”

“Yes,” she stammered faintly, “I--I happen to have--to be aware--that--that was the amount paid----”

She broke off with an appealing glance at me, and I proceeded to “put in my oar.”

“It’s no use, Peggy. The cat is out of the bag--at least her head is, and we may as well let out the rest of her. The fact is, Mr. Hawkesley, that this ware is Miss Finch’s own work.”

I now thought that Mr. Hawkesley was going to faint. Never have I seen a man look so astonished. He was thunderstruck.

“Do you mean, Mrs. Otway,” he exclaimed, “that Miss Finch actually makes this ware herself?”

“I do. It is her work from beginning to end. She does the potting, the decorating, the firing and the glazing. And she does it without any assistance whatever.”

Mr. Hawkesley gazed at Peggy with such undissembled admiration and reverence that I was disposed to smile--though I liked him for his generous enthusiasm--and the unfortunate Titmouse was reduced to an agony of shyness.

“This is a red letter day for me, Miss Finch,” said he. “It has been my dearest wish to meet the creator of that pottery that I admire so intensely; and now that wish is gratified, it is an extra pleasure to find the artist so much beyond----”

He paused to avoid the inevitable compliment, and Mr. Davenant held up a warning finger.

“Now, Hawkesley,” said he; “be careful.”

“I know,” said Mr. Hawkesley. “It is difficult to steer clear of banal compliments and yet to say what one would like to say; but really the personality of the mysterious artist has furnished a very pleasant surprise.”

“I can believe that,” said Mr. Davenant. “I can imagine, for instance, that you find Miss Finch a very agreeable substitute for the intoxicated gentleman in the cellar.”

At this we all laughed, which cleared the air and put us at our ease.

“But,” said Mr. Davenant, “proud as we are to have made the acquaintance of a distinguished potter, we are haunted by the spectre of that fifteen shillings. We get the impression that Miss Finch’s business arrangements want looking into.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hawkesley, “they do indeed. Why do you let this fellow have your work, at such ridiculous prices, too?”

“It isn’t so ridiculous as it looks,” replied Peggy. “When I began, I couldn’t sell any of my work at all. It was frightfully discouraging. No one would have anything to do with it. My first work was simple earthenware, and even the cheap china shops wouldn’t have it. Then I chanced upon Mr. Goldstein, and he bought one or two simple, red earthenware jars and bowls for a few pence each. It didn’t pay me, but still it was a start. Then I experimented on this pipe-clay body with slip decoration and coloured inlay and showed the pieces to Mr. Goldstein; and he advised me to go on and offered to take the whole of my work, if I signed an agreement. So I signed the agreement, and he has had all my work ever since.”

“At his own prices?”

“Yes. I didn’t know what the things were worth.”

“Well,” said Mr. Davenant, “my law is a trifle rusty, but I should say that that agreement would not hold water.”

“It won’t,” said I. “We have just had counsel’s opinion on it, and our adviser assures us that it is worthless, and that we can disregard it.”

“Then,” said Mr. Davenant, “you had better formally denounce it at once.”

“Why trouble to denounce it?” demanded Mr. Hawkesley. “Much better let me call on Goldstein and make him tear up the duplicate. He has got a fine, handy warming-pan hanging up in his shop. I saw it only this morning.”

“The connection is not very clear to me,” said I.

“It would be clear enough to him,” was the grim reply.

Mr. Davenant chuckled. “Your methods, Hawkesley, appeal to me strongly, I must admit; but they are not politic. Legal process is better than a warming-pan, even if it were filled with hot coals. Let us hand the agreement to a reputable solicitor, and let him write to Goldstein stating the position. Miss Finch won’t hear any more of her benefactor after that.”

After some discussion, in which I supported Mr. Hawkesley’s proposal, the less picturesque method of procedure was adopted, and Mr. Davenant was commissioned to carry it out.

“And we will have a one woman show of Blue Bird Ware at the club,” said Mr. Hawkesley. “I will take my whole collection there and exhibit it with a big label giving the artist’s name in block capitals. The pottery collectors will just tumble over one another to get specimens of the work when the artist is known.”

The rest of Mr. Hawkesley’s collection received but a perfunctory consideration. Even the gorgeous De Morgan earthenware, glowing with the hues of the rainbow, came as something of an anti-climax; and we closed the last of the cabinets with almost an air of relief.

“And now,” said Mr. Hawkesley, as he pocketed his keys, “I suggest that we mark this joyful occasion by a modest festival--say, a homely little dinner at the club and an evening at the play. Who seconds my proposal?”

“We shall have to go as we are then,” said I, “as we can’t change.”

“I think we can enjoy ourselves in morning dress,” he rejoined; “and as we shall all be in the same shocking condition, we can keep one another in countenance.”

The proposal was accordingly adopted with acclamation and carried into effect with triumphant success, and some slight disturbance of the orderly routine of the establishment in Wellclose Square; for it was on the stroke of midnight when Miss Polton, blinking owlishly, opened the green door to admit the two roisterers who had just emerged from a hansom-cab.

“It has been a jolly day!” Peggy exclaimed fervently as we said “good-night” on our landing. “And it will be a jolly to-morrow, too.”

“Yes; you will be able to get on with your masterpiece now; and when it is finished we can show it at the club and you will be able to sell it for a small fortune.”

“I shan’t want to sell it,” she said. “If it is good enough, and if it wouldn’t seem too forward or improper, I should like to give it to Mr. Hawkesley--as a sort of thank-offering, you know.”

“Thank-offering for what?”

“For his appreciation of my work. I really feel very grateful to him, as well as to you, Sibyl, dear. You see, he not only liked the things, but he thought of the worker who made them. All the time that I was working alone, with the door locked, from morning to night to fill that cormorant’s pockets, Mr. Hawkesley was thinking of me, the unknown worker, looking for me and wanting to help me. I don’t forget that it is you who have got me out of Mr. Goldstein’s clutches. But I do feel very, very grateful to Mr. Hawkesley. Don’t you think it is quite natural that I should, Sibyl?”

“I think you are a little, green goose,” said I, and kissed her; and so ended the day that saw the end of her servitude and the dawn of prosperity and success.

Chapter XVIII. Among the Breakers

My preoccupation with Peggy Finch’s affairs had to some extent submerged my own, but now that my little friend had triumphantly emerged from the house of Bondage, I returned to my labours with a new zest. In spite of the various interruptions, the Zodiac spoons had made steady progress, and it was but a few days after our momentous visit to Mr. Hawkesley’s rooms that, almost regretfully, I put the finishing touches to the Fishes spoon--the last of the set.

It had been a pleasant labour, and as I laid out the completed set, I was not dissatisfied. True, there had been difficulties; but difficulties are the salt of craftsmanship. Some of the signs, such as Aries, Taurus, Leo, Virgo and Capricornus, had been quite simple, the head of the Ram, the Bull, or other symbolic creature furnishing an obvious and appropriate knop for the spoon. But others, such as Gemini, Pisces, and especially Libra, had been less easy to manage. Indeed, the last had involved a slight evasion; for, since it seemed quite impossible to work a pair of scales into a presentable knop, I had relegated them to the shoulder of the bowl and formed the knop of a more or less appropriate head of Justice blindfolded. So all the difficulties had been met by a pleasant and interesting exercise of thought and ingenuity, and the work--my magnum opus, for the present--was finished. And it was rounded off by a very agreeable little addition; for Phyllis Barton, who had seen and greatly admired the set, had made a delightful little case to contain it--just a pair of walnut slabs hinged together, the lower slab having twelve shaped recesses to hold the spoons and the lid ornamented with shallow carvings of a winged hour-glass and the phases of the moon.

I made up the spoons into a parcel and the case into another, so that they should not be treated together in a single transaction; and having advised Mr. Campbell by a letter on the previous day, set forth one morning for Wardour Street. The silent willing which should have preceded my entry to the shop was inadvertently omitted, for as I crossed the street I observed Mr. Campbell exchanging blandishments with a large Persian cat of the “smoky” persuasion, and, as he saw me at the same moment, I had no choice but to enter straightway.

He received me with the most encouraging affability--indeed, he even condescended to shake hands--and was evidently pleased to see me. And his reception of my work was still more encouraging. There was none of the buyer’s proverbial disparagement. He was frankly enthusiastic. He held up each spoon separately at arm’s length, wagging his head from side to side; he inspected it through a watchmaker’s lens; he stroked it with a peculiarly flexible thumb, and finally laid it down with a grunt of satisfaction. Then came the question of terms; and when he offered twenty-four guineas for the set, I was quite glad that the silent willing had been omitted. For I should probably have willed eighteen.

Having settled the price of my own work, I produced the wooden case. Phyllis had priced it at half a guinea, which was ridiculous. I boldly demanded a guinea for it.

“That’s a long price,” said Mr. Campbell, pulling a face of proportionate length. But I watched his thumb travelling over the clean-cut carving, I saw him delicately fitting the spoons, one by one, into their little niches, and I knew that that guinea was as good as in Phillibar’s pocket.

“It is a long price, Mrs. Otway,” he repeated, cocking his head on one side at the case. “But it’s a pretty bit of work; and it’s the right thing--that’s what I like about it. Tho thootable; it would be a sin to put those spoons into a velvet-lined case, as if they were common, stamped, trade-goods. Very well, Mrs. Otway, I’ll spring a guinea for the case; and I should like to see some more work from the same hand.”

This was highly satisfactory (though it was not without a pang of bereavement that I saw the little case closed and hidden from my sight for ever in a locked drawer); and when I had received the two cheques--I asked for a separate one for Phyllis--I tripped away down Wardour Street as buoyantly as if I had not a care in the world.

The association of ideas is a phenomenon that has received a good deal of attention. It was brought to my notice on this occasion when I found myself opposite St. Anne’s Church; for no sooner had my eye lighted on its quaint, warty spire than my thoughts turned to Mr. Davenant--or rather, I should say, to Jasper. Perhaps he was in my mind already; possibly in the subconscious, as Lilith would have said, and the church spire may have acted as an autoscope--it would not have had to be an exceptionally powerful one. At any rate, my thoughts turned to him and to the Magpies Club, and it was not unnatural that my steps should take a similar direction.

As I followed the well-remembered route, I reflected on the changes that a few short months had brought. In that brief space a new life had opened. The solitary, friendless orphan who had sought sanctuary in Miss Polton’s house, how changed was her condition! Happy in her work, in her home, in her friends; for had she not her Lilith, her Phyllis, her Peggy--and Jasper? And here a still, small voice asked softly but insistently a question that had of late intruded itself from time to time. Whither was I drifting? My friendship with Jasper was ripening apace. But ripening to what? There could be but one answer; and that answer only raised a further question. In normal circumstances the love of a man and a woman finds a permanent satisfaction in marriage. But where marriage is impossible love is a mere disaster; a voyage with nothing but rocks and breakers at the end.

So whispered the still, small voice into ears but half attentive; and as I neared the bottom of Essex Street it became inaudible, for approaching the club-house from the opposite direction was Jasper himself.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “this is a piece of luck! And yet I had hoped that you might be coming into town to-day. Is it business or pleasure?”

“It has been business, and now I hope it is going to be pleasure. I am taking the rest of the day off.”

“Now, what a very singular coincidence! I am actually taking the rest of the day off myself.”

“Your coincidences,” I remarked, “somehow remind me of the misadventures of the bread-and-butter fly; they always happen.”

“Quite so,” he agreed. “But then, you see, if they didn’t happen they wouldn’t be coincidences. Do we begin by fortifying ourselves with nourishment?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘begin,’ but I came here to get some lunch.”

“So did I--another coincidence, by the way. Shall we take our usual little table in the corner?”

We seated ourselves at the table, and as we waited for our lunch to be brought, I ventured on a few inquiries into Jasper’s professional affairs.

“You seem to take a good many days off,” I remarked.

“I do. There is, so to speak, a distinctly marked ‘off side’ to my practice.”

“And when you are away, what happens? Do you keep a clerk?”

Jasper grinned. “You over-estimate the magnitude of my practice. No; I have a simpler and more economical arrangement. I let my little front office to a law writer, at a peppercorn rent, subject to the condition that he shall interview my clients in my absence, furnish evasive answers to their questions, and supply ambiguous and confusing information.”

“But don’t the clients get rather dissatisfied?”

Again Jasper smiled. “That question,” said he, “involves an important philosophic principle. A famous philosopher has proved his own existence by the formula ‘cogito, ergo sum’--I think, therefore I am--implying that if he didn’t exist he couldn’t think. Now, that principle applies to my clients. Before they can be dissatisfied, they must exist. But they don’t exist. Therefore they are not dissatisfied. Q.E.D.”

“I don’t believe you care whether they exist or not--but that is the worst of having an independent income.”

“It is a misfortune, isn’t it? But I bear up under it surprisingly. Will you have some of this stuff? It is called a pelion. I heard the waitress describing it as a pea-lion, apparently misled by the analogy of the pea-cock and the pea-hen. Evidently she is no zoologist.”

At this moment Miss Tallboy-Smith entered the room and halted at our table to exchange greetings and remind me of my engagement.

“Tell Miss Finch not to forget,” said she. “It’s next Wednesday. I shall have my things back from here by then, and I understand that Mr. Hawkesley has secured the cases for a special exhibition of studio pottery. You must bring Miss Finch to that, too.”

Like Jasper’s proxy, I gave an evasive answer to this, for I knew that wild horses would not drag Peggy to an exhibition of her own work. But evidently Mr. Hawkesley had made no confidences so far.

“Have you ever seen the Diploma Gallery at the R.A.?” Jasper asked when Miss Tallboy-Smith had flitted away. “If you haven’t, we might look in there for an hour this afternoon.”

As I had never seen the diploma works, I fell in readily with the suggestion, and accordingly, when we had finished lunch, we strolled thither and spent a very pleasant hour examining and comparing the works of the different academicians, old and new. From Burlington House we drifted into the Green Park, and presently took possession of a couple of isolated and lonely-looking chairs. For some time we gossiped about the pictures at which we had been looking in the gallery; then our talk turned on to the affairs of my friend Peggy.

“Hawkesley seems to have appointed himself Miss Finch’s advertising agent,” Jasper remarked. “And he’ll do the job well. He is an energetic man, and he knows all the pottery connoisseurs. I met him yesterday, and had to listen to Blue Bird ware by the yard.”

“I like him for his enthusiasm,” said I.

“So do I,” agreed Jasper. “And it is quite a little romance. His admiration of the pottery is perfectly genuine, as we know; but there is something in what he calls ‘the personality of the artist.’ I think he is distinctly ‘taken’ with your pretty little friend. How does she like him?”

“I think she is decidedly prepossessed. At any rate, she is profoundly grateful to him for discovering her work, and especially for the interest that he took in the unknown worker.”

“There you are, then,” said Jasper. “There are the ingredients of a life-size romance. Fervid admiration on the one side, gratitude on the other, and good looks and good nature on both. We shall see what we shall see, Helen; and I, for one, shall look on with the green eyes of envy.”

“Why will you? Do you want Peggy Finch for yourself?”

“I want Hawkesley’s good fortune. If he loves this little maid and thinks she cares for him, he can ask her to marry him. That is what makes me envious.”

I made no reply; indeed, there was nothing to say; and already the sound of the breakers was in my ears.

“I suppose, Helen,” he said, after a long pause, “you realize that I love you very dearly?”

