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NOVELS OF ^MYSTERY 
 
 THE LODGER 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
I 
 
^NVt>els of ^Mystery 
 
 THE LODGER 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 5 5 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
LOWNDES 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 COPYRIGHT • 1926 
 BY LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 COPYRIGHT • 1927 
 BY LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 THE LODGER 
 COPYRIGHT • 1913 
 BY JONATHAN CAPE AND HARRISON SMITH, INC 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
PR 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
"Lover and friend hast 
 thou put far from me, 
 and mine acquaintance 
 into darkness." 
 
 Psalm lxxxviii.18 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their 
 dully burning, carefully-banked-up fire. 
 
 The room, especially when it be known that it was 
 part of a house standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, 
 London thoroughfare, was exceptionally clean and well- 
 cared-for. A casual stranger, more particularly one of a 
 superior class to their own, on suddenly opening the door 
 of that sitting-room, would have thought that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant, cosy picture of 
 comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back 
 in a deep leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, 
 still in appearance what he had been for many years of 
 his life — a self-respecting man-servant. 
 
 On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight- 
 backed chair, the marks of past servitude were less ap- 
 parent; but they were there all the same — in her neat 
 black stuff dress, and in her scrupulously clean, plain 
 collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had 
 been what is known as a useful maid. 
 
 But peculiarly true of average English life is the time- 
 worn English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were sitting in a very nice room 
 1 
 
2 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and in their time — -how long ago it now seemed! — both 
 husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen 
 belongings. Everything in the room was strong and 
 substantial, and each article of furniture had been bought 
 at a well-conducted auction held in a private house. 
 
 Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the 
 fog-laden, drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, 
 had cost a mere song, and yet they might have been 
 warranted to last another thirty years. A great bar- 
 gain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which 
 covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which 
 Bunting now sat forward, staring into the dull, small 
 fire. In fact, that arm-chair had been an extravagance 
 of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband to be 
 comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had 
 paid thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yester- 
 day Bunting had tried to find a purchaser for it, but the 
 man who had come to look at it, guessing their cruel 
 necessities, had only offered them twelve shillings and 
 sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping 
 their arm-chair. 
 
 But man and woman want something more than mere 
 material comfort, much as that is valued by the Bunt- 
 ings of this world. So, on the walls of the sitting-room, 
 hung neatly framed if now rather faded photographs — 
 photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former 
 employers, and of the pretty country houses in which 
 they had separately lived during the long years they had 
 spent in a not unhappy servitude. 
 
 But appearances were not only deceitful, they were 
 more than usually deceitful with regard to these un- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 3 
 
 fortunate people. In spite of their good furniture — that 
 substantial outward sign of respectability which is the 
 last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to 
 dispose of — they were almost at the end of their tether. 
 Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were 
 beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing 
 the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been 
 given up some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. 
 Bunting — prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in 
 her way — had realised w T hat this must mean to him. So 
 well, indeed, had she understood that some days back 
 she had crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia. 
 
 Bunting had been touched — touched as he had not 
 been for years by any woman's thought and love for 
 him. Painful tears had forced themselves into his eyes, 
 and husband and wife had both felt, in their odd, unemo- 
 tional way, moved to the heart. 
 
 Fortunately he never guessed — how could he have 
 guessed, with his slow, normal, rather dull mind? — that 
 his poor Ellen had since more than once bitterly regretted 
 that fourpence-ha'penny, for they were now very near 
 the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on 
 the safe tableland of security — those, that is, who are 
 sure of making a respectable, if not a happy, living — and 
 the submerged multitude w T ho, through some lack in 
 themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our 
 strange civilisation has become organised, struggle rud- 
 derless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison. 
 
 Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their 
 own, had they belonged to the great company of human 
 beings technically known to so many of us as "the poor/' 
 
4 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 there would have been friendly neighbours ready to help 
 them, and the same would have been the case had they 
 belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimag- 
 inative, folk whom they had spent so much of their lives 
 in serving. 
 
 There was only one person in the world who might 
 possibly be brought to help them. That was an aunt 
 of Bunting's first wife. With this woman, the widow of 
 a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, Bunting's 
 only child by his first wife, and during the last long two 
 days he had been trying to make up his mind to write 
 to the old lady, and that though he suspected that she 
 would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp rebuff. 
 
 As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, 
 and so on, they had gradually fallen out of touch with 
 them. There was but one friend who often came to see 
 them in their deep trouble. This was a young fellow 
 named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting had 
 been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had 
 never gone into service; he was attached to the police; 
 in fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, young Chandler 
 was a detective. 
 
 When they had first taken the house which had brought 
 them, so they both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had 
 encouraged the young chap to come often, for his tales 
 were well worth listening to — quite exciting at times. 
 But now poor Bunting didn't want to hear that sort of 
 stories — stories of people being cleverly "nabbed," or 
 stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from 
 Chandler's point of view, richly deserved. 
 