“I know that we are the best of friends, and very deeply attached to one another.”

“We are much more than friends, Helen,” said he; “at least, there is much more than friendship on my side. You are my all--all that matters to me in the world. You live in my thoughts every moment of my life. When we are apart I yearn for the sight of you--I reckon the hours that must pass before I shall see you again, and when we are together the happy minutes slip away like grains of golden sand. But I need not tell you this. You must have seen that I love you.”

“I have feared it, Jasper--and that I might presently lose the dearest friend that I have in the world.”

“That you will never do, Helen, dearest, if I have the happiness to be that friend. Why should you?”

“It seems that it has to be. Our friendship has been a sweet friendship to me--too sweet to last, as I feared; and if some might cavil at it, it was innocent and wronged no one. But if it has grown into--into what I had feared it might, then it has become impossible. More than friends we can never be, and yet we cannot remain friends.”

We were both silent for more than a minute, and both were very grave. Then Jasper asked, with a trace of hesitation:

“Helen, if we were as those other two are--if you were free--would you be willing to marry me?”

It was a difficult question to answer, in the circumstances, and yet I felt it would be an unpardonable meanness to dissemble.

“Yes,” I answered; “of course I should.”

“Then,” said he, “I don’t see why we can never be more than friends.”

“But, Jasper, how can we? I am a married woman.”

“I don’t admit that,” said he. “Your marriage is a fiction. You are really a spinster with a technical impediment to the conventional form of marriage. Your so-called husband is a stranger to whom you have no ties. You don’t like, or even respect him; and certainly you have no obligations of duty to him, seeing that he induced you by a mere fraudulent pretence to go through this form of marriage with him.”

“I am not thinking of Mr. Otway,” said I. “He is nothing to me. I owe him no duty or consideration, and I would not sacrifice a single hair of my head for him. But the fact remains that I am, legally, his wife; and while he lives I can contract no other marriage.”

“But is that quite true, Helen?” he objected.

“Certainly it is; unless you consider a bigamous marriage as an exception, which it is not.”

“Of course I do not. Bigamy is a futile and fraudulent attempt to secure the appearance of a legal sanction. No one but a fool entertains bigamy.”

“Then I don’t see the meaning of your objection.”

“What I mean,” said he, “is that a fictitious marriage does not exclude the possibility of a real marriage.”

“Still I do not quite follow you. What do you mean by a real marriage?”

“A real marriage is a permanent, life-long partnership between a man and a woman. Ordinarily, such a partnership receives the formal endorsement of the State for certain reasons of public policy. But it is the partnership which is the marriage. The legal endorsement is an extrinsic and inessential addition. Now, in your case the State has accepted and endorsed a marriage which does not exist--which is a pure fiction. The result is that if you contract a real marriage, the State will withhold its endorsement. That is all. It cannot hinder the marriage.”

“This is all very ingenious, Jasper,” said I, “and it does credit to your legal training. But it is mere sophistry. The position, as it would appear to a plain person of ordinary common sense, is that a woman who is legally married to one man and is living as the wife of another, is a married woman who is living with a man who is not her husband.”

“That is the conventional view, I admit,” said he. “But it is a mistaken view. It confuses the legal sanction--which is not essential--with the covenant of life-long union, which is the essence of marriage--which, in fact, is the marriage.”

“But what is the bearing of this, Jasper?” I asked. “We seem to be discussing a rather abstract question of public morals. Has it any application to our own affairs?”

“Yes, it has. At least, I think so, though I feel a little nervous about saying just what I mean.”

“I don’t think you need be. At any rate, there had better be a clear understanding between us. Tell me exactly what you do mean.”

He considered awhile, apparently somewhat at a loss how to begin. At length, with evident embarrassment, he put his proposal before me.

“The position, Helen, is this: You and I have become deeply attached to one another; I may say--since you admit that you would be willing to marry me--that we love one another. It is no passing fancy, based on mere superficial attractions. We are both persons of character, and our love is founded on deep-seated sympathy. We have been friends for some years. We liked one another from the first, and as time has gone on we have liked one another better. Our friendship has grown. It has become more and more precious to both of us, and at last it has grown into love--on my side, into intense and passionate love. We are not likely to change. People of our type are not given to change. We love one another and we shall go on loving one another until the end.

“If our circumstances were normal, we should marry in the normal manner. That is to say, we should enter into a contract publicly with certain formalities which would confer a definite legal status and render our contract enforceable in a court of law. But our circumstances are not normal. We are willing to comply with the formalities, but we are not allowed to. We are not in the position of persons who, for their own purposes, lightly disregard the immemorial usages of society--who dispense with the formalities because they would avoid the responsibilities of formal marriage. We wish to enter into a lifelong partnership; we desire to undertake all responsibilities; we would welcome the formalities and the secure status. But the law refuses. There is a technical disability.

“We have, therefore, two alternatives. We may give up the marriage which we both desire, or we may marry and dispense with the formalities and the legal status. Supposing we give up the marriage. Just consider, Helen, what it is that we give up. It is the happiness of a whole life-time. The abiding joy of the sweetest, the most sympathetic companionship that is possible to a man and a woman. For though we are lovers, we are still friends, and friends we shall remain until death parts us. Our tastes, our interests, our sympathies make us prefer one another as companions to all other human beings. Of how many married couples can this be said? To us has been given that perfect comradeship that makes married life an enduring delight, a state of happiness without a cloud or a blemish. And this is what we give up if we let this disability, this technical impediment, hinder us from marrying.

“On the other hand, supposing we marry and dispense with the formalities, what do we give up? Virtually nothing. The legal security is of no value to us, for each of us is secure in the constancy of the other. If we enter into a covenant, we shall abide by it, not by compulsion, but because we shall never wish to break it. As to the legal status and the social recognition, is it conceivable that two sane persons should give up a life’s happiness for such trumpery? Surely it is not. No, Helen, let us boldly take our destiny into our own hands. Let us publicly denounce this sham marriage and cancel it for ever. I ask you, dearest, to give me the woman of my heart for my mate, my friend, my wife, for ever; to take me, unworthy as I am, for your husband, who will try, as long as he draws the breath of life, to make up to you by love and worship for what you have sacrificed to make him happy.”

As I listened to Jasper’s appeal--delivered with quiet but impressive earnestness--I think I was half disposed to yield. It was not only that I admired the skill with which he put his case and the virile, masterful way in which he trampled down the obstructing conventions; but deep down in my heart I felt that he was right--that his separation of the things that really mattered from those that were trivial and inessential was true and just. But there was this vital difference between us; that he was a man and I was a woman. Our estimates of the value of the conventions were not the same. Without the legal sanction I might be his wife in all that was real; but the world would call me his mistress.

“Jasper, dear,” I said, “it is impossible. I admit the truth of all that you have said, and I wish--Oh! Jasper, how I wish, that I could accept the happiness that you offer me! You need not tell me that our companionship would be a delight for ever. I know it. But it cannot be. Even if I could accept it for myself, I could not accept it for you; I could not bear to think that, through me, you had been put outside the pale of decent society. For that is what it would mean. You--a gentleman of honour and reputation--would become a social outcast, a man who was living with another man’s wife; who, if he were admitted at all to the society of his own class, would have to be introduced with explanations and excuses.”

“I think you exaggerate the social consequences, Helen,” said he. “I propose that we should write to Otway and formally repudiate the marriage. Then, if we were boldly and openly to state our position and the exceptional circumstances that had driven us to it, I believe that we should receive sympathy rather than condemnation. I don’t believe we should lose a friend; certainly not one whose loss would afflict us. And Otway could take his remedy, if he cared to.”

“You mean he could divorce me,” I said, with something like a shudder.

“Yes. But I am afraid he wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think he would. But if he did, it would be an undefended suit, and the stigma of the Divorce Court would be on us for ever.”

“It would be unpleasant, I admit,” he replied. “But think of the compensations. Think of the joy of being together always, of having our own home, of going abroad and seeing the world together.”

“Don’t, Jasper!” I entreated. “It is too tantalizing. And even all this would not compensate me for the knowledge that I had dragged you from your honourable estate to a condition of social infamy.”

“You need not consider me,” he rejoined. “I have thought the matter out and am satisfied that I should gain infinitely more than I should lose; for I should have you, who are much more to me than all the rest of the world.”

“You haven’t thought of everything, Jasper,” said I. “You know of the folly I committed at the time of my father’s death--in withholding facts at the inquest, I mean--and you have excused it and treated it lightly. But others would view it differently. And now there is this blackmailer of whom I have told you. At any moment, a serious scandal may arise; and in that scandal you would be implicated.”

“It wouldn’t matter to me,” said he. “Nothing would matter to me if only I had you.”

“So you think now. But, Jasper, think of the years to come. Think how it might be in those years when the social ostracism, the loss of position and reputation, had grown more and more irksome, if we should regret what we had done, if we should blame ourselves--even, perhaps, secretly blame one another----”

“We should never do that, Helen. We should always be loyal. And there wouldn’t be any social ostracism. At any rate, I am quite clear as to my own position. I want you for my wife. To get you I would make any sacrifices and count them as nothing. But that is only my position. It isn’t necessarily yours--or rather, I should say your sacrifices would be greater than mine. A woman’s point of view is different from a man’s.”

“It is, Jasper. I realise fully how essentially reasonable your proposal is, and I am proud of, and grateful for, the love that has impelled you to make it. But to me the thing is impossible. That is the only answer I can give. What it costs me to give that answer--to refuse the happiness that you offer me, and that I crave for--I cannot tell you. But even if it breaks my heart to say ‘no,’ still, that must be my answer.”

For a long time neither of us spoke. As I glanced furtively at Jasper, the dejection, the profound sadness that was written on his face wrung my heart and filled me with self-accusation. Why had I not foreseen this? Why had I, who had nothing to give in return, allowed his friendship to grow up into love under my eyes? Had I not acted towards this my dearest friend with the basest selfishness?

Presently he turned to me, and, speaking in quiet, even tones, said:

“It would not be fair for me to make an appeal on my own behalf. I may not urge you to accept a relation which your feeling and judgment reject. But one thing I will ask. I have told you what I want; and you are to remember that I shall always want you. I will ask you to reflect upon what we have said to-day, and if perchance you should come to think differently, remember that I am still wanting you, that I am still asking you, and tell me if you can give me a different answer. Will you promise me this, Helen?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I promise you, Jasper.”

“Thank you, Helen. And meanwhile we remain friends as we have been?”

“We can never be again as we have been,” said I. “Friendship may turn to love, but love does not go back to friendship. That is as impossible as for the fruit to change back into blossom. No, dearest Jasper; this is the end of our friendship. When we part to-day it must be farewell.”

“Must it be, Helen? Must we part for ever? Could we not go back to the old ways and try to forget to-day?”

“I shall never forget to-day, nor will you. For our own peace of mind we must remain apart and try to avoid meeting one another. It is the only way, Jasper, hard as it will be.”

I think he agreed with me, for he made no further protest.

“If you say it must be, Helen, then I suppose it must,” he said, dejectedly. “But it is a hard saying. I don’t dare to think of what life will be without you.”

“Nor I, Jasper. I know that when I say ‘good-bye’ to you, the sun will go out of my life and that I can look for no other dawn.”

Again we fell silent for a while; and again I reproached myself for having let it come to this.

“Don’t you think, Helen,” he said at length, “that we might meet sometimes, say at fixed intervals--even long intervals, if it must be so--just that we might feel that we had not really lost one another completely?”

“But that is what I should wish to avoid. For we have lost one another. As to me, it has no significance. I have nothing to give and nothing to lose. I am shackled for life to Mr. Otway. But you have your life before you, and it would only be fair that I should leave you free.”

“Free!” he exclaimed. “I am not free and never shall be. Nor do I wish to be free. I am yours now and for ever. And so I would wish it to be. We may not be married in any outward form, but we are married in the most real sense. Our hearts are married. We belong to one another for ever while we live, and neither of us will ever wish to change. You know it is so, dearest, don’t you?”

What could I say? He had spoken my own thoughts, had expressed the wish that I had not dared to acknowledge. Weak and unjust it may have been, but the thought that in the dark days of our coming separation we should still be linked, if only by an invisible thread, came as something like a reprieve. It left just a faint spark of light to relieve the gloom of the all too sombre future. In the end we agreed to a monthly letter and a meeting once a year. And so, having fixed the terms of our sentence, we tried to put our troubles away and make the best of the few hours that remained before the dreaded farewell.

But despite our efforts to get back to our wonted cheerful companionship, the swiftly-passing hours were filled with sadness and heart-ache. Instinctively we went and looked at things and places that recalled the pleasant jaunts that were to be no more; but ever Black Care rode behind. It was like the journey of two lovers in a tumbril that rolled its relentless way towards the guillotine; for at the end of the day was the parting that would leave us desolate.

And at last the parting was upon us. At the corner of Cable Street we halted and faced one another. For a few moments we stood in the gathering gloom, hand clasped in hand. I dared not speak, for my heart was bursting. Hardly did I dare to look at the man whom I loved so passionately. And Jasper could but press my hand and murmur huskily a few broken words of love. And so we parted. With a last pressure of the hand I turned away and hurried along Cable Street. I did not dare to look back, though I knew that he was gazing after me; for the street swam before my eyes and I could barely hold back my sobs.

I did not go straight home. The tumult of emotion sent me hurrying forward--whither I have no recollection save that somewhere in Shadwell a pair of friendly policemen turned me back with the remark that it “was no place for the likes of me.” At length, when the first storm of grief had passed, and I felt myself under control, I made my way to Wellclose Square, and pleading the conventional headache, retired at once to my room.

And there, in quiet and seclusion, with tears that no longer need be restrained, with solemn rites of grief, I buried my newborn happiness--the happiness that had died almost in the moment of its birth.

Chapter XIX. Illusions and Disillusions

It is a generally accepted belief that of all the remedies for an aching heart, the most effective is distraction of the mind from the subject of its affliction. And probably the belief is well founded. But it usually happens that the sufferer is the last to recognize the virtues of the remedy, preferring to nurse in solitude a secret grief and to savour again and yet again the bitterness of the Dead Sea fruit of sorrow.

So it was with me in these unhappy days. The seclusion of the workshop gave me the opportunity for long hours of meditation, in which I would trace and retrace the growth of my love for Jasper, would think with passionate regret of what might have been, and speculate vaguely upon the future. So far from seeking distraction in these first days of my trouble, I kept aloof from my comrades, so far as I could; shut myself in the workshop, or in my room, or wandered abroad alone, following the great eastern thoroughfares where I was secure from the chance of meeting a friend.

But the distractions which I would have avoided came unsought. First, there was the visit with Peggy to Miss Tallboy-Smith. It was due but a day or two after my parting with Jasper, and I loathed the thought of it; but it had to be; for who could say how much it might mean to Peggy? And as it turned out, I should never have forgiven myself if I had failed her. I had looked for a rather dull social call flavoured with porcelain. But it was quite otherwise. Miss Tallboy-Smith had at length heard of Peggy’s genius and had invited a few specially choice connoisseurs to meet her, including Mr. Hawkesley--unless he had invited himself. At any rate, there he was, reverential and admiring, but yet with a certain air of proprietorship which I noted with interest and not without approval. It was quite a triumph for Peggy, and she took it very modestly, though with very natural satisfaction. To me, however, there was a fly in the ointment, though quite a small one; for Mr. Hawkesley proposed an exploration of the Wallace Collection, which Peggy had never seen, and which I felt bound, for her sake, to agree to. But I looked forward with prospective relief to the time--not far distant, I suspected--when these two pottery enthusiasts would be intimate enough to dispense with a chaperon.

Then there came a distraction of another kind. One evening after tea, Lilith took me apart, and looking at me with some concern, said: “Our Sibyl has not been herself of late. I hope she is not being worried about anything.”

“We all have our little troubles, Lilith,” I replied, “and sometimes we don’t take them so resignedly as we should.”

“No,” she rejoined. “Resignation is easier when the troubles are someone else’s. But we are very concerned to see you looking so sad--not only Margaret and I, but all of us. We are all very fond of you, Sibyl, dear, and any of us would think it a privilege to be of help to you in any way. You know that, don’t you?”

“I have good reason to. No woman could have found kinder or more helpful friends than I have in this house.”

“Well,” she said, “friends are for use as well as for companionship. Don’t forget that, if there is any little service that any of us can render you.”

I thanked her very warmly, and she then opened a fresh topic.

“Some time ago, Sibyl, we were speaking of psychical experiments, and I suggested that you might like to see some carried out by my friend, Mr. Quecks, who is an authority on these subjects. Mr. Quecks was away from home at the time, on a lecturing tour in Kent; but he is home again now. I wrote to him about you and have had one or two talks with him, and he has asked me to invite you to a little demonstration that he is giving to some friends next Friday evening. Would you care to come with me?”

I would much rather not have gone, but I knew that a refusal would disappoint Lilith, who had set her heart on converting me. Accordingly, I accepted the invitation, and we were arranging details of the expedition when Peggy joined us. As soon as she heard what was afoot she was all agog.

“Oh, what fun!” she exclaimed. “You’ll let me come, too, won’t you, Lilith? I did so enjoy it last time.”

Lilith, however, was by no means eager for her company, for the Titmouse was a rank unbeliever, and made no secret of it.

“What is the use of your coming, Peggy?” said she. “You don’t believe in the super-normal. You would only come to scoff.”

“Perhaps I should remain to pray,” rejoined Peggy. “It is no use preaching to people who are already convinced. And I should just love it. That Quecks man is so frightfully amusing. He is the funniest little guffin you ever saw, Sibyl. Won’t you let me come, Lilith?”

“Of course you can come if you really want to,” Lilith replied with evident reluctance. “But you shouldn’t speak of Mr. Quecks as if he were a mountebank or a buffoon. He may not be handsome, but he is a very learned man and very sincere.”

“I beg your pardon, Lilith,” said Peggy. “I won’t call him a guffin any more. And thank you ever so much for letting me come.”

The arrangements being thus settled, it is only fair to Peggy to say that she endeavoured, as far as possible, to treat the demonstration quite seriously. Even in our private conversations she made no further disparaging references to Mr. Quecks, though I did gather that her anxiety to be present at the séance was not unconnected with a desire to keep an eye on him to see that he did not impose on me.

Mr. Quecks’ house was situated in a quiet street off Cromwell Road, Kensington, and the “demonstration” took place in a large room intermediate in character between a library and a drawing-room, lighted by three electric bulbs, all of which were encased in silk bags, so that the illumination was of a twilight dimness. The visitors were about a dozen in all, and while we were waiting for the late arrivals Mr. Quecks made a few observations upon super-normal phenomena in general.

To me he required no disparagement from Peggy or anyone else, his own appearance doing all that was necessary in that respect. The first glance at him impressed me disagreeably; but then he was a manifestly uncomely man, with a large, bald face and long, greasy black hair, which was brushed straight back and accumulated in an untidy bush at the nape of his neck. He spoke unctuously, and his manner was confident, persuasive, didactic and authoritative, and he gave me the impression of a man who was accustomed to dealing chiefly with women--his present audience was composed of them exclusively.

“In interpreting the results of the experiments which we are about to perform,” he observed, “we have to bear in mind that psychical and super-normal phenomena, inasmuch as they are not concerned with material things, are not directly appreciable by the senses. We cannot see or touch the subliminal self, either our own or that of others. But neither can we see the electric current or the Hertzian waves. We know of their existence and properties indirectly, through their effects. Electricity can be transformed into heat, light or sound, and these can be perceived by means of the radiator, the electric lamp or the telephone, which act directly on our senses. So it is with the hidden subconscious self. Invisible itself, it can be made to produce effects which are perceptible to the conscious mind through the senses, and through those effects its own existence is revealed.”

This sounds reasonable enough; but the experiments themselves were rather disappointing on the whole. Perhaps I expected too much; or perhaps the preoccupied state of my mind did not allow me to bring to them sufficient interest or attention. Moreover, Mr. Quecks had an assistant (I had almost said “confederate”) whose appearance pleased me no more than his own; a wall-eyed, taciturn woman of about thirty-five, of the name of Morgan, who acted as the “percipient”--the word “medium,” I noticed, was not used--and helped to prejudice me against the experiments.

We began with a demonstration of thought-transference, which I found dull, tiresome and unconvincing. Probably I was unreasonable; but the apparent triviality of the proceedings, which resembled a solemn and unspeakably dull drawing-room game, influenced my judgment. The percipient, Miss Morgan, being seated, blindfolded, in the middle of the room, a pack of playing cards and another pack of cards, each of which bore a single capital letter, were produced. A card was drawn out at random and held up behind the percipient and in view of everyone else, including Mr. Quecks, who held the percipient’s hand. Miss Morgan then guessed the card or the letter. Sometimes she guessed correctly, sometimes nearly correctly, sometimes quite incorrectly. The proportion of correct guesses, Mr. Quecks informed us, was vastly greater than could be accounted for on the law of probabilities. And I dare say it was. But the exhibition left me cold, as did those of table-tilting and planchette writing which followed. Even the “pendule explorateur,” which had so impressed me on a previous occasion, fell flat on this. For, since that rather startling experience, I had given some thought to the magic pendulum, and believed that I had found at least a partial explanation of its powers. Accordingly, when my turn came to try the “autoscope,” I took the string in my fingers and shut my eyes; and when Mr. Quecks objected to this, I gazed fixedly at the opposite wall, seeing neither the pendulum nor the clockwise alphabet. Under these conditions the pendulum was a complete failure; it would spell nothing. But when I looked steadily at the pendulum and the letters, the swinging ball spelled out clearly the word that I chose--Lilith.

I was thus in a decidedly sceptical frame of mind when the next set of experiments began; and even these produced, at first, no effect on me other than a slight tendency to yawn. Their object was to demonstrate the existence of a “psychometric” power or faculty; that is to say, a power to detect in certain material objects a permanent impression left by contact with some particular person. Such a faculty, Mr. Quecks explained to us, was possessed by certain exceptionally sensitive persons. He had it to some extent himself, but in Miss Morgan it was developed in a really remarkable degree, as the experiments which were to follow would convince us.

Hereupon Miss Morgan was once more blindfolded, all the lights but one were switched off, so that the room was almost in darkness, and the demonstration began. One of the visitors, at Mr. Quecks’ whispered request, slipped a ring from her finger and passed it to him. By him it was handed to Miss Morgan, who solemnly applied it to her forehead. Then followed an interval of expectant silence, in which I thought I heard a faint giggle from Peggy Finch, who sat in the row in front of me.

At length Miss Morgan opened her mouth and spake. It seemed that she was seeing visions, and these she described in detail. Naturally I was unable to check them, nor could I judge whether they had any relation to the ring. The owner of that article stated, at the close of the experiment, that the visions, as described, corresponded closely to certain places and events which were known to her and to no one else. Which seemed conclusive enough; but yet it left me only with a feeling that the whole proceeding was ridiculous and trivial.

The next experiment was performed with a glove from the hand of another visitor, and when this was concluded, Mr. Quecks whispered to a lady in the front row, who whispered to Peggy, who turned to me.

“He wants your handkerchief, Sibyl,” she said in a low whisper.

I took my handkerchief from my pocket and gave it to Peggy, who squeezed it up into a ball and passed it to the lady in front, who passed it to Mr. Quecks, who handed it to Miss Morgan; who, in her turn, applied it to her forehead as if it had been an ice-bag, and assumed an attitude of intense mental concentration. And again the sound of a suppressed giggle came from the neighbourhood of the Titmouse.

Then Miss Morgan began to speak.

“I seem to be passing through the country--swiftly--very swiftly; past great, wide fields and woods. They are strange-looking woods. The trees are all in lines--in straight lines… But wait! Are they trees? No, they can’t be; they are too small. No--they are plants growing up poles--they must be vines. It is a vineyard--and yet they don’t look quite like vines. No, no! Of course, I see now; they are hops. It is a hop-garden. And now I am passing another. Now I have come out on to a road on the top of a hill. There are hills all round, and in the hollow there seems to be a town… and I seem to see water in the town… yes, it is water. It is a river… But I don’t see any ships… only some red things… Oh, yes! I see; the red things are sails--red sails. I thought sails were always white.”

She paused; and in the intense silence I leaned forward, listening eagerly. All my indifference and boredom had vanished. This was quite a different affair from the card-guessing and planchette-reading. She had described Maidstone vividly, accurately--or at least so it seemed to me; Maidstone as it would appear to one approaching the bridge from the west. Of course it might be mere guessing; but----

“I seem,” Miss Morgan resumed, “to be descending a hill by a broad street… What is that in front of me? Is it--yes, I see; it is a bridge. Yes, I see it plainly now. I am coming towards it. But what on earth is this thing on my left hand? It seems to be a mass of gold… and yet… and yet it looks like an elephant. That’s ridiculous, of course. It can’t be… But it certainly looks like gold… and yet it… it really does look like an elephant! Well, I can make nothing of it. And now it is gone and I am on the bridge.”

Again she paused, and I sat gazing at her in blank astonishment. There could now be no question as to the reality of the visions, unless the whole exhibition was a fraud. The idea of skilful guessing could not be entertained for a moment. The description did not merely fit Maidstone; the detail of the golden elephant on the brewery by the bridge fixed the identity of the place beyond the possibility of doubt. It was either a genuine--and most amazing--psychical phenomenon or an outrageous imposture. But an imposture, to which Lilith must have been a party, was more incredible than the “super-normal” itself.

As these thoughts passed swiftly through my mind, Miss Morgan resumed her description.

“I am standing on the bridge, but it is beginning to grow indistinct. By the riverside I can just see a great house, an old, old house, which seems to stand by the water’s edge, and beyond it trees and a church tower. Now it is gone and I can see nothing. Is this all?… No; I see, very, very faintly, a small crowd of people. They seem to be in a field. And I make out a number of white objects in the field. They look rather like sheep, but they are very still. Oh! they are not sheep at all; they are tombstones. And I see now that the people are all in black and that they are standing round an open grave. It must be a funeral… Yes; there is the clergyman in his surplice… But it is beginning to fade… Now I can only just see the dark shapes of the people… and now they are gone too. This must be all, I think.” She paused for a few moments and then exclaimed: “No, it isn’t. Something else is coming. It is very dim, but it looks like a man sitting at a table. Yes… But I can’t see what he is doing. He is not writing… He has something in his right hand, and keeps moving it up and down. Oh, I see now: it is a hammer. He seems to be hammering some bright object--a piece of metal, I think… Yes, it is quite clear now. But it isn’t a man at all; it is a woman. I saw her distinctly for a moment, but she has grown dim again… Now she has gone and I can see nothing… I think that is all… Yes, that is all. Nothing else seems to come.”

She removed the handkerchief from her forehead and held it out towards Mr. Quecks, who took it from her and tip-toed round to where I was sitting.

“Thank you, Mrs. Otway,” he whispered. “It seemed a very successful experiment; but you can judge better than I can.”

“It was, indeed, most successful,” I replied, as he gave me back my handkerchief. “I am positively amazed at the detailed accuracy of the description.”

“You think the correspondence is closer than could be accounted for by coincidence or chance guessing?” he asked.

“There can be no question of chance,” I replied. “The descriptions were much too detailed and circumstantial.”

“That is most interesting,” said he. “For there can be no other explanation but that of genuine psychometric faculty. Miss Morgan is a stranger to you, and, moreover, she did not know whose handkerchief it was. The remarkable success of this experiment seems to support Miss Blake’s estimate of your unusual psychic gifts. You evidently have the power of imprinting your personality on inanimate objects in an exceptional degree. I should almost think it likely that you would be a successful scryer. Have you made any experiments with the crystal?”

“Yes. But they are all complete failures. I could see nothing.”

“That is not unusual in early experiments,” said he. “There is a difficulty in concentrating. I wonder if you would care to make a trial now under my guidance. I think I could help you to visualize some simple scene. Will you try?”

The astonishing success of Miss Morgan’s experiment had revived all my former curiosity, and I assented readily. Much to Mr. Quecks’ satisfaction. The nature of the new experiment was explained to the company, and the necessary preparations made. An easy chair was placed for me in the middle of the room, and the chairs for the others arranged behind it, so that I should not have my attention distracted by seeing them. As I passed Lilith on my way to the chair, I greeted her with a smile, and was a little surprised at the lack of response on her part. I thought she would be gratified to see me taking so active a part in the proceedings; but apparently she was not; indeed, I had never seen her look so ungenial.

When I had taken my seat, Mr. Quecks directed me to lean back and adopt a position of complete physical rest. A black, velvet cushion was then placed in my lap and on the cushion was laid the crystal globe, itself almost black in the dim twilight save for a single spark where it reflected the light of the one electric lamp.

“You will look fixedly at the bright spot of light,” said Mr. Quecks, who had seated himself beside me; “concentrate your attention on it and think of nothing else. Don’t let your mind wander, and don’t move your eyes. Think of the bright spot and look at it. Soon a mist will come before your eyes; then you will feel a sort of drowsiness. You will grow more and more drowsy, but your eyes will keep open and you will still see the mist. You are seeing it now” (this was quite correct); “it grows denser; now you are beginning to feel drowsy--just a little drowsy--but your eyes are wide open; still you are getting drowsy--rather more drowsy----”

He seemed to repeat these words over and over and over again like a sort of chant; and his voice, which had been at first soft and confidential, took on a peculiar sing-song quality, and at the same time began to grow more and more distant until it came to me thin and small like the voices that are borne from far-away ships on a calm day across the water of a quiet anchorage. And, meanwhile, a strange somnolence fell upon me. I felt as if I were in a dream. Yet my eyes were wide open, and before them floated the mist, out of which shone the single spark of light. And the little, thin voice went on chanting far away, but I could no longer make out what it said. Nor was I attending to it. I was gazing into the mist at the tiny spark--gazing fixedly, unwinkingly, without effort.

Presently the mist seemed to clear a little, and the spot of light began to grow larger. Now it looked like a hole in the shutter of a dark room; and now it was as though I were looking through an opera glass or a telescope; but I could make out nothing save a confused blur of light, in the middle of which was a vague, dark shape. But still the area of light grew larger, and now I could see that there were other shapes, all dim, vague and shadowy. Then in an instant it cleared up, as a magic-lantern picture sharpens when the lens is focussed. The dark shape was Mr. Otway. He stood, stooping forward, gazing at something on the floor--something that lay by the fireplace, motionless, with upturned waxen face. It was horribly distinct. I could see my father’s face settling into the rigidity of death; I could see the crimson streak on his temple; I could even see the sparkle of the silver knob on the stick that Mr. Otway grasped.