 But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 5 
 
 so timing his calls that neither host nor hostess need press 
 food upon him — nay, more, he had done that which 
 showed him to have a good and feeling heart. He had 
 offered his father's old acquaintance a loan, and Bunt- 
 ing, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money 
 now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers 
 in his pocket, and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that, and 
 the rent they would have to pay in five weeks, was all 
 they had left. Everything of the light, portable sort 
 that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting 
 had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put 
 her feet in such a place, and she declared she never would 
 — she would rather starve first. 
 
 But she had said nothing when there had occurred 
 the gradual disappearance of various little possessions 
 she knew that Bunting valued, notably of the old-fash- 
 ioned gold watch-chain which had been given to him 
 after the death of his first master, a master he had nursed 
 faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness. 
 There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a 
 large mourning ring, both gifts of former employers. 
 
 When people are living near that deep pit which di- 
 vides the secure from the insecure — when they see them- 
 selves creeping closer and closer to its dread edge — they 
 are apt, however loquacious by nature, to fall into long 
 silences. Bunting had always been a talker, but now he 
 talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but then 
 she had always been a silent woman, and that was per- 
 haps one reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from 
 the very first moment he had seen her. 
 
 It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just en- 
 
6 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 gaged him as butler, and he had been shown, by the man 
 whose place he was to take, into the dining-room. There, 
 to use his own expression, he had discovered Ellen Green, 
 carefully pouring out the glass of port wine which her 
 then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning. 
 And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this 
 task, as he had watched her carefully stopper the decanter 
 and put it back into the old wine-cooler, he had said to 
 himself, "That is the woman for me!" 
 
 But now her stillness, her — her dumbness, had got on 
 the unfortunate man's nerves. He no longer felt like 
 going into the various little shops close by, patronised 
 by him in more prosperous days, and Mrs. Bunting also 
 went afield to make the slender purchases which still 
 had to be made every day or two, if they were to be 
 saved from actually starving to death. 
 
 Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November 
 evening there came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet 
 and of loud, shrill shouting outside — boys crying the 
 late afternoon editions of the evening papers. 
 
 Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up 
 of a daily paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest 
 deprivation. And the paper was an older habit than the 
 tobacco, for servants are great readers of newspapers. 
 
 As the shouts came through the closed windows and 
 the thick damask curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense 
 of mind hunger fall upon him. 
 
 It was a shame — a damned shame — that he shouldn't 
 know what was happening in the world outside! Only 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 7 
 
 criminals are kept from hearing news of what is going 
 on beyond their prison wails. And those shouts, those 
 hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really 
 exciting had happened, something warranted to make a 
 man forget for the moment his own intimate, gnawing 
 troubles. 
 
 He got up, and going towards the nearest window 
 strained his ears to listen. There fell on them, emerging 
 now and again from the confused babel of hoarse shouts, 
 the one clear word "Murder!" 
 
 Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries 
 into some sort of connected order. Yes, that was it — 
 "Horrible Murder! Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting 
 remembered vaguely another murder which had been 
 committed near St. Pancras — that of an old lady by 
 her servant-maid. It had happened a great many 
 years ago, but was still vividly remembered, as of special 
 and natural interest, among the class to which he had 
 belonged. 
 
 The newsboys — for there were more than one of them, 
 a rather unusual thing in the Marylebone Road — were 
 coming nearer and nearer; now they had adopted an- 
 other cry, but he could not quite catch what they were 
 crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but 
 he could only hear a word or two now and then. Sud- 
 denly "The Avenger! The Avenger at his work again!" 
 broke on his ear. 
 
 During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal 
 murders had been committed in London and within a 
 comparatively small area. 
 
 The first had aroused no special interest — even the 
 
8 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 second had only been awarded, in the paper Bunting was 
 still then taking in, quite a small paragraph. 
 
 Then had come the third — and with that a wave of 
 keen excitement, for pinned to the dress of the victim — a 
 drunken woman— had been found a three-cornered piece 
 of paper, on which was written, in red ink, and in printed 
 characters, the words, 
 
 "The Avenger" 
 
 It was then realised, not only by those whose business 
 it is to investigate such terrible happenings, but also by 
 the vast world of men and women who take an intelli- 
 gent interest in such sinister mysteries, that the same 
 miscreant had committed all three crimes; and before 
 that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into 
 the public mind there took place yet another murder, and 
 again the murderer had been to special pains to make it 
 clear that some obscure and terrible lust for vengeance 
 possessed him. 
 
 Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his 
 crimes! Even the man who left their ha'porth of milk 
 at the door each morning had spoken to Bunting about 
 them that very day. 
 
 Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at 
 his wife with mild excitement. Then, seeing her pale, 
 apathetic face, her look of weary, mournful absorption, 
 a wave of irritation swept through him. He felt he could 
 have shaken her! 
 
 Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 9 
 
 Bunting, had come back to bed that morning, and told 
 her what the milkman had said. In fact, she had been 
 quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn't like 
 hearing about such horrid things. 
 
 It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting en- 
 joyed tales of pathos and sentiment, and would listen 
 with frigid amusement to the details of a breach of promise 
 action, she shrank from stories of immorality or of phys- 
 ical violence. In the old, happy days, when they could 
 afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper 
 daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest 
 in some exciting "case" or "mystery" which was afford- 
 ing him pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion 
 to it sharply angered Ellen. 
 
 But now he was- at once too dull and too miserable to 
 care how she felt. 
 
 Walking away from the window he took a slow, un- 
 certain step towards the door; when there he turned 
 half round, and there came over his close-shaven, round 
 face the rather sly, pleading look with which a child 
 about to do something naughty glances at its parent. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, nar- 
 row shoulders just showed above the back of the chair 
 on which she was sitting, bolt upright, staring before 
 her as if into vacancy. 
 
 Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly 
 he went out into the dark hall — they had given up lights 
 ing the gas there some time ago — and opened the front 
 door. . . . 
 
 Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung 
 open the iron gate which gave on to the damp pavement. 
 
10 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 But there he hesitated. The coppers in his pocket seemed 
 to have shrunk in number, and he remembered ruefully 
 how far Ellen could make even four pennies go. 
 
 Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening 
 papers, and Bunting, being sorely tempted — fell. "Give 
 me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun or EcJwl" 
 
 But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook 
 his head. "Only penny papers left," he gasped. 
 "What'll yer 'ave, sir?" 
 
 With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, 
 Bunting drew a penny out of his pocket and took a paper 
 ■ — it was the Evening Standard — from the boy's hand. 
 
 Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back 
 through the raw, cold air, up the flagged path, shivering 
 yet full of eager, joyful anticipation. 
 
 Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly 
 he would pass a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his 
 anxious, despondent, miserable self. It irritated him 
 shrewdly to know that these moments of respite from 
 carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, with 
 careworn, troubled Ellen. 
 
 A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over 
 Bunting. Ellen would never have spent that penny on 
 herself — he knew that well enough — and if it hadn't 
 been so cold, so foggy, so — so drizzly, he would have 
 gone out again through the gate and stood under the 
 street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a 
 nervous dread the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light- 
 blue eye. That glance would tell him that he had had 
 no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well 
 he knew it! 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 11 
 
 Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he 
 heard a familiar voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, 
 "What on earth are you doing out there, Bunting? Come 
 in — do! You'll catch your death of cold! I don't 
 want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything 
 else!" Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at 
 once nowadays. 
 
 He walked in through the front door of his cheerless 
 house. "I went out to get a paper," he said sullenly. 
 
 After all, he was master. He had as much right to 
 spend the money as she had; for the matter of that the 
 money on which they were now both living had been 
 lent, nay, pressed on him — not on Ellen — by that decent 
 young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done 
 all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, 
 while Ellen, so he resentfully noticed, still wore her 
 wedding ring. 
 
 He stepped past her heavily, and though she said 
 nothing, he knew she grudged him his coming joy. Then, 
 full of rage with her and contempt for himself, and giving 
 himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild, oath — Ellen 
 had very early made it clear she would have no swear- 
 ing in her presence — he lit the hall gas full-flare. 
 
 "How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even 
 see the card?" he shouted angrily. 
 
 And there was truth in what he said, for now that he 
 had lit the gas, the oblong card, though not the word 
 "Apartments" printed on it, could be plainly seen out- 
 lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the front 
 door. 
 
 Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed 
 
12 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 by his wife, and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, 
 he poked the little banked-up fire. It was the first time 
 Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and 
 this exertion of marital authority made him feel better. 
 A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, Bunting, 
 had not asserted himself enough lately. 
 
 A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. 
 She was not used to be flouted in this way. For Bunt- 
 ing, when not thoroughly upset, was the mildest of men. 
 
 She began moving about the room, flicking off an im- 
 perceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of 
 furniture there. 
 
 But her hands trembled — they trembled with excite- 
 ment, with self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was 
 dreadful — dreadful to have to worry about a penny! 
 But they had come to the point when one has to worry 
 about pennies. Strange that her husband didn't realise 
 that. 
 
 Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have 
 liked to ask Ellen to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond 
 of peace, and perhaps, by now, a little bit ashamed of 
 himself, so he refrained from remark, and she soon gave 
 over what irritated him of her own accord. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her 
 husband would have liked her to do. The sight of him, 
 absorbed in his paper as he was, irritated her, and made 
 her long to get away from him. Opening the door which 
 separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and 
 — shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting 
 comfortably by the now brightly burning fire, with the 
 Evening Standard spread out before him — she sat down 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 13 
 
 in the cold darkness, and pressed her hands against her 
 temples. 
 
 Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so — so broken 
 as now. Where was the good of having been an upright, 
 conscientious, self-respecting woman all her life long, if 
 it only led to this utter, degrading poverty and wretched- 
 ness? She and Bunting were just past the age which 
 gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to 
 enter service together, unless, that is, the wife happens 
 to be a professed cook. A cook and a butler can always 
 get a nice situation. But Mrs. Bunting was no cook. 
 She could do all right the simple things any lodger she 
 might get would require, but that was all. 
 
 Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking 
 lodgers! For it had been her doing. Bunting had been 
 like butter in her hands. 
 
 Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a 
 seaside place. There they had prospered, not as they 
 had hoped to do, but still pretty well; and then had 
 come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and that had meant 
 ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of other 
 luckless people. Then had followed a business experi- 
 ment which had proved even more disastrous, and which 
 had left them in debt — in debt to an extent they could 
 never hope to repay, to a good-natured former employer. 
 
 After that, instead of going back to service, as they 
 might have done, perhaps, either together or separately, 
 they had made up their minds to make one last effort, 
 and they had taken over, with the trifle of money that 
 remained to them, the lease of this house in the Maryle- 
 bone Road. 
 
14 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 In former days, when they had each been leading the 
 sheltered, impersonal, and, above all, financially easy 
 existence which is the compensation life offers to those 
 men and women who deliberately take upon themselves 
 the yoke of domestic service, they had both lived in 
 houses overlooking Regent's Park. It had seemed a 
 wise plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more 
 so that Bunting, who had a good appearance, had re- 
 tained the kind of connection which enables a man to 
 get a job now and again as waiter at private parties. 
 
 But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the 
 Buntings. Two of his former masters had moved to 
 another part of London, and a caterer in Baker Street 
 whom he had known went bankrupt. 
 
 And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have 
 taken a job had one been offered him, for he had pawned 
 his dress clothes. He had not asked his wife's permis- 
 sion to do this, as so good a husband ought to have done. 
 He had just gone out and done it. And she had not had 
 the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the 
 money that he had handed her silently the evening he 
 did it that she had bought that last packet of tobacco. 
 
 And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these 
 painful thoughts, there suddenly came to the front door 
 the sound of a loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Mrs. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She 
 stood for a moment listening in the darkness, a darkness 
 made the blacker by the line of light under the door be- 
 hind which sat Bunting reading his paper. 
 
 And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, un- 
 certain double knock; not a knock, so the listener told 
 herself, that boded any good. Would-be lodgers gave 
 sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. No; this must be 
 some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at all 
 hours, and asked — whining or threatening — for money. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with 
 men and women — especially women — drawn from that 
 nameless, mysterious class made up of the human flotsam 
 and jetsam which drifts about every great city. But 
 since she had taken to leaving the gas in the passage 
 unlit at night she had been very little troubled with 
 that kind of visitors, those human bats which are at- 
 tracted by any kind of light, but leave alone those who 
 live in darkness. 
 
 She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was 
 Bunting's place to go to the front door, but she knew 
 far better than he did how to deal with difficult or ob- 
 trusive callers. Still, somehow, she would have liked 
 him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed b 
 15 
 
16 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom 
 door opening was to look up and say, "Didn't you hear 
 a knock?" 
 
 Without answering his question she went out into the 
 hall. 
 
 Slowly she opened the front door. 
 
 On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, 
 there stood the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an 
 Inverness cape and an old-fashioned top hat. He waited 
 for a few seconds blinking at her, perhaps dazzled by the 
 light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. Bunting's trained 
 perception told her at once that this man, odd as he 
 looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class 
 with whom her former employment had brought her in 
 contact. 
 
 "Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?" he asked, 
 and there was something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she said uncertainly — it was a long, long 
 time since anyone had come after their lodgings, any- 
 one, that is, that they could think of taking into their 
 respectable house. 
 
 Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the 
 stranger walked past her, and so into the hall. 
 
 And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed 
 that he held a narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite 
 a new bag, made of strong brown leather. 
 
 "I am looking for some quiet rooms," he said; then 
 he repeated the words, "quiet rooms," in a dreamy, 
 absent way, and as he uttered them he looked nervously 
 round him. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 17 
 
 Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been 
 carefully furnished, and was very clean. 
 
 There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the 
 stranger's weary feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark- 
 red drugget, which matched in colour the flock-paper on 
 the walls. 
 
 A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a 
 superior lodging-house keeper. 
 
 "You'd find my rooms quite quiet, sir," she said gently. 
 "And just now I have four to let. The house is empty, 
 save for my husband and me, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It 
 seemed too good to be true, this sudden coming of a 
 possible lodger, and of a lodger who spoke in the pleas- 
 ant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the poor 
 woman her happy, far-off days of youth and of security. 
 
 "That sounds very suitable," he said. "Four rooms? 
 Well, perhaps I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, 
 I should like to see all four before I make my choice." 
 
 How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunt- 
 ing had lit the gas! But for that circumstance this gen- 
 tleman would have passed them by. 
 