The vision lasted, as it seemed, but for a few seconds. Then it grew dim and confused and quickly faded away into blank darkness; and I found myself sitting up in the chair, wide awake, but bewildered and a little frightened. The lights were full on, and the visitors were all gathered around my chair gazing at me with a very odd intentness.

“Did you see anything in the crystal?” Mr. Quecks asked, suavely.

“Yes,” I answered, not quite so suavely. “How long have I been asleep?”

Mr. Quecks looked at his watch. “Just five and twenty minutes,” he replied.

I got up from the chair, and, addressing Peggy, who was looking at me a little anxiously, asked: “What has been happening, Peggy? Have I been talking nonsense?”

“No,” she answered. “You’ve been asleep, and you’ve been guessing cards and doing most extraordinary sums--multiplying and dividing fractions and all sorts of things. That’s all. But,” she added in a lower tone, “he’d no business to hypnotize you without your permission. You didn’t give him permission, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I replied.

At this moment Lilith came up to us and put the same question.

“No,” I answered. “I didn’t understand that I was to be hypnotised.”

“I thought not,” said she in a tone of evident vexation. “It doesn’t happen to matter as things have turned out, but it was quite improper. I shall speak to Mr. Quecks about it when you are gone.”

“Aren’t you coming with us, then?” asked Peggy.

“No,” replied Lilith. “I have some matters to talk over with him, so I must stay a little while; but I shall follow you in about half an hour.”

Shortly after this the meeting broke up, and Peggy and I took our departure. As we sat in the train, I tried to extract from my companion some details of what had happened, but I found her curiously unwilling to pursue the topic. I gathered, however, that, as soon as the hypnotic trance was completely established, Mr. Quecks suggested to me that I should have a distinct vision of some scene that I had witnessed “in the old town that Miss Morgan had seen and shortly before the funeral that she had described.” Then, after an interval, he had put a number of problems in multiplication and division of large numbers and fractions, which I had solved with extraordinary ease and rapidity. As to the nature of my vision, Peggy displayed no interest, but turned the conversation on to subjects quite unconnected with Mr. Quecks or psychical science.

When we arrived home she followed me to my room and suggested that we should wait there for Lilith, which was what I had intended to do. And here again she showed a marked tendency to avoid the subject of Mr. Quecks and his experiments. But, as she sat in my chair gossiping, I caught her eye, from time to time, travelling almost furtively towards the clock on the mantelpiece, and I wondered if she was feeling anxious about Lilith, who had to make her way alone through the rather unsavoury neighbourhood of Ratcliff. Whatever she was feeling, however, she kept up a flow of conversation--which was, itself, a rather unusual phenomenon--and presently grew quite confidential about herself--which was more unusual still. It was clear that her friendship with Mr. Hawkesley was now quite firmly established, and they evidently saw a good deal of one another--but this I knew already. And it was clear that their sympathy in tastes was running parallel to a very strong liking of a more personal kind.

After a pause in this confidential gossip, Peggy suddenly looked down a little shyly, and, turning very pink, asked, hesitatingly:

“Sibyl, dear, you haven’t quarrelled with Mr. Davenant, have you?”

“Quarrelled, Peggy!” I exclaimed; “of course I haven’t. Have we ever struck you as quarrelsome people?”

“No, indeed,” she replied. “But you don’t seem to have seen much of one another lately.”

“No; I haven’t seen Mr. Davenant for quite a long time,” I said.

She was silent for a while, and I noticed that her cheeks were growing more and more pink.

“What is my little chameleon turning that colour for?” I asked.

She looked up at me with a shy smile. “Sibyl,” she said, “don’t think me inquisitive or impertinent. I am your friend, you know, and we are fond of one another, aren’t we?”

“We are the very best of friends, Peggy, dear, so you needn’t mind asking me anything that you want to know.”

“Well, then, Sibyl; why don’t you and Mr. Davenant marry? Anyone can see how fond he is of you, and I’m sure you care for him an awful lot, don’t you, now?”

“My Titmouse is becoming an expert authority on these matters,” said I, thereby converting poor Peggy to the semblance of a corn-poppy.

“Perhaps I am,” she admitted, defiantly. “But why don’t you marry him, Sibyl?”

“My dear Peggy,” said I, “there is a very substantial reason. Its name is Mr. Otway.”

“Sibyl!” gasped Peggy. “I thought you were a widow!”

I shook my head. “No, Peggy. I am a widow in effect, but a married woman by law. I have a husband who is no husband; whom I married in error, whom I have never lived with and could never think of living with, but whom I can never get rid of. That is the position.”

She flung her arms around my neck, and laid her cheek to mine.

“My poor, dear Sibyl,” she exclaimed. “How dreadful for you! I am so frightfully sorry, dear. And is there no end to this?”

“There is death,” said I. “That is all. And that is why I am not seeing much of Mr. Davenant nowadays.”

“It is an awful thing, Sibyl,” said she. “You and Mr. Davenant could make one another so perfectly happy. And I don’t see why you shouldn’t, for that matter.”

“Why, how could we, Peggy?”

Again she blushed scarlet, and with a defiant glance at me, replied:

“I wouldn’t have my whole life wrecked. I should just go off with him, husband or no husband.”

“You dreadful little reprobate. And what do you suppose the world would say about you?”

“It could say what it liked so long as I’d got the man I wanted. But it wouldn’t really say anything. No one with any sense would think a penny the worse of me. Nor would they of you. Everyone would say that you had done the right thing, seeing that you had no choice. You couldn’t be expected to be bound for life to a dummy husband.”

At this moment I rose from my chair, and going over to the dressing-table, lit a candle. Then I put my hand in my pocket and drew out an unaddressed envelope and a piece of pencil. With the latter I wrote on the envelope my signature and the words “ten minutes to eleven.” The whole proceeding seemed quite automatic. I did not know why I was doing it. I had not known that either the envelope or the pencil was in my pocket, for I had not put them there. But I carried out the train of action almost unconsciously and quite without surprise.

When I had written on the envelope, I opened it and drew out a piece of paper. On the paper was some writing in an unfamiliar hand. I held the paper near the candle and read as follows:

“At ten minutes to eleven you will light a candle, take this envelope and a pencil from your pocket; you will write on the envelope your signature and the time. Then you will open the envelope and read this message.”

I stood for some seconds gazing at the paper in utter amazement. Then I looked round quickly at the clock. It was ten minutes to eleven. From the clock my glance turned to Peggy, who was sitting watching me with a very uncomfortable expression.

“Do you know anything about this, Peggy?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “That Quecks man told you to do it. He wrote the message and put the envelope and pencil in your pocket when you were in a deep sleep. He spoke the message into your ear, and, after about a minute, told you to wake up, and you woke up immediately. It was like his impudence to perform his beastly experiments without getting your permission first.”

“It was. But the thing is rather uncanny. I don’t like it at all.”

“There’s nothing in it,” said Peggy, though she, too, was evidently not pleasantly impressed. “It’s what they call post-hypnotic suggestion. It isn’t in any way super-natural. The doctors know all about it.”

“Still,” said I, “it is a very strange affair. There is something extremely eerie in finding oneself turned into an unthinking automaton worked by somebody else’s will. And some of the other experiments were rather startling: Miss Morgan’s visions for instance.”

“Mightn’t they have been just clever guesses?”

“No, Peggy. That is quite impossible. Her descriptions applied to my case in detail and were correct every time. You heard her describe the view from Maidstone Bridge?”

“Yes. And I recognised it from that water-colour over your mantelpiece.”

“Well, don’t you think it very wonderful and incomprehensible?”

“No, I don’t,” said Peggy. “How do you suppose she did it?”

“I can only imagine that some influence that I don’t understand passed to her from my handkerchief.”

“Then you imagine wrong,” said the Titmouse. “Your handkerchief was in my pocket all the time. It was my handkerchief that she was smelling at. And her descriptions didn’t fit me the least little bit. I don’t hammer my pottery, you know.”

“But I don’t understand. You passed her my handkerchief, didn’t you?”

“No; I passed her mine. You see, I’d seen this handkerchief trick before and I had mine ready, rolled up into a ball in my hand. So it was quite easy to make the exchange. But we may as well change back now.”

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to me; and when I had identified it as my own, I produced hers and restored it to her.

“You are a wicked little baggage, Peggy,” said I, “though I must admit that the ruse was quite a fair one. But still, I don’t quite see how it was done? It was evidently an imposture. But how was it worked? How did she get the information?”

“Why, she got it from Mr. Quecks, and he got it from Lilith.”

“You surely don’t suggest that Lilith was a party to this fraud?”

“Of course I don’t,” she replied, indignantly. “Lilith is a lady to the tips of her fingers. That’s just where it is. She would never suspect. But we know that she wrote to Quecks about you, and she has talked to him about you, and no doubt he has pumped out all that she knows about you. Then you will remember that he has just come back from a tour in Kent--he is almost certain to have been to Maidstone--and there are such things as picture postcards. There is no mystery as to how it was done; but I do wonder that he was such a fool as to do it before Lilith. I suspect she stayed behind to tell him what she thought of him.”

As we were speaking, Lilith came up the stairs, and I ran out to intercept her and bring her in.

“You needn’t have waited up for me,” said she, “though I am glad you have, for I want to apologise for Mr. Quecks’ very improper behaviour.”

“Don’t think any more about it, Lilith,” said I. “It didn’t do any harm, and it has enabled Peggy and me to have a little private séance to ourselves.”

“Did the post-hypnotic experiment work correctly?”

“Perfectly--and most uncannily.”

“Then,” said Lilith, “you have gained by that amount of experience. As to the rest of Mr. Quecks’ experiments--well, Sibyl, I am afraid we must consider them on the plane of public entertainment rather than on that of genuine research. But it is getting late. We had better go to bed now and talk things over to-morrow.”

This advice was forthwith acted on, as to its first half; and if I owed Mr. Quecks a grudge for trying to impose on me, I should have been grateful to him for giving me something to think about other than my own griefs and entanglements.

Chapter XX. Cloud and Sunshine

Reviewing on the morrow my experiences at Mr. Quecks’ house, I was conscious of a rather definite change of outlook. Those experiences had made a very deep impression. The vision that I had seen was something outside ordinary, normal experience, and it still haunted me. And then, even more uncanny, there was that strange automatic action which I had carried out with such perfect unconsciousness and yet so exactly and punctually. It was all very well for Peggy to put it aside with the easy explanation that it was merely post-hypnotic suggestion, and that the doctors knew all about it. That explanation explained nothing. The fact remained that I had suddenly become aware that things which I had been accustomed to dismiss as delusions--as the mere superstitions of credulous people--were actual realities. And this discovery created for me a new standard of possibility and truth. Even Miss Morgan’s visions, though I knew them to be a rank imposture, had left an impression that was not to be completely effaced. The shock of amazement that they had produced at the time left a vague after-effect, due, no doubt, to the more real and equally mysterious experiences.

Concerning these latter I was somewhat puzzled. It was not quite clear to me how I had come to be hypnotized at all, and I took an early opportunity of questioning Lilith on the subject.

“There is no mystery about that,” she replied. “The orthodox method of producing the hypnotic trance is to cause the ‘subject’ to gaze steadily at some bright object--a metal button, a crystal, or even a small piece of white paper. He is told to gaze fixedly at this object, to concentrate his attention on it, and to think of nothing else. The purpose of this is to get rid, as far as possible, of the conscious self and to allow the subconscious self to act without disturbance. When this state of mental abstraction has been established, the ‘subject’ is ready to receive suggestions. If the operator suggests to him that he is drowsy, he becomes somnolent; and at the same time he becomes much more susceptible to suggestion. Now, if the operator suggests to him that he feels certain sensations, he feels those sensations. If it is suggested that he performs certain actions, he performs them. This is what happened to you. Mr. Quecks induced you to gaze steadily at the crystal, and when you were in the proper state of mental abstraction, he suggested the hypnotic trance. Then he suggested that you would see a vision of some scene that you had looked on shortly before the funeral, and I understand that you did see such a vision.”

“Yes, I did; and most astonishingly vivid it was. But, Lilith, when I lit that candle in my room I was not in the hypnotic trance.”

“No; that was a post-hypnotic phenomenon, and really a most interesting one. To understand it you must think of the two personalities, the conscious self and the subconscious, or subliminal self. Now the suggestions are made to the subconscious self, while the conscious is dormant or in abeyance. But when the conscious self returns or awakens, the subconscious mind continues to work, although unperceived by the conscious mind. If the suggestion refers, as in your case, to some action to be performed at an appointed time, the subconscious keeps account of the passing time and at the appointed moment sets the machinery in motion. The action itself is perceived by the conscious mind, but the train of subconscious thought has been unperceived, though it has really been quite continuous. It is very curious, though not particularly mysterious.”

“And it is only in the hypnotic trance that these suggestions take effect?”

“That,” replied Lilith, “is not quite clear. It seems that in ordinary sleep suggestions of the kind may sometimes take effect. And for the same reason. In sleep, the conscious self is in abeyance--is out of action; but the subconscious is active, as we see in the case of dreams and still more strikingly in the case of somnambulism. But the postponed effects of suggestions made during normal sleep need more investigation. I believe that sleep produced by drugs is much more like the hypnotic trance than natural sleep.”

“Well,” I said, “it is all rather weird and uncanny,” and so the subject dropped. But, as I have said, the influence of these strange experiences remained. My former scepticism of the occult and mystical gave place to a state of mind in which I was prepared to admit the possibility of things that I had once regarded as wildly incredible.

Nevertheless, I was but faintly interested in the wonders of psychical research. Indeed, I was not much interested in anything connected with my daily life. I had endeavoured to revive my enthusiasm for my work by setting myself an ambitious task--a silver candlestick of a semi-ecclesiastical design, worked in repoussé with enrichments in enamel. But all the pleasure in the work was gone. The various processes--skilfully enough executed, as I noticed with tepid satisfaction--which should have been a joy, were but the routine of industry; and through them all the never-ending heartache, the sense of loss, of bereavement, the feeling that the light had gone out of my life for ever. The passing time seemed to bring no mitigation. Rather did it seem to me that every day I missed my dear companion more.

Perhaps if my loss had been more final--if, for instance, Jasper had been taken from me by Death--I might have striven more determinedly to shape my life anew. But there was a certain inconclusiveness in our separation. Not that I ever, for a moment, considered the possibility of re-opening the question. But still I think there lurked in my mind the feeling that the door was not finally closed. Jasper’s words, “Remember that I am still wanting you, that I am still asking you,” would come to me unbidden, again and yet again, reminding me that the way was still open, that I could end the separation if and when I chose. And then Peggy’s outspoken declaration was not without its effect. For the Titmouse was a very paragon of modesty and maidenly propriety; and when I recalled her robust contempt of conventional points of view I could not help asking myself sometimes if I had not been too prudish. All of which was very disturbing. It left me with my resolution unchanged, and yet without that sense of finality that would have set me reconstructing my scheme of life.

So the weeks dragged by till the time for the first monthly letter drew nigh; and the passionate yearning with which I looked forward to it told me that that letter was a mistake. It ought never to have been. The chapter should have been ended and the volume shut irrevocably.

As the time for the letter approached, my unrest took me abroad more than usual, and one day, forsaking the sordid east, I took the train to South Kensington and made my way to the Museum, though with no special object in my mind. I had ascended the steps to the main entrance, and was approaching the doorway, when I came face to face with Miss Tallboy-Smith, who was just emerging. At the sight of me she halted with a dramatic gesture of astonishment.

“Well!” she exclaimed, “so you are really alive! I thought I was never going to see you again. Where have you been? It’s ages--centuries--since I have seen you. And dear Miss Finch, too; whatever has become of her? Were you going into the Museum? I have just been wallowing in the Salting Collection. Delightful, isn’t it? The very kernel of the Museum. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think I have ever seen the Salting Collection,” said I.

“Never seen the Salting Collection!” she gasped. “My dear Mrs. Otway! How dreadful! And you a connoisseur, too. Why, it’s a Paradise; the collectors’ Heaven. Do you believe that people come back after death and frequent their old haunts? I hope it’s true. If it is, I shall come to the Salting Collection. I shall divide my ghosthood between that and the Wallace. It will really be very jolly. Unlimited leisure, with all eternity at one’s disposal. And no silly restrictions; no closing hours or students’ days. So convenient, too! You just pass in through the closed door or the wall and float up the stairs. Why, you could even get inside the glass cases! I’m afraid you’ll think me an awful, old heathen; but I’m not really. And how are you? And how is Miss Finch? And why haven’t you been to the club for such an age. And isn’t it dreadful about poor Mr. Davenant?”

My heart seemed to stand still, and I think I must have turned pale, for Miss Tallboy-Smith said hastily: “I’m afraid I have startled you, Mrs. Otway; but surely--surely--do you mean to tell me that you haven’t even heard about it?”

“I have heard nothing,” I said, faintly. “Is he--tell me what has happened.”

“I haven’t had very full particulars,” said she, “but it seems that a cart--or was it a wagon? No, I think it was a cart--and yet I’m not quite sure that it wasn’t--but there! I’m not very clear as to the difference between a cart and a wagon. What is the difference?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said impatiently. “Tell me what happened.”

“No,” she agreed, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, it seems that this wagon--but I think it was really a cart----yes, I’m sure it was--at least, I think so--but at any rate it appears that the wagon had run away--that is, of course, it was the horse that had run away, but as he was tied to the cart, it comes to the same thing. And he got on to the pavement--it was in the Strand, somewhere near that shop where they sell those absurd--now what do they call those things? I am getting so silly about names, and it’s quite a common name, too----”

“Never mind what they are called,” I entreated. “Do tell me what happened to Mr. Davenant.”

“Well, what happened was this. When the wagon got on the pavement all the people scattered to get out of the way--all except a messenger boy, and he fell down right in front of the cart. Then Mr. Davenant ran out and tried to drag the boy clear of the wagon; and, in fact, he did drag him out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough to save himself, for the horse swerved and knocked him down violently on to some stone steps.”

“Was he badly hurt?” I demanded, breathlessly.

“Hurt!” she repeated. “My dear Mrs. Otway, he was battered--absolutely battered. He fell with his side on the stone steps, and I understand that his ribs were simply smashed to matchwood.”

“And where is he now? Is he in a hospital?”

“He was. They took him to Charing Cross Hospital, but he wouldn’t stay there. He insisted on going home directly they put on the splints or whatever the things were. And, will you believe me, Mrs. Otway, when I tell you that he has been living alone in those wretched chambers ever since! He wouldn’t even have a nurse. Isn’t that just like a man?”

“But who looks after him?”

“Nobody. Of course there is the charwoman, or laundress as they call them--though why they should be called laundresses I can’t imagine. They look more like dustwomen--and the man from the office downstairs looks in sometimes. It’s a perfectly scandalous state of affairs. I wish, Mrs. Otway, you would go and see him and make him have a nurse.”

“I will certainly go and see him,” said I. “I will go now,” and I held out my hand to bring the interview to an end.

“How sweet of you, dear Mrs. Otway!” she explained, keeping a firm hold of my hand, which I endeavoured unobtrusively to withdraw. “I felt sure you would go to the rescue. And you will insist on his having a nurse, won’t you? He will listen to you, but you will have to be firm. Promise me you will, now.”

“I will see that he is properly looked after,” I replied.

“Yes, but he must have a nurse, you know--a properly trained and certificated nurse. You can get excellent nurses at that place--now, what is its name? Cavendish--Cavendish something. I am getting so silly about names. Let me see, I did have a card in my purse; perhaps it is there still----” Here she released my hand to open her wrist-bag, and I took the opportunity to retreat down the steps.

“Don’t trouble, please,” I urged. “I shall manage quite well. Good-bye!” and with this I hurried away, somewhat unceremoniously, across the wide road, and, as soon as I had turned the corner, broke into a run. A couple of minutes later I arrived at the station, breathless, just in time to see a Circle train move out. I could have wept with vexation. It was but a few minutes before the next one would be due, but those minutes dragged like hours. With swift strides I paced up and down the platform in an agony of impatience, turning over and over again Miss Tallboy-Smith’s confused account of the accident and trying to construct by its aid some intelligible picture of Jasper’s condition.

Even when I was in the train its progress seemed intolerably slow and the succession of stations interminable. It was an agony to sit still and passively await the leisurely arrival at my destination, and an unspeakable relief when, at last, I reached the Temple Station, to spring from the train, dash up the stairs and hurry along the embankment. My progress on foot might be slower, but I had the physical sensation of speed.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane I emerged into Fleet Street, and, crossing the road, entered Clifford’s Inn Passage. I had never been there before, and, though I knew the number of Jasper’s house, I thought it best to enquire as to its whereabouts. As I passed through the archway I saw a somewhat clerical-looking man standing at the door of the porter’s lodge, and from him learned that No. 54 was in the inner court on the east side of the garden; with which direction I hurried on again. Clearly there came back to me the impressions that seemed so dim at the time; a sense of quiet and repose, of aloofness from the bustle of the city, an old-world, dignified shabbiness that was yet homely and pleasant withal. I crossed a little court, passed through a second archway, and came out into a second, larger court, where the gay foliage of plane trees found a foil in the dingy, red brick of the venerable houses. A glance showed me the narrow alley by the garden, and a dozen paces along its roughly-flagged pavement brought me to the entry of No. 54, on the side of which was painted “Mr. J. Davenant, Architect,” and below, in smaller lettering, “Jonathan Weeble, Law Writer.”

I stepped into the entry, and tapping on a door which, by its painted description, appeared to appertain to Mr. Weeble’s premises, was bidden to “come in.” Accordingly, I entered and was confronted by a somewhat unkempt young man who was apparently engaged in engrossing a large document which was secured to a sort of evergrown lectern by means of a band of tape.

“I have called,” I said, “to enquire about Mr. Davenant. Is he in a very serious condition?”

“He wasn’t when I saw him about an hour ago,” was the reply.

“Do you think he would be well enough to see me?”

The young man, whom I assumed to be Mr. Weeble, inspected me critically, and then replied:

“I should say most emphatically that he would. But we needn’t leave it at that. I can soon find out. Won’t you sit down?”

He rose briskly and hurried out of the office, and it was only when I heard him ascending the uncovered stairs, two or three at a time, that I remembered that I had given no name.

Mr. Weeble’s confident manner had lifted a load of anxiety from my mind, but my agitation was little abated. My fears were relieved, indeed, for evidently Jasper’s condition was not such as to occasion alarm; but, as my anxiety subsided, other emotions made themselves felt. I was actually going to see him. Within a couple of minutes we should be together. The intolerable separation would be at an end. And the ecstasy of this thought--the almost painful joy of anticipation--brought home to me the intensity of my yearning to look on him again.

The sound of Mr. Weeble’s footsteps descending the stairs set my heart throbbing, and as he bustled into the office I stood up, trembling with excitement.

“It’s all right,” said he. “Mr. Davenant will see you, if you’ll go up. First floor, right hand side of the landing. I’ve left the door open, and you’ll see his name above it.”

I did not go up the stairs at Mr. Weeble’s pace, but I went as rapidly as the trembling of my knees would let me. On the first floor I saw a forbidding, iron-bound door standing ajar, and above it the well-beloved name, painted in white letters. I drew back the heavy door, disclosing a lighter one, also ajar, which I pushed open as I closed the massive “oak” after me. For a moment I stood on the threshold looking into the quaint, old-world room, with its panelled walls and the soft green light from the plane trees shimmering through the windows. He was reclining by the fire on a low, wooden settle, and held a book in his hand; and even in that instantaneous glance I could see how changed he was--how pale and thin and weary-looking. But as I stepped out from the shadow, the worn face lighted up; the book fell to the floor, and he flung his arms out towards me.

“Helen!”

“Jasper!”

In a moment I was on my knees by his side. His arms were around me and my cheek lay against his. And so for a while we rested with never a word spoken and no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock and the soft rustle of a swaying branch on the window panes. And so I could have rested for ever; for at last my heart was at peace.

“Jasper, dear,” I said, at length, “how is it with you? Are you badly hurt?”

“Not a bit,” he replied. “It is just a matter of a cracked rib and a few bruises; and I’ve nearly recovered from those.”

“But why did you never send me a word? That wasn’t friendly of you, Jasper.”

“How could I, dearest?” he protested. “A bargain is a bargain. The month wasn’t up.”

“Jasper!” I exclaimed; “how could you be so silly? Of course you ought to have sent me a message, and I would have come to you instantly.”

“I am sure you would, Helen,” said he, “which was an additional reason for my keeping to our covenant. It would have seemed a shabby thing to do; for, badly as I wanted you, I was never really in any danger. By the way, how did you hear of my little mishap?”

I told him of my meeting with Miss Tallboy-Smith, and he chuckled softly. “She was an old goose to frighten you with those lurid stories, but I’m very grateful to her, all the same. I have wanted you, Helen.”

He drew me closer to him and stroked my hair fondly; and again we were silent for a while. The clock ticked on impassively, the plane tree rustled gently on the window, and I was filled with a quiet, restful happiness that I was unwilling to interrupt even by speaking.

Presently Jasper bent down to my ear and whispered:

“Helen, darling, you haven’t anything to tell me, have you?”

I knew what he meant, of course; and the strange thing is that, though the question came unexpectedly, and though I had not consciously given the subject a moment’s thought, I found my mind completely and finally made up.

“Yes,” I replied, “I have. Jasper, dear, I am your own. I can’t live without you. The world must say what it will. I can do without the world, but I can’t exist without you.”

He drew me yet closer to him and kissed me reverently.

“Dear heart,” he said softly, “sweet wife, I would try to thank you if words could tell you what your precious gift means to me. But life is before us, and mine shall be one long thanksgiving. You have given me my heart’s desire; if love and worship and faithful service can in any degree repay you, they shall be yours as long as our lives endure.”

Thus in a few moments were the long weeks of misery and despair blotted out. We were reinstated, and, indeed, much more than reinstated; we were admitted and accepted lovers. And, just as my mind had, so to speak, made itself up without conscious thought on my part, so now that I had entered into this new covenant it seemed quite inevitable and satisfying. Its nonconformity with social conventions left me completely undisturbed.

Presently Jasper made me draw up a low, rush-bottomed chair that I might sit comfortably by his side while we talked. But, in fact, we talked little; for there is a sort of telepathy born of perfect sympathy that makes speech superfluous. We were both very happy and very deeply moved; and it seemed more companionable to sit, hand clasped in hand, and let our thoughts run on undisturbed by speech, knowing that the thoughts of each were but a reflection of the other’s.

Anon came Mr. Weeble, stamping slowly up the stairs like an infirm coal-porter and making such a prolonged to-do about inserting the latch-key into the outer door that we both laughed. A very discreet man was Mr. Weeble.

“I’ve just come to see if I can do anything,” said he, when Jasper had introduced me. “I generally make his tea and straighten out his bandages. Shall I make the tea now or are you taking charge, Mrs. Otway?”

“I will make the tea,” said I, “but while you are tidying up the bandages I will run out and get some fresh cakes.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Weeble, “that would be a good idea. Our stock is rather low and a trifle old and fruity. And talking of cakes, that reminds me that an old rooster called a day or two ago and left one. I put it in a spare deed-box and forgot all about it. I’ll go and fetch it up.”

“A rooster, you say, Weeble,” said Jasper. “May we assume that you are speaking figuratively?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Weeble. “Elderly party with an automatic smile and the rummiest name I ever heard. Now what was her name? Something double-barrelled--Bigboy-Jones, was it?”

“Tallboy-Smith, I expect,” said Jasper.

“That was it. I sent her a letter of thanks the same day in your handwriting and signed it with your name. Are you starting now, Mrs. Otway? You’ll find a very good cake-shop in Fetter Lane near the top on the left-hand side.”

I took a brief bag of Jasper’s and his latchkey and sallied forth into Fetter Lane by the postern gate; and as I walked up the quaint, old street I found myself looking into the homely shops and inspecting the ancient timber houses with a queer sort of proprietary air, as if I belonged to the neighbourhood. I found the cake-shop--it was really an old-fashioned baker’s shop, such as one might find in a country town--and as I made a selection of the wares, based on experience of Jasper’s tastes, I found myself almost unconsciously considering the merits of the establishment as a source of supply for a family of two. If the change in my mental state was sudden, it was certainly complete; as I sauntered back down Fetter Lane with my bag of provisions, care-free and filled with a delightful sense of emancipation, loitering to look into shop windows or to peer up strange courts and alleys that I might not return prematurely; I could not but contrast my condition with that in which I had set forth in the morning, hopeless, heart-weary, despondent.

When I arrived at Jasper’s chambers, Mr. Weeble had already gone; but he had filled the kettle and set it to boil on the gas-stove in the kitchen, where I found it murmuring placidly and breathing out little clouds of steam. That kitchen was a delightful absurdity. About the magnitude of a good-sized china cupboard, it suggested, with its ranges of shelves and little chemical sink, a doctor’s dispensary or a chemist’s laboratory. Yet it was very orderly and quite convenient, and it had the advantage that, while I was engaged in the preparations for the meal, my heart singing in unison with the kettle’s song, I could look out of a tiny window on the moss-grown garden, or through the open door see Jasper watching me with a smile of ecstasy, and receive his instructions as to where the various articles were to be found. It was all very pleasant and intimate, and every little, homely detail helped to bring home to me the reality of my happiness.

During the very leisurely tea we gradually approached the subject of our future arrangements, which had evidently been very carefully thought out by Jasper.

“I’m not quite such a graven image as I look,” said he. “I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to keep so immovable. But that is the doctor’s business. I just do as I’m told. However, my bandages are coming off in a few days, and I understand that I shall be practically well in a fortnight. Until I am well, we had better let things remain as they are; and I think it would be better for you not to come and see me again in the interval.”

“Do you mean that I am to leave you, a helpless invalid, all alone and no one to look after you?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Of course, I shall want you dreadfully, but as to my being alone and helpless, that is merely a sentimental view of the case. You can see for yourself that I am quite comfortable and well cared-for. Weeble never forgets me for an instant. And I think it most necessary that, until we are definitely married, we should have the most scrupulous regard for the conventions. We can’t get the sanction either of the Law or the Church to our marriage; therefore, it is the more necessary for us to treat it ourselves with the utmost respect and seriousness. We are not going to enter into a casual and irresponsible relationship. We are going to contract a marriage; and I propose that we do so publicly and with proper formalities suited to the dignity and importance of the transaction.”