 She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in 
 her agitation that the front door was still open; and it 
 was the stranger whom she already in her mind described 
 as "the lodger," who turned and rather quickly walked 
 down the passage and shut it. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry 
 you should have had the trouble." 
 
 For a moment their eyes met. "It's not safe to leave 
 a front door open in London," he said, rather sharply. 
 
18 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "I hope you do not often do that. It would be so easy 
 for anyone to slip in." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still 
 spoken courteously, but he was evidently very much 
 put out. 
 
 "I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open," 
 she answered hastily. "You needn't be at all afraid of 
 that!" 
 
 And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, 
 came the sound of Bunting coughing — it was just a little, 
 hard cough, but Mrs. Bunting's future lodger started 
 violently. 
 
 "Who's that?" he said, putting out a hand and clutch- 
 ing her arm. "Whatever was that?" 
 
 "Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper 
 a few minutes ago, and the cold just caught him, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "Your husband ?" he looked at her intently, sus- 
 piciously. "What — what, may I ask, is your husband's 
 occupation?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to 
 Bunting's occupation was no one's business but theirs. 
 Still, it wouldn't do for her to show offence. "He goes 
 out waiting," she said stiffly. "He was a gentleman's 
 servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you should you 
 require him to do so." 
 
 And then she turned and led the way up the steep, 
 narrow staircase. 
 
 At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. 
 Bunting, to herself, called the drawing-room floor. It 
 consisted of a sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 19 
 
 She opened the door of the sitting-room and quickly 
 lit the chandelier. 
 
 This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps 
 a little over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the 
 floor was a green carpet simulating moss; four chairs 
 were placed round the table which occupied the exact 
 middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite the 
 door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned 
 chiffonnier. 
 
 On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engrav- 
 ings, portraits of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and 
 tarletan ball dresses, clipped from an old Book of Beauty. 
 Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these pictures; she thought 
 they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and re- 
 finement. 
 
 As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad 
 indeed, that she had summoned up sufficient energy, two 
 days ago, to give the room a thorough turn-out. 
 
 It had remained for a long time in the state in which 
 it had been left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants 
 when they had been scared into going away by Bunting's 
 rough threats of the police. But now it was in apple- 
 pie order, with one paramount exception, of which Mrs. 
 Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white 
 curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon 
 be remedied if this gentleman really took the lodgings. 
 
 But what was this ? The stranger was looking 
 
 round him rather dubiously. "This is rather — rather 
 too grand for me," he said at last. "I should like to 
 see your other rooms, Mrs. — er " 
 
 " Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir." 
 
20 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again 
 came down and settled on her sad, burdened heart. 
 Perhaps she had been mistaken, after all — or rather, 
 she had not been mistaken in one sense, but perhaps 
 this gentleman was a poor gentleman — too poor, that 
 is, to afford the rent of more than one room, say eight 
 or ten shillings a week; eight or ten shillings a week 
 would be very little use to her and Bunting, though better 
 than nothing at all. 
 
 "Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?" 
 
 "No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what 
 
 you have farther up the house, Mrs. ," and then, as 
 
 if making a prodigious mental effort, he brought out her 
 name, "Bunting," with a kind of gasp. 
 
 The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above 
 the drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and 
 mean, owing to the fact that they were bare of any kind 
 of ornament. Very little trouble had been taken over 
 their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much 
 the same condition as that in which the Buntings had 
 found them. 
 
 For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, 
 genteel sitting-room out of an apartment of • which the 
 principal features are a sink and a big gas stove. The 
 gas stove, of an obsolete pattern, was fed by a tiresome, 
 shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the prop- 
 erty of the people from whom the Buntings had taken 
 over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no 
 monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble 
 fittings they had left behind. 
 
 What furniture there was in the room was substantial 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 21 
 
 and clean, as everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was 
 bound to be, but it was a bare, uncomfortable-looking 
 place, and the landlady now felt sorry that she had done 
 nothing to make it appear more attractive. 
 
 To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sen- 
 sitive, hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satis- 
 faction. "Capital! Capital!" he exclaimed, for the 
 first time putting down the bag he held at his feet, and 
 rubbing his long, thin hands together with a quick, nerv- 
 ous movement. 
 
 "This is just what I have been looking for." He 
 walked with long, eager strides towards the gas stove. 
 "First-rate — quite first-rate! Exactly what I wanted to 
 find! You must understand, Mrs. — er — Bunting, that I 
 am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of experi- 
 ments, and I often require the — ah, well, the presence of 
 great heat." 
 
 He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, 
 towards the stove. "This, too, will be useful — exceed- 
 ingly useful, to me," and he touched the edge of the 
 stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch. 
 