“But,” I asked, “what formalities are possible?”

“My proposal,” he replied, “is this: we shall appoint a day and a time to meet here, and have two witnesses in attendance. Weeble could be one and the Inn porter, Mr. Duskin, the other. In the presence of those witnesses we shall formally agree to take one another as husband and wife. Each of us shall make a written declaration to the same effect, reciting the circumstances which render the unusual procedure necessary, and, in your case, denouncing and repudiating your marriage with Otway. These declarations we shall respectively read to the witnesses--who will also read them--and we shall each sign our declaration in the presence of the witnesses. I am not quite clear whether it would be legal for them to counter-sign as witnesses. If not, we shall add a note stating that the signatures were made in their presence. Then we shall exchange declarations and we shall notify Mr. Otway and whosoever else may be concerned, or whom we wish to inform, of what has taken place. Does that meet with your approval, Helen?”

“Entirely,” I replied, “excepting the sentence of banishment. Don’t you think I might just look in on you now and again to see if you want anything?”

“It is only a fortnight, dearest,” said he, “and we can write as often as we please. Until we are married we can’t be too careful to avoid provoking criticism.”

I made no further objections, for I felt that he was right; and, moreover, I could not but perceive that this rather excessive primness, like the formalities which he had proposed, was simply an unconscious expression of chivalrous respect, a protest in advance against any unfavourable criticisms of me. And in accordance with what I felt he would consider prudent, I took leave of him comparatively early, so as to avoid a second meeting with Mr. Weeble, who, I learned, came in every night between eight and nine to help him to get to bed.

“I shall write to you every day,” I said, as I drew on my gloves, “and you must promise that, if there is anything that I can do for you, you will let me know and never mind about Mrs. Grundy. Is that agreed?”

He gave the required promise, and when I had handed him back his latch-key, I stooped and kissed him; and as I looked back at him before closing the iron-bound door, I could not but contrast this parting with the miserable farewell of less than a month ago.

Chapter XXI. A Dreadful Inheritance

It has always been, and still is, somewhat of a puzzle to me to account for the sudden and complete change in my point of view in regard to my union with Jasper. Lilith would doubtless have explained it as a case of subconscious reflection, and probably she would have been right. My impression is that Peggy’s matter-of-fact attitude towards marriage unsanctioned by law had a more profound effect than I was aware of; that her words--which I had certainly recalled from time to time--had remained in my mind subconsciously exercising a continuous influence. Or it may be that I had found a life of separation impossible, and had realised it consciously only when I found myself once more in Jasper’s presence.

But, however it may have happened, the fact remains that I accepted the new order without a qualm. The conditions that I had scouted as unthinkable now seemed entirely reasonable and acceptable. The only twinge of misgiving that I ever had, was produced by the draft of the declaration that Jasper sent for my approval and criticism. For that well-meant document, with its half-defiant, half-protesting phrases, did certainly bring home to me with uncomfortable vividness the fact that this marriage was not like any other marriage, and that I was not as other married women were. But I sent it back approved and tried to forget it, and quietly went on with my preparations for the new life.

Outwardly, however, I made no change in my habits, and even tried to suppress the gaiety and buoyancy of spirit that I felt, lest the sudden change from my recent depressed condition should attract notice. I still lived my life apart, only too happy in my solitude, and spent most of my time in the workshop conning over Jasper’s letters, or meditating on the happy days that were drawing so near. For a time the candlestick was sadly neglected, until I had the sudden inspiration of finishing it as a wedding-gift to Jasper. And then all the joy of work revived and blossomed into unsuspected skill. Tracer and punch seemed to travel along their appointed paths unguided; the spindle-shanked chasing hammer became a familiar demon and appeared to develop a volition of its own, and the little enamel furnace roared with glee.

So the days sped by, each bringing me nearer to the golden gate of my enchanted garden, and each so filled with quiet happiness that I could not wish it shorter. About the end of the first week came a letter from Jasper saying that the bandages had been discarded, and that he had taken a walk and had appeared quite well and strong. Then, a day or two later, came another fixing the date and time of our meeting. It was to be on the following Thursday--only five days ahead--at six o’clock in the evening. The formalities were to be carried out immediately on my arrival; we should then dine quietly at the club, spend the evening at a concert or the theatre, and take the boat train either to Flushing or Calais, whichever I preferred.

The arrival of this letter, though I had been daily expecting it, came as quite a shock, and turned my tranquil happiness into feverish excitement which I had some difficulty in concealing. The fixing of an actual date and the selection of a definite region in which to spend the honeymoon (I chose the north of France) gave a reality to this Great Adventure and brought it out of the undefined future into the present. For now I had to carry out the final preparations. Lightly as I might travel, I must take some luggage, and this would entail a conveyance; and this in its turn involved something in the nature of a public departure, so that, if I had desired to disappear secretly--which I did not--the thing would have been impossible. Yet I was, naturally, loath to say much about my immediate intentions, preparing to make my explanations by letter after the event; and this the prevailing good manners of the little community rendered quite easy. I notified Miss Polton and my more intimate friends that I was going away on a visit of uncertain duration, and, whatever curiosity they may have felt, no further particulars were asked for. I went about my immediate preparations--the packing of those few things that I must needs take away with me--unnoticed, or at least uncommented on, and then began unobtrusively to arrange the rest of my possessions for the final removal.

On Wednesday--the day before that of my departure--a letter arrived from Mr. Otway. It reached me just after lunch, and I glanced at it before rising from the table. The subject was the same as that of previous ones, but it was evident that something in the nature of a crisis was approaching. The extreme agitation of the writer was shown not only in the matter and the impassioned, rather incoherent manner, but even in the handwriting; which was ill-formed and slovenly, in great contrast to Mr. Otway’s usual business-like neatness.

“My dear Helen,” it began, “I have not troubled you for quite a long time with my miserable affairs--which are to some extent your affairs too. But they are going from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am coming to the limits of endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My health is shattered, my peace of mind is wrecked, and my brain threatens to give way. Death would be a boon, a relief, and I feel that it is not far off. I cannot go on like this. Those wretches leave me no peace. Hardly a week passes but I get some new menace; and now--but I can’t tell you in a letter. It is too horrible. Come to me, Helen, for the love of God! I am in torment. Have pity on me, even though you have never forgiven me. I cannot come to you, for I am now unable to leave my bed. I am a wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this once, and if you cannot help me, at least give me the comfort of your sympathy. You will not be troubled by me much longer.

                                      “Your distracted husband,
                                      “Lewis Otway.”

The emotions that this letter aroused were mixed and rather conflicting. Never had I felt a deeper loathing of Mr. Otway than now that I was being forced to accept what I knew in my heart to be but a counterfeit of marriage. I had been robbed of my birthright, and he had robbed me. Never was I less in a mood to offer him sympathy in the troubles that he had created for himself and me by his callous selfishness. And yet I decided to go to him. Whether the decision was due to some sort of compunction for the blow that I was going to strike on the morrow; or whether to curiosity, or to a desire to verify his foreboding of approaching death, I cannot say. Certainly the last consideration entered into the mixture of motives, and probably was the determining factor. At any rate, I decided to go. Dimly, I perceived that I ought to have consulted Jasper, though I was unaware of the possible legal significance that my visit might acquire. I formed my decision at once, and early in the afternoon set forth westward with the letter in my pocket.

I did not go direct to Mr. Otway’s chambers. Promptly as I had made up my mind, I felt the necessity of thinking over the circumstances and forecasting the possibilities. On my way westward I made a halt at a tea-shop, and while I awaited the leisurely service I drew out the letter and read it through again. Clearly the blackmailers were becoming more urgent and possibly more definite. It seemed as though they had adopted some new tactics. But it was not the blackmailers who interested me. I found my eye travelling again and again to those two sentences that hinted at the possibility of Mr. Otway’s death.

“I feel that it is not far off.” And again, “You will not be troubled by me much longer.” Had he any solid grounds for these forebodings? Or were they merely the offspring of abiding terror, or perchance simply rhetorical flourishes designed to arouse my sympathy? These were questions of no small moment to me, for Mr. Otway’s death would set me free and in an instant unravel the tangled skein of my relations with Jasper.

As I drank my tea with reflective deliberation I turned these questions over in my mind, not disguising from myself the cool, impassive, egoism of my attitude. My feeling in respect of Mr. Otway was devoid of any trace of sentimentalism. I viewed him as the insurance director views the generalised “proposer,”--but inversely; for I was interested in his decease, not in his survival. I loathed him, but I did not hate him. I did not wish him ill. If I could have saved him from suffering I would have done so, even at the cost of some considerable effort. But if he had stood in the peril of instant death, and I could have averted that peril by moving a finger, I would not have moved a finger.

That was my position. As I rose from the table and returned the letter to my pocket, what was in my mind was that Mr. Otway seemed to think that he was going to die, and I hoped that he was right.

When I reached Lyon’s Inn Chambers the sun was already low and the gloom of the evening was beginning to settle on the closed-in block of buildings. I ascended the ill-lit stone stairs to the second floor, where the light on the landing was so dim that I had difficulty in deciphering Mr. Otway’s name above the door of his “set”; and as I did so I noted with surprise that the inscription was faded and obscure, and had the appearance of having been in existence for many years, whereas Mr. Otway had, as I believed, but recently entered on his tenancy.

The door was opened by Mrs. Gregg, who stood in the gloom of the entry confronting me without a word.

“Good evening, Mrs. Gregg,” I said. “Mr. Otway has asked me to call on him----”

“Ye need make no excuses,” she interrupted, “for coming to see your lawful husband.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gregg,” I replied. “Is Mr. Otway disengaged?”

“No,” she answered; “he is expecting a visitor.”

“How very unfortunate,” said I. “He wanted particularly to see me, I know.”

“Perhaps you could look in some time to-morrow?” she suggested.

“No, I am afraid I can’t. If Mr. Otway is unable to see me this evening I must write to him. I shall not have another opportunity to call for some considerable time.”

She reflected for a few moments, and I gathered that she was unwilling to take the responsibility of cancelling the interview.

“Could you call again a little later?” she asked, at length. “He will have finished with his visitor by about half-past seven, or say a quarter to eight. Could you look in again at eight?”

I had not wanted to be out as late as this would make me, but if I was to see Mr. Otway at all, it would have to be to-night. Eventually I accepted the arrangement, somewhat, I think, to Mrs. Gregg’s relief.

As I descended the stairs I heard the footsteps of two persons--apparently a man and a woman--ascending. On the first-floor landing I met the man, who turned out to be the lamplighter. Just as I had passed him he lit the landing lamp, and its light, which came from behind me, fell full on the woman who was coming up. It was only a momentary glimpse that I caught as she passed me on the stairs, but I recognised her instantly. She was Mrs. Campbell, the wife of the Wardour Street dealer.

It was an odd meeting, and it gave me the material for a good deal of thought and speculation. Mr. Otway’s chambers were the only ones on the second floor; from which it seemed probable that Mrs. Campbell was the visitor whom he was expecting. This was a rather queer coincidence; but it was not the only one. That sudden recognition of the face, thrown into strong relief against the dark background by the bright lamplight, had set my memory working. I remembered how, when I had seen Mrs. Campbell in the shop and had heard her speak, her face had seemed to suggest something familiar, and her accent and the intonation of her voice had called up some accent and tone that I had heard before. It had been but a vague impression at the time; but now, in the new setting and aided by association, the impression became quite definite. The face that hers had suggested was Mr. Otway’s face; but the really odd thing was that her voice and accent suggested not Mr. Otway’s but Mrs. Gregg’s. And this very queer resemblance was made yet more queer by a singular discrepancy. Mrs. Gregg spoke with a distinct Scottish accent. It was a peculiar one, different from that of any other Scots person whom I had ever heard speak; but it was quite pronounced. Mrs. Campbell, on the other hand, had no trace whatever of a Scottish accent; of that I was quite sure. But I was equally sure of the resemblance between the two, subtle and elusive as it was.

Here, then, was a problem the consideration of which gave me quite a considerable amount of occupation, and helped me to while away the hour and a half that I had to wait. The almost fantastic oddity of the coincidence might have made me reject my impressions as mere delusions; but, on the one hand, there was Mrs. Campbell evidently making for Mr. Otway’s chambers, and, on the other, was the fact that it was Mr. Otway who had introduced me to the shop in Wardour Street. However, I could get no farther than speculation; and, as speculation tends rapidly to exhaust its limited material, I presently dismissed the problem and returned to the consideration of Mr. Otway’s health and its bearing on my own future.

The hour and a half I spent in a leisurely survey of Lincoln’s Inn and the Temple. My perambulations with Jasper had brought home to me that London is an entertainment in itself; that no observant person need be dull who has access to its historic streets and picturesque backwaters. And now it was very pleasant to revisit the scenes of former rambles--to be repeated often in the future--and meanwhile to reflect on the happenings of the present and let my thoughts stray to the new life that was about to open; and the time slipped away so agreeably that when the three-quarter chime was struck in a polite undertone by the genteel clock in the Inner Temple, it came to me as quite a surprise.

On the stroke of eight I rang the bell of Mr. Otway’s chambers, and was forthwith admitted by the taciturn Mrs. Gregg. In silence she conducted me along a narrow corridor that led from the entrance lobby, across a largish room furnished partly as a library, partly as a dining-room and by a communicating door into the bedroom, when--still without uttering a word--she departed, shutting the door after her.

Mr. Otway half rose in bed as I entered, and made a vague gesture of welcome, finally extending his hand, which I shook formally.

“This is really good of you, Helen,” said he, “to come and see me, and to come so promptly. I am sorry Mrs. Gregg sent you away. There was no need. My other visitor could have been put off.”

“It is of no consequence,” said I. “My time was my own to-night. What is the new trouble--for I infer from your letter that there is some new development. Is there any definite threat?”

Again he half rose in bed, and looking at me with anxious intensity said, in a low, suppressed tone: “Helen, just see that the door is properly shut.”

I did so, and he then begged me to draw the chair, which had been placed for me, closer to him. This I also did, and, having seated myself, looked at him expectantly.

Still half raised in bed, he bent his head as near to me as he could, and in a whisper said, “Helen, I want to ask you a question. What became of your father’s stick?”

The question, whispered with such strange secrecy, and accompanied by a singular look compounded of eagerness, fear and suspicion, somewhat startled me; for I remembered, even as he spoke, that the same question had been asked by Dr. Thorndyke.

“I haven’t the least idea,” I replied. “Haven’t you got it?”

“No. I never had it. I have never seen it since the--ah--the occasion when--ah--you remember----”

“Of course I remember. I have good reason to.”

“Ah--no doubt. Yes. But are you quite sure--I thought you might have taken it away with you.”

“But, Mr. Otway, you let me out of the house yourself. You saw me go, and you must have seen that I was not taking it. And you know that I never came to the house again.”

He sank back on his pillow with a gesture of despair.

“Yes,” he murmured, “that seems to be so. It must be so, I suppose.”

“It is so,” I said. “There is no question about it. When I went away that morning the stick was in your house. But why are you asking me about it? Is it of any importance?”

He turned towards a table that stood by the opposite side of the bed, and taking up a bunch of keys, unlocked a deed-box that was on the table, and took from it a sheet of paper.

“Read that,” said he, handing me the paper.