 He threw his head back and passed his hand over his 
 high, bare forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he 
 sat down — wearily. "I'm tired," he muttered in a low 
 voice, "tired — tired! I've been walking about all day, 
 Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon. 
 They do not put benches for tired men in the London 
 streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways 
 they are far more humane on the Continent than they 
 are in England, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous 
 
22 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 glance, she asked the question of which the answer would 
 mean so much to her, "Then you mean to take my rooms, 
 sir?" 
 
 "This room, certainly," he said, looking round. "This 
 room is exactly what I have been looking for, and long- 
 ing for, the last few days;" and then hastily he added, 
 "I mean this kind of place is what I have always wanted 
 to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would be surprised if 
 you knew how difficult it is to get anything of the sort. 
 But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief 
 ■ — a very, very great relief to me!" 
 
 He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, 
 abstracted air. And then, "Where's my bag?" he asked 
 suddenly, and there came a note of sharp, angry fear in 
 his voice. He glared at the quiet woman standing before 
 him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of 
 fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting 
 was so far away, right down the house. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has 
 always been a perquisite, as it were the special luxury, 
 of the well-born and of the well-educated. Scholars, as 
 she well knew, are never quite like other people, and her 
 new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. "Surely I had 
 a bag when I came in?" he said in a scared, troubled 
 voice. 
 
 "Here it is, sir," she said soothingly, and, stooping, 
 picked it up and handed it to him. And as she did so 
 she noticed that the bag was not at all heavy; it was 
 evidently by no means full. 
 
 He took it eagerly from her. "I beg your pardon," 
 he muttered. "But there is something in that bag which 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 23 
 
 is very precious to me — something I procured with in- 
 finite difficulty, and which I could never get again with- 
 out running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. That 
 must be the excuse for my late agitation." 
 
 "About terms, sir?" she said a little timidly, returning 
 to the subject which meant so much, so very much to 
 her. 
 
 "About terms?" he echoed. And then there came a 
 pause. "My name is Sleuth," he said suddenly, — 
 "S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you'll 
 never forget my name. I could provide you with a 
 reference " (he gave her what she described to her- 
 self as a funny, sideways look), "but I should prefer you 
 to dispense with that, if you don't mind. I am quite 
 willing to pay you — well, shall we say a month in ad- 
 vance?" 
 
 A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting's cheeks. She 
 felt sick with relief — nay, with a joy which was almost 
 pain. She had not known till that moment how hungry 
 she was — how eager for a good meal. "That would be 
 all right, sir," she murmured. 
 
 "And what are you going to charge me?" There had 
 come a kindly, almost a friendly note into his voice. 
 •"With attendance, mind! I shall expect you to give 
 me attendance, and I need hardly ask if you can cook, 
 Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir," she said. "I am a plain cook. What 
 would you say to twenty-five shillings a week, sir? " She 
 looked at him deprecatingly, and as he did not answer 
 she went on falteringly, "You see, sir, it may seem a 
 good deal, but you would have the best of attendance 
 
24 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and careful cooking — and my husband, sir — he would be 
 pleased to valet you." 
 
 "I shouldn't want anything of that sort done for me," 
 said Mr. Sleuth hastily. "I prefer looking after my own 
 clothes. I am used to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. 
 Bunting, I have a great dislike to sharing lodgings " 
 
 She interrupted eagerly, "I could let you have the use 
 of the two floors for the same price — that is, until we get 
 another lodger. I shouldn't like you to sleep in the back 
 room up here, sir. It's such a poor little room. You 
 could do as you say, sir — do your work and your experi- 
 ments up here, and then have your meals in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 "Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that sounds a good plan. 
 And if I offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might 
 I then rely on your not taking another lodger?" 
 
 "Yes," she said quietly. "I'd be very glad only to 
 have you to wait on, sir." 
 
 "I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, 
 Mrs. Bunting? I don't like to be disturbed while I'm 
 working." 
 
 He waited a moment, and then said again, rather 
 urgently, "I suppose you have a key to this door, Mrs. 
 Bunting?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir, there's a key — a very nice little key. 
 The people who lived here before had a new kind of lock 
 put on to the door." She went over, and throwing the 
 door open, showed him that a round disc had been fitted 
 above the old keyhole. 
 
 He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent 
 a little, as if absorbed in thought, "Forty-two shillings 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 25 
 
 a week? Yes, that will suit me perfectly. And I'll 
 begin now by paying my first month's rent in advance. 
 Now, four times forty-two shillings is" — he jerked his 
 head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first 
 time he smiled, a queer, wry smile — "why, just eight 
 pounds eight shillings, Mrs. Bunting!" 
 
 He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of 
 his long cape-like coat and took out a handful of sover- 
 eigns. Then he began putting these down in a row on 
 the bare wooden table which stood in the centre of 
 the room. "Here's five — six — seven — eight — nine — ten 
 pounds. You'd better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, 
 for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to- 
 morrow morning. I met with a misfortune to-day." 
 But the new lodger did not speak as if his misfortune, 
 whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. 
 