The document was a type-written letter of a similar character to the previous ones, and of about the same length. It ran thus:

“Mr. Lewis Otway,

“Some funny questions are being asked. What about Mr. Vardon’s stick--the loaded stick with the silver knob to hide the lead loading? Where is it? Somebody says they know where it is and who’s got it. And they say there is a bruise on the silver top, and they say something about a smear of blood and a grey hair sticking to it. Do you know anything about it? If you don’t, you’d better find out. Because I think you’ll hear from that somebody before you are many weeks older or else from the police.

                                           “A Well-Wisher.”

As I came to the end of this document I raised my eyes and met Mr. Otway’s fixed on me with a very singular expression. But he quickly averted his gaze, possibly embarrassed by the steady intensity of my own. For this letter, together with Mr. Otway’s agitated questionings, had revived the old doubts in my mind. Could there be any truth in this veiled accusation? Was it possible that I had really made a hideous mistake in shielding this man? As these doubts flashed through my mind, some reflection of them may have appeared in my expression as I steadily looked Mr. Otway in the face. At any rate, he looked away as I have said; and when I handed him back the letter, he took it in a hand that shook like a dipsomaniac’s, and replaced it in the deed-box without a word.

For a space we were both silent, and I sat looking at him and his surroundings with profound distaste. The close, stuffy air of the room aroused a faint disgust; the objects on the bedside table--the cigarette box--the large spirit decanter and siphon and a bottle of veronal tablets--conveyed a disagreeable impression of drinking and drug-taking. And the man himself, with his pasty face, his baggy eyelids, creased with multitudinous wrinkles, his drooping, tremulous underlip, was distinctly repellant. The whole atmosphere of the place and its occupant was unwholesome, sordid and abnormal.

Yet, unwholesome and unhealthy as he looked, there was no striking change in Mr. Otway’s appearance; nothing new to justify, so far as I could judge, his alarming account of himself. His aspect supported the suggestions of the spirit-bottle, the cigarettes and the veronal; he looked distracted, terrified, nerve-shaken; but he did not, to my eye, look like a dying man. I inspected him critically during that interval of silence, and arrived, almost regretfully, I fear, at the conclusion that his forebodings were merely the result of a chronic state of fear--if they were real and not deliberately assumed to excite my sympathy.

I think he must have had a feeling that I was regarding him with disfavour, for presently he turned towards me with a deprecating air and sighed wearily.

“I am afraid, Helen,” said he, “that you are very tired of me and my troubles. But you must try to be patient. It may not be for long.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Is your health really bad, apart from the worry of these letters?”

“My health gets worse from week to week,” he replied. “Not that I am suffering from any definite disease. But the constant alarm and anxiety, the shocks which keep coming one on top of another, are breaking me up. I get no interval of peace in which to recover. I am in a constant state of worry and depression by day, which leads to that,” and he pointed to the spirit-decanter, “and it is even worse at night unless I secure a little rest by those things,” pointing to the veronal bottle; “and cigarettes, whisky and veronal don’t make for a long life or robust health.”

“Still,” I said, “you mustn’t exaggerate or alarm yourself unnecessarily. You are not in very good condition, I can see; but there is no reason to suppose that you are in a dangerous state. Couldn’t you cut off these drugs and the whisky and go away for a change?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t go away,” he said. “They would find me out and follow me. And as to cutting off the stimulants and the sedatives, that is impossible. Bad as they are, they are the last bulwark against something worse.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He did not answer immediately, but seemed to be considering my question and debating whether he should make any further confidences. At length he turned to me somewhat abruptly with an expression which I had never seen on his face before: a wild expression strangely unlike his usual, heavy stolidity, suggesting excitement and terror, with yet a curious dash of exultation.

“Helen,” he said with a singular intensity of voice and manner, “there are men who are born into this world under sentence of death. The black cap hangs over their cradles. Throughout their lives they have continually to watch--to evade the execution of the sentence if they can. But the time comes when they can escape no longer. They are tired of evasion, of the struggle to escape; and then they give themselves up; and that is the end.

“I am one of those men, Helen. My mother put an end to her own life. My only brother put an end to his life. My mother’s father made away with himself. It is in the blood. My mother was found hanging from a tree in an orchard. My brother disappeared and was found a month later hanging from a peg in a disused wardrobe. My grandfather hanged himself from a beam in the loft. Perhaps there were others. At any rate, there it is. The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.”

He paused, and I sat looking with uneasy surprise at the unwonted animation in his face: the faint flush, the awakening light in his eyes, the suppressed eagerness of his manner. There was something weirdly unpleasant about this new phase.

“You mustn’t allow these fancies to disturb you,” I said feebly.

“They are not fancies,” he retorted. “They are weighty realities. I thought for a long time that the inheritance had passed me by. But when the first of those letters came, I knew that the legacy had fallen in. And every new menace sets the impulse working. Whenever one of those letters come I feel it; I find myself thinking of my mother and my brother, and wondering if they felt the same. Then I take a stiff whisky, and the feeling goes off. But I don’t care, nowadays, to go to bed until I have taken a dose of veronal.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He drew himself to the edge of the bed, and, thrusting his head out, peered into a shadowy corner of the room with a sort of half-terrified, half-exultant leer that seemed to stir the very marrow of my bones.

“What is it, Mr. Otway?” I asked, staring into the corner but seeing nothing.

“Do you see it, Helen?” he said, rolling his eyes at me and then looking back into the corner, which was in a line with the bed-head; “that great hook, or bent peg. I can’t imagine what it was put there for; but there it is, like a great metal finger, beckoning--beckoning.”

I looked at the object that he indicated--a massive curved peg or hook fixed to the wall about seven feet from the floor--and shivered slightly. Its appearance was horribly suggestive.

“When I used to lie awake,” Mr. Otway continued, still gazing into the corner, “after the first letters came, I could lie on my left side, because then it was behind me and I seemed to feel it drawing me. I had to turn so that I could see it; and whenever I looked at it, it seemed to beckon. And so it does now.”

“I should have it unscrewed and taken away,” said I.

“Yes,” he replied, reflectively, “perhaps it might be--and yet I don’t know. Perhaps I might be more restless if it were not there. It is, in a way, a satisfaction to know that--ah--that I hold a trump card that I can play if--ah--if all the other cards are against me.”

As he spoke, he looked at me with that same curious half-frightened, half-exultant expression that made me wonder whether perhaps his inheritance included a dash of insanity. Then he rolled back to the middle of the bed and lay staring at the ceiling; and by degrees the excitement faded out of his face and he recovered his usual stolid gravity of expression.

Presently he glanced at the little carriage clock that stood on the table, and, turning to me, said: “I usually take my veronal about this time. Would you mind giving me a glass of water and the tablets?”

I rose from my chair, and as I did so my little wrist-bag, which had been reposing, forgotten, on my lap, slipped to the floor. I picked it up and hung it on the knob of the chair-back, and then fetched the water-bottle and tumbler from the wash-stand. Having filled the tumbler and handed it to Mr. Otway, I picked up the veronal bottle, and seeing that it was a new one, broke the seal, withdrew the cork and pulled out the cotton-wool packing.

“Three tablets, please,” said Mr. Otway.

I handed him the bottle, and as he took it and shook out the three tablets he smiled grimly.

“You are the most cautious woman I have ever met,” he remarked. “But you are quite right to make me responsible for my own poison.”

He took the tablets one at a time, crunching each between his teeth very thoroughly before washing it down with water. Then he mixed what looked to me a very stiff allowance of whisky, with a very little soda water, and swallowed it at a draught.

“I find that the stimulant makes the veronal act more rapidly,” he explained. “I shall be asleep in about half-an-hour. Do you mind staying with me until I drop off?”

I agreed to this, although it was getting late; but, conscious that it was probably the last service I should ever render him, I did not feel that I could refuse. So I sat down again in the chair and watched him, noting that already--probably as a result of the stimulant--he was quieter in manner and more peaceful in appearance. Even when he reverted to the subject that had occasioned my visit, his manner was quite calm.

“There is something very mysterious about that stick,” he remarked. “Recalling the circumstances, I remember putting it down in the corner by the writing-table. I never saw it again, and never gave its whereabouts a thought. I assumed that you had taken it, but I now realise that I was mistaken. Apparently it has got into undesirable hands and we haven’t heard the last of it, I fear.”

“You had better not think any more about it, Mr. Otway,” I said. “There is nothing to be done, and the less you worry the less harm these people will be able to do you.”

“Yes,” he agreed; “that is good advice, and I can follow it now. But if I should wake up in the small hours of the morning it will be very different. That is the worst time, Helen. Then this persecution seems beyond bearing. The horror of it makes me sweat with fear. I seem to hear the police on the stairs. I find myself listening for the sound of the bell. It is horrible--horrible! And then I think of that wardrobe, unnoticed all those weeks, and the figure inside in the dark. And then----”

He made a motion of his eyes towards the shadowy corner, and involuntarily I glanced at the great peg high up on the wall.

He did not speak again for some time, and I sat silently watching him and thinking--thinking of his dreadful heritage and all that it might mean. Was it a reality, this legacy of death that he saw coming to him? Was it true that even now the black cap hung over his bed? Supposing it were? Supposing that this very night, in the chilly middle watch, he should wake with all his terrors clutching at his heart! Should creep out of his bed and---- Here my glance stole into the shadowy corner, and, as I looked, my mind seemed to picture a dim shape filling the wall space below the big, massive peg. There were no details and hardly any form; it was just a shape, vague and rather horrible. I shivered slightly, but I did not try to blot out the mental picture. It was a gruesome thing, that dim, elongated shape, but it did not disturb me much; for it set going other associated trains of thought. There was the ceremony to-morrow evening, the witnesses with their doubtful rights of attestation, protesting that all was in order--and protesting in vain. There were two Ishmaelites going forth hand-in-hand into the wilderness, ready to meet scorn with defiance--but still Ishmaelites. And at the thought, the shape upon the wall space below the peg seemed to grow less dim, to loom out more distinctly. That shape was Mr. Otway--dead. The late Mr. Otway. No longer a legal impediment, but just a fiction that had ceased to exist.

From the dark corner I turned my eyes on to the living man as he lay motionless, breathing softly with an occasional faint snore, and now and again puffing out his cheeks. He was not asleep, for I could see his eyes open and close at intervals; but he was evidently growing somnolent. I watched him with deep interest, almost with fascination, as one might look on a condemned man making his last journey in the hangman’s cart. This was a condemned man, too: a potential suicide. At any moment he might set forth on his last journey; and his arrival at his destination would set the Ishmaelites free. He was ready to go; but he awaited the determining influence that would start him on his journey. What form would that final cause take? Would it be some sudden shock of alarm? Or the cumulative effect of prolonged, abiding fear?

I leaned forward and spoke softly to him.

“Do you know, Mr. Otway, what caused your brother----”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, dully. “What did you say, Helen?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you knew--if there was anything in particular that caused your brother to take his life.”

He cogitated sleepily for a while before replying. At length he answered, in a drowsy voice: “I am not very clear about it. He had had a good deal of worry of one kind and another, financial and domestic. I don’t know that anything unusual had occurred; but he had been in a nervous, depressed state for some time.”

Having made this reply, Mr. Otway closed his eyes and took a deep breath; and I reflected on the significance of his answer. There had apparently been no specific cause of his brother’s suicide, but just the accumulating effects of nervousness and depression, which exploded when they reached a certain degree of intensity. His condition, in fact, seemed to have been almost identical with Mr. Otway’s present condition.

Once more my eyes wandered away to the shadowy corner; and again the wall space below the great hook-like peg became occupied by that elongated shape. Now I seemed to visualise it more completely. It was no longer a mere shape. It had parts--recognisable members. There were the limp-dangling arms, the downward-pointing toes, the shadowy head lolling sideways. It was very horrible, yet I found myself viewing it without horror, but rather with a certain detached interest. I was getting used to it, and was disposed to consider it in terms of its significance.

It was not a person. It was a thing which had replaced a person who had ceased to exist. That person had had a wife. But the wife had ceased to exist, too. In her place was a widow--a free, unattached woman in whom were vested all the rights and liberties of spinsterhood, including the power to contract a valid and regular marriage. The shape was an ugly and forbidding thing; but it held precious and desirable gifts.

From the shape projected by my own imagination my eyes turned to the actual man--the man who was convertible into such a shape. He was fast asleep now; lying on his back, breathing a little stertorously and blowing out his cheeks at each breath. He was an unpleasant spectacle, and the sound of his breathing was disagreeable. He ought not to be lying on his back; for sleepers who lie on their backs are apt to dream, and dreams are not good for men with a tendency to suicide. And sleepers who breathe stertorously are apt to dream ugly dreams.

This consideration set my thoughts working afresh. Supposing this man should have a dream presenting his waking terrors with all the added intensity and vividness of a nightmare; the heavy footfalls of the police upon the stairs, the hands groping in the darkness of the landing for the bell-pull! Or if his dream should show him that wardrobe with its dreadful occupant! What would happen? And even as I put the question to myself my imagination supplied with startling vividness the answering picture. I saw the affrighted sleeper suddenly awaken in uncontrollable panic, scramble from his bed and shuffle hurriedly towards the corner under the peg.

The mental construction of the scene was singularly complete and orderly. I even found myself filling in the details of the means. There, indeed, was the peg. But a man cannot hang himself without some means of suspension. And these must be immediately available or the impulse might die away before they were found. I glanced around the room to see what means were to hand; and at once my eye lighted on an old-fashioned bell-rope that hung beside the head of the bed. Its perfect suitability was evident at a glance--provided that it could be detached without ringing the bell. But the necessity for cutting it rather than pulling it down would be obvious, even to a suicide.

The means, then, were all ready to hand. And there was the man, charged with this self-destructive tendency, sleeping in the very posture calculated to start it into action.

I sat still, watching him with absorbing interest, and as these thoughts shaped themselves with more and more distinctness, an impulse of which I was barely conscious formed itself and steadily grew in intensity. At length I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

“Mr. Otway, you should not lie in that position.”

There was no answer, and he made no sign. The heavy breathing went on with uninterrupted regularity, the eyes remained closed. Again I spoke, this time more loudly, clearly and distinctly.

“Mr. Otway, can you hear me? If you lie as you are lying, you will probably dream. You may have bad, dangerous dreams. You may dream of your mother and your brother. You may dream that the peg on the wall is beckoning to you. And then you may wake in a panic and think that the peg is still beckoning. And then----”

I stopped suddenly. What was this that I was doing? Was it a warning to avert disaster? So the words were framed. But I knew it was nothing of the kind. It was suggestion, pure and almost undisguised. The dreadful truth struck me like a blow and seemed to turn me into stone. I sat rigid as a statue, still leaning forward with my lips parted as if to complete that awful sentence, every moment more appalled by this frightful thing that I had done. There came to me in a flash a vision of my own automatism after the séance; I heard Lilith telling me how the sleep of the drugged resembles the hypnotic trance; and again it came to me how I had been sitting looking at that terrible peg on the wall and--without conscious intention--creating by my will the awful shape beneath it.

How long I should have sat, bent forward as if frozen into rigid immobility by the horror of this hideous thing, it is impossible to say. The realization of what I had done, that had fallen on me like a thunderbolt, had petrified me in a posture of arrested action. It seemed to have deprived me of the power of movement.