 "Indeed, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing's heart was going thump — thump — thump. She felt 
 extraordinarily moved, dizzy with relief and joy. 
 
 "Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, 
 the few things I managed to bring away with me." His 
 voice dropped suddenly. "I shouldn't have said that," 
 he muttered. "I was a fool to say that!"^ Then, more 
 loudly, "Someone said to me, 'You can't go into a lodg- 
 ing-house without any luggage. They wouldn't take 
 you in.' But you have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and 
 
 I'm grateful for — for the kind way you have met me " 
 
 He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, and Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly 
 towards her new lodger. 
 
 "I hope I know a gentleman when I see one," she said, 
 with a break in her staid voice. 
 
26 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "I shall have to see about getting some clothes to- 
 morrow, Mrs. Bunting." Again he looked at her ap- 
 pealingly. 
 
 "I expect you'd like to wash your hands now, sir. And 
 would you tell me what you'd like for supper? We 
 haven't much in the house." 
 
 "Oh, anything'll do," he said hastily. "I don't want 
 you to go out for me. It's a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. 
 Bunting. If you have a little bread-and-butter and a 
 cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied." 
 
 "I have a nice sausage," she said hesitatingly. 
 
 It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that 
 same morning for Bunting's supper; as to herself, she 
 had been going to content herself with a little bread 
 and cheese. But now — wonderful, almost, intoxicating 
 thought — she could send Bunting out to get anything 
 they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full 
 of comfort and good cheer. 
 
 "A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never 
 touch flesh meat," he said; "it is a long, long time since 
 I tasted a sausage, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Is it indeed, sir?" She hesitated a moment, then 
 asked stiffly, "And will you be requiring any beer, or 
 wine, sir?" 
 
 A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled 
 Mr. Sleuth's pale face. 
 
 "Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite 
 clear, Mrs. Bunting. I had hoped to hear that you were 
 an abstainer " 
 
 "So I am, sir, lifelong. And so's Bunting been since 
 we married." She might have said, had she been a 
 woman given to make such confidences, that she had 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 27 
 
 made Bunting abstain very early in their acquaintance. 
 That he had given in about that had been the thing 
 that first made her believe that he was sincere in all the 
 nonsense that he talked to her, in those far-away days of 
 his courting. Glad she was now that he had taken the 
 pledge as a younger man; but for that nothing would 
 have kept him from the drink during the bad times they 
 had gone through. 
 
 And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth 
 the nice bedroom which opened out of the drawing-room. 
 It was a replica of Mrs. Bunting's own room just under- 
 neath, excepting that everything up here had cost just 
 a little more, and was therefore rather better in quality. 
 
 The new lodger looked round him with such a strange 
 expression of content and peace stealing over his worn 
 face. "A haven of rest," he muttered; and then, " 'He 
 bringeth them to their desired haven.' Beautiful words, 
 Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first 
 time anyone had quoted the Bible to her for many a 
 long day. But it seemed to set the seal, as it were, on 
 Mr. Sleuth's respectability. 
 
 What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with 
 only one lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with 
 a married couple! Very peculiar married couples had 
 drifted in and out of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's lodgings, 
 not only here, in London, but at the seaside. . . . 
 
 How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they 
 had come to London not a single pair of lodgers had been 
 even moderately respectable and kindly. The last lot 
 
28 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 had belonged to that horrible underworld of men and 
 women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen better days, 
 now only keep their heads above water with the help of 
 petty fraud. 
 
 "I'll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, 
 and some clean towels," she said, going to the door. 
 
 And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. "Mrs. 
 Bunting" — and as he spoke he stammered a little — "I 
 — I don't want you to interpret the word attendance too 
 liberally. You need not run yourself off your feet for 
 me. I'm accustomed to look after myself." 
 
 And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed 
 — even a little snubbed. "All right, sir," she said. "I'll 
 only just let you know when I've your supper ready." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 But what was a little snub compared with the intense 
 relief and joy of going down and telling Bunting of the 
 great piece of good fortune which had fallen their way? 
 
 Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down 
 the steep stairs. In the hall, however, she pulled herself 
 together, and tried to still her agitation. She had always 
 disliked and despised any show of emotion; she called 
 such betrayal of feeling "making a fuss." 
 
 Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for 
 a moment looking at her husband's bent back, and she 
 realised, with a pang of pain, how the last few weeks 
 had aged him. 
 
 Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, 
 stood up. He put the paper he had been holding down 
 on to the table: "Well/' he said, "well, who was it, 
 Ellen?" 
 
 He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who 
 ought to have answered the door and done all that par- 
 leying of which he had heard murmurs. 
 
 And then in a moment his wife's hand shot out, and 
 the ten sovereigns fell in a little clinking heap on the 
 table. 
 
 "Look there!" she whispered, with an excited, tear- 
 ful quiver in her voice. "Look there, Bunting!" 
 29 
 
30 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, 
 frowning gaze. 
 
 He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to 
 the conclusion that his wife had just had in a furniture 
 dealer, and that this ten pounds represented all their nice 
 furniture upstairs. If that were so, then it was the be- 
 ginning of the end. That furniture in the first-floor front 
 had cost — Ellen had reminded him of the fact bitterly 
 only yesterday — seventeen pounds nine shillings, and 
 every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad 
 that she had only got ten pounds for it. 
 
 Yet he hadn't the heart to reproach her. 
 
 He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meet- 
 ing that troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it 
 was that he thought had happened. 
 
 "We've a new lodger!" she cried. "And — and, Bunt- 
 ing? He's quite the gentleman! He actually offered to 
 pay four weeks in advance, at two guineas a week." 
 
 "No, never!" 
 
 Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together 
 they stood there, fascinated by the little heap of gold. 
 "But there's ten sovereigns here," he said suddenly. 
 
 "Yes, the gentleman said I'd have to buy some things 
 for him to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he's so well 
 
 spoken, I really felt that — I really felt that " and 
 
 then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step or two sideways, sat 
 down, and throwing her little black apron over her face 
 burst into gasping sobs. 
 
 Bunting patted her back timidly. "Ellen?" he said, 
 much moved by her agitation, "Ellen? Don't take on 
 so, my dear " 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 "I won't," she sobbed, "I — I won't! I'm a fool — I 
 know I am! But, oh, I didn't think we was ever going 
 to have any luck again!" 
 
 And then she told him — or rather tried to tell him — 
 what the lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at 
 talking, but one thing she did impress on her husband's 
 mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was eccentric, as so many 
 clever people are eccentric — that is, in a harmless way — 
 and that he must be humoured. 
 
 "He says he doesn't want to be waited on much," she 
 said at last, wiping her eyes, "but I can see he will want 
 a good bit of looking after, all the same, poor gentle- 
 man." 
 
 And just as the words left her mouth there came the 
 unfamiliar sound of a loud ring. It was that of the 
 drawing-room bell being pulled again and again. 
 
 Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. "I think I'd 
 better go up, eh, Ellen?" he said. He felt quite anxious 
 to see their new lodger. For the matter of that, it would 
 be a relief to be doing something again. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "you go up! Don't keep him 
 waiting! I wonder what it is he wants? I said I'd let 
 him know when his supper was ready." 
 
 A moment later Bunting came down again. There 
 was an odd smile on his face. "Whatever d'you think 
 he wanted?" he whispered mysteriously. And as she 
 said nothing, he went on, "He's asked me for the loan 
 of a Bible!" 
 
 "Well, I don't see anything so out of the way in that," 
 she said hastily, " 'specially if he don't feel well. I'll 
 take it up to him." 
 
32 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And, then, going to a small table which stood between 
 the two windows, Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, 
 which had been given to her as a wedding present by a 
 married lady with whose mother she had lived for several 
 years. 
 
 "He said it would do quite well when you take up his 
 supper," said Bunting; and, then, "Ellen? He's a 
 queer-looking cove — not like any gentleman / ever had 
 to do with." 
 
 "He is a gentleman," said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. 
 
 "Oh, yes, that's all right." But still he looked at her 
 doubtfully. "I asked him if he'd like me to just put 
 away his clothes. But, Ellen, he said he hadn't got any 
 clothes!" 
 
 "No more he hasn't;" she spoke quickly, defensively. 
 "He had the misfortune to lose his luggage. He's one 
 dishonest folk 'ud take advantage of." 
 
 "Yes, one can see that with half an eye," Bunting 
 agreed. 
 
 And then there was silence for a few moments, while 
 Mrs. Bunting put down on a little bit of paper the things 
 she wanted her husband to go out and buy for her. She 
 handed him the list, together with a sovereign. "Be as 
 quick as you can," she said, "for I feel a bit hungry. 
 I'll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth's supper. 
 He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I'm glad 
 I've never fallen to bad eggs!" 
 
 Sleuth," echoed Bunting, staring at her. "What a 
 queer name! How d'you spell it — S-l-u-t-h?" 
 
 "No," she shot out, " S-l-e-u-t-h." 
 
 "Oh," he said doubtfully. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 33 
 
 ''He said, 'Think of a hound and you'll never forget 
 my name/" and Mrs. Bunting smiled. 
 
 When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: 
 "We'll now be able to pay young Chandler back some 
 o* that thirty shillings. I am glad." 
 
 She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for 
 words. 
 
 And then each went about his and her business — ■ 
 Bunting out into the drenching fog, his wife down to her 
 cold kitchen. 
 
 The lodger's tray was soon ready; everything upon 
 it nicely and daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew 
 how to wait upon a gentleman. 
 
 Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, 
 she suddenly remembered Mr. Sleuth's request for a 
 Bible. Putting the tray down in the hall, she went into 
 her sitting-room and took up the Book; but when back 
 in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it was 
 worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought 
 she could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume 