The place was intensely silent. The monotonous breathing of the sleeping man--the snoring intake alternating with the soft, blowing expiration--made no impression on the profound quiet, and the rapid ticking of the little carriage clock on the table seemed only to make it more intense.

Suddenly something stirred in the outer room. I sprang to my feet with a gasp that had almost been a shriek. Probably it was only Mrs. Gregg, but in my overwrought state the sound was vaguely alarming. I stood for a few moments, my heart thumping and my breath coming short and fast; then I stole on tip-toe across the room and softly opening the door, peered into the outer room. It was in darkness except that a bright beam of moonlight poured in at the window; but this gave enough light to show that there was nobody in the room.

Still fearful of I knew not what, I stepped softly through the doorway and looked about me suspiciously. The moonlight struck on a large cupboard or wardrobe, which instantly suggested the lurking-place of some eavesdropper and at the same time aroused horrible associations connected with Mr. Otway’s brother; so that, in spite of my alarm, I was impelled to pluck at the handle to satisfy myself that no figure was hidden within. But the cupboard was locked, or, at any rate, would not open.

Then I looked under the table and peered into the darker corners of the room, growing--naturally--more and more nervous every moment, and pausing from time to time to listen, or to look back through the doorway into the bedroom, where I could see Mr. Otway lying motionless like a sepulchral effigy.

Suddenly something stirred softly quite near to me--the sound seemed to come from the cupboard. I could have screamed with terror. The last vestige of my self-possession was gone, and in sheer panic I fled across the room and down the corridor to the entrance lobby. This place was in utter darkness, and as I frantically groped for the latch, I felt my skin creep and break out into a chilly sweat. At last I found the latch, dragged the door open and darted out; and as the clang of the closing door filled the building with hollow echoes, I ran swiftly down the stairs.

Once out in the inhabited streets, my alarm subsided somewhat; but still the image of that motionless figure in the bedroom, the sinister-looking peg on the wall and the recollection of those dreadful words that I had spoken into the sleeper’s ears pursued me with an abiding horror. I walked quickly out into the Strand, and I was in the act of hailing a cab when I remembered that I had left my wrist-bag hanging on the chair-back by Mr. Otway’s bedside. My purse was in that bag. But if it had contained my entire worldly possessions I could not have summoned up courage enough to go back for it.

The cab drew up by the kerb. I hesitated a moment, but reflecting that it was yet hardly ten o’clock, and that someone would be waiting up from whom I could borrow the fare, I gave the cabman the address, with the necessary explanations, entered the cab and shut the door. But as the crazy vehicle--it was an ancient four-wheeler--rattled over the uneven roadways of the side streets, the scene in that warm and stuffy bedroom was re-enacted again and again. And yet again I looked on that ill-omened cupboard in the ghostly moonlight; speculated on the mysterious sounds in the living-room; wondered uncomfortably if there had been a watcher or a listener, and if so, whether that eavesdropper knew the meaning of silent willing and suggestion.

Chapter XXII. The Catastrophe

Viewed by the cheerful light of the morning sun as it streamed in through my bedroom window, the phantoms of the previous night dwindled to mere scare-crows. On the panic-stricken state in which I had fled from Mr. Otway’s chambers I was now disposed to look back with faint amusement. Even the words which I had spoken into Mr. Otway’s ears as he slept had no longer any terrifying significance, though I had to admit that they were not susceptible of any satisfactory interpretation. They had been spoken under the influence of an impulse which I could not account for, and did not care to examine too closely, but which I vaguely connected with my excursions into psychical research--a subject which I decided to avoid as far as possible in the future.

As to Mr. Otway, if his account of his family was correct, it seemed quite probable that, sooner or later, he would make away with himself, though, seeing that he was now well past middle life, the propensity could hardly be as strong as he had represented it. On the other hand, he was now being subjected to a very excessive nervous strain, and was undoubtedly letting his mind run on the subject of suicide. If the blackmailers continued to keep up an increasing pressure, as they seemed inclined to do, the breaking-point might be reached quite soon. And I could not disguise from myself that the catastrophe, if and when it occurred, would not present itself to me as a personal misfortune.

With this I dismissed Mr. Otway and his affairs, and let my thoughts roam into more attractive regions. For this was the day of days. In a matter of a few hours my separation from Jasper would be at an end. We should be united, never again to part.

As I rose and dressed, this was the burden of my thoughts. The weeks of separation and loneliness were gone, and the hours that lay between the present and that final meeting were running out apace like the grains of sand in an hourglass that is nearly spent. I hurried over breakfast that I might the sooner escape to be alone with my happiness; and most of the morning I spent in the workshop, arranging my apparatus so that it might easily be packed, in case I should not come back to superintend the removal myself. The candlestick, which was finished and successful beyond my expectations, I took upstairs to place in my trunk that I might give it to Jasper this very day. And then I paid a visit to my friend Peggy, whom I found in her workshop chirruping gaily and very busy making a complicated set of plaster moulds from the dissected wax model of her masterpiece. But I did not stay long with her, for the making of piece-moulds is an engrossing occupation and one better followed in solitude.

As I entered the house from the garden I encountered our little housemaid with a telegram in her hand.

“This has just come for you, ma’am,” said she, holding it out towards me. “The boy is waiting to see if there is any answer.”

I suppose that to most persons unaccustomed to receiving telegrams, the appearance of the peremptory, orange-tinted envelope is a little portentous. Especially so was it to me at that moment, with the crisis of my life so near at hand; and my heart beat tumultuously as I tore open the envelope and unfolded the flimsy paper. It bore but a brief message; but when I had read that message, the joy of life, the half-timorous happiness that had come to me with the morning sunlight, went out in a moment, like a wind-blown taper, and left me desolate.

“Cancel appointment for to-day and do not come to the club. Letter follows. Jasper.”

That was all. There was really nothing very alarming in it. But to me it came as a dreadful anti-climax, strung up, as I was, to the highest pitch of nervous tension. With a trembling hand I refolded the paper, and, having told the maid that there was no answer, ran up to my room and bolted myself in.

It was a terrible blow. Only now, by the bitterness of the disappointment, did I realise the heart-hunger that I had endured, the intense yearning for the moment in which my beloved companion would be restored to me. And then, beyond this sudden collapse of my happiness, almost in the moment of its realisation, was the mystery, the suspense, the uncertainty. What could it be that had happened? Had Jasper’s condition suddenly grown worse? That could hardly be, for he was practically well--at least, he had so regarded himself--and moreover there was that cryptic reference to the club. Why must I not go to the club?

There was something very mysterious in that prohibition.

The more I reflected on the matter the more puzzling did it appear. On the other hand, the very mystery in which the affair was shrouded was itself a relief. For, of course, I never for one moment had the faintest doubt of Jasper’s loyalty, nor could I entertain the possibility of his having changed his views on the subject of our marriage. Something had occurred to hinder it; but Jasper was my own and I was his, and that being so, the hindrance, whatever it might be, could be but temporary.

So I comforted myself and made believe that all was well, though when by chance my eye lighted on the trunk, packed and even provided with a blank label, I could hardly keep back the tears. At lunch I let Miss Polton know that my visit was postponed, and immediately after the meal I prepared to go out and seek relief in a long, sharp walk. By the time I returned, the letter from Jasper would probably have arrived and I should know how matters stood.

I had put on my outdoor clothes and was just about to start, when, opening the drawer in which I kept my wrist-bag, I suddenly remembered my loss of the night before. The bag contained, not only my purse, but my card-case and one or two other things I could not conveniently do without. The prohibition to go to the club could hardly, I reflected, extend to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, though they were in the same neighbourhood. At any rate, I wanted the bag, and in my restless state a journey with a defined purpose offered more relief than an aimless walk through the streets.

During the short journey from Mark Lane to the Temple I turned over and over again the words of the telegram without obtaining any glimmer of enlightenment. If I had been less sure of Jasper, I should have been intensely wretched; but now, as the shock subsided, my optimism revived and I found myself looking forward to Jasper’s letter with a confident expectation of reassuring news.

Emerging from the Temple Station, I walked up Arundel Street, and, crossing the Strand, presently passed through Half-Moon Alley and cast a glance of friendly recognition at the old gilded sign, so pleasantly associated with the scarlet parasol that hung outside the umbrella-maker’s shop in Bookseller’s Row. The two signs recalled the old delightful explorations with Jasper, and put me in quite a cheerful frame of mind, which lasted until I found myself once more ascending the bare and rather sordid stone stairs of Lyon’s Inn Chambers. Then there came a marked change. As I walked up the cold, gloomy staircase a feeling of depression settled on me. I passed the grimy lantern that had looked on my head-long, terror-stricken flight, and some of the forgotten qualms came back. I breathed again the close air of that unpleasant bedroom; I saw again the unwieldy figure in the bed, with its pasty face and puffy eyelids; and even the sinister-looking peg on the wall came forth with uncomfortable vividness from the recesses of memory. By the time I reached the landing, my distaste for the place had grown so strong that I was half inclined to turn back and complete the transaction by means of a letter.

This weakness, however, I overcame by an effort of will and resolutely rang the bell. There was a short interval and then the door opened, revealing the figure of Mrs. Gregg, who, according to her custom, stood and stared stonily at me without uttering a word.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg,” said I. “When I went away last night I left my wrist-bag behind.”

“Ye did,” she answered; “and ye left the bedroom door open and the gas full on. I found it so this morning.”

“I am very sorry,” I said.

“’Tis no matter,” she rejoined, impassively, and continued to stare at me in a most singular and embarrassing fashion.

“Could I have my bag, please, Mrs. Gregg?” I asked.

“Ye could,” she replied; but still she made no move, nor any suggestion that I should enter; and still she continued to look at me with the strangest, most enigmatical expression.

“I hope,” said I, by way of relieving the extraordinarily uncomfortable situation, “that Mr. Otway is better to-day.”

“Do ye?” said she; and then, after a pause, “Maybe ye’d wish to see him?”

“I don’t think I will disturb him, thank you,” I replied.

“Ye need have no fear,” said she. “Ye’ll no disturb him.”

“Well, I don’t think I have time to see him to-day. I just called to get my bag.”

“And is that all ye’ve come for?” she demanded, glowering at me in the most astonishing manner.

“What else should I have come for?” I asked.

She thrust her head forward and replied in a low, mysterious tone:

“I thought maybe ye’d come to ask where your husband is.”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Gregg. Is Mr. Otway not at home?”

“He is not,” she replied; and as I made no comment, she asked: “Shall I tell you where he is?”

“It really isn’t any business of mine, Mrs. Gregg,” said I.

“Is it not?” she demanded. “Will it no interest ye if I tell ye that your husband is in St. Clement’s Mortuary?”

“In the mortuary!” I gasped.

“Aye, in the mortuary.” She glared at me in silence for a few moments, and then, suddenly grasping my arm, exclaimed: “Woman! do ye ken yon peg on the bedroom wall? Aye, ye may well turn pale. Ye’d ha’ turned paler if ye’d seen what I saw by the gaslight this morn hangin’ from yon peg.”

I gazed at her for a few moments in speechless horror, until she seemed to sway and shimmer before my eyes. Then, for the first and only time in my life, I must have fainted, for I remember no more until I found myself lying on the floor of the lobby, with Mrs. Gregg kneeling beside me slapping my face with a wet towel.

I rose with difficulty, feeling very weak and shaken. Mrs. Gregg silently handed me my bag and preceded me towards the door, where, with her hand on the latch, she turned and faced me.

“Weel, mistress,” said she, “’tis a fit ending, seeing how it began. Ye’ve been a poor wife, but ye’ll make a bonny widow, though I doubt it will stay long at that.”

To this insolent and brutal speech I made no reply. I was completely broken, physically and mentally. I tottered out on to the landing and slowly descended the stairs, holding on to the iron hand-rail, my horror of the place urging me to hasten away, my trembling limbs and lingering faintness bidding me go warily. As I walked unsteadily up Holywell Street, a newspaper boy, running down the narrow thoroughfare, halted and held out a paper.

“Here y’are, Miss, sooicide in Lyon’s Inn. The housekeeper’s story.”

I hurried past him with averted face, but out in the Strand there were others, shouting aloud the dreadful tidings or displaying posters on which the hideous fact was set forth in enormous type. And it seemed as if each and all of them were specially addressing themselves to me. I returned down Arundel Street, instinctively making for the station, but as I approached it a fresh group of newsboys made me swerve to the left and pursue my way along the Embankment on foot.

As I walked on, and the air and exercise helped me to recover physically from the shock, I began to collect my faculties. At first I had been utterly bewildered and overborne by a sense of horror and guilt. I had sent this wretched man to his death. I had ordained the means, the manner and the time of his death, and it had duly befallen according to my directions. Morally--and perhaps even legally--it amounted to murder. I had willed, I had suggested; and that which I had willed and suggested had come to pass. That was what had flashed into my mind in the very moment in which Mrs. Gregg had made her dreadful communication.

But now, as I walked on, I began to argue the case in my own favour. In the first place, I told myself, it was not certain that the act of the dead man had any connection with the willing or the suggestion. It might have been a mere coincidence. I tried to dwell on this view; but it would not do. The coincidence was too complete to be explained away by any such casuistry. I could not in this way escape the responsibility for Mr. Otway’s death.

Then I considered the question of intention. I told myself--truthfully enough--that I had not consciously willed that Mr. Otway should kill himself. I had not even been conscious of any intention to suggest to him that he should kill himself. But though I did make some sort of point in my own defence, it was extremely unconvincing. I had allowed my mind to dwell with hardly-disguised satisfaction on the possibility of his suicide (in a particular manner at a particular time), and between that and actual willing the distinction was not very obvious. And then there were those words, spoken to him in his sleep. It was not conscious, deliberate suggestion; but what was it? The impulse to speak those words was apparently evolved from the subconscious. But does no moral responsibility attach to subconscious intentions?

So I argued, back and forth, round and about; but always came back to the same conclusion. Mr. Otway was dead; and it was my act that sent him to his death. Locked up in my own breast this dreadful secret might remain; but it was my companion for life. There was no escape from it.

But would it remain locked up in my own breast? That was another question that began to loom up with a very real menace. How much did Mrs. Gregg know? She might easily have overheard our conversation and even those final, fatal words. And if she had, would she understand their significance? Now that I came to consider the circumstances, there was something rather alarming in the manner of this inscrutable woman; something threatening and accusatory which I had vaguely felt at the time. And as I reflected on this and the possibilities that it suggested, a fear of something more substantial than my own accusing conscience began to creep around my heart.

When I arrived home, Jasper’s letter was awaiting me. But it contained nothing new. He had seen the posters, had bought an early paper and had immediately sent off the telegram. His tone was that of matter-of-fact satisfaction. The legal impediment to our marriage had now been removed. No declarations were necessary now. We could marry like other people. We were free.

That was the burden of the letter. All our troubles were at an end. Until everything was settled, we had better avoid meeting. But when the chapter was closed with all due formalities we could sing “Nunc dimittis,” and thenceforth live only for one another.

I laid the letter down. All that it said was true. The picture that my imagination had drawn under the guidance of desire as I had sat looking into the shadowy corner of the bedroom in Lyon’s Inn had become a reality. The fetters that I had forged and put on that fatal morning in the little church at Maidstone, had fallen off and given me back my freedom.

And even as I told myself this, some voice from within seemed to whisper a caveat, and my heart was sensible of a chill of fear.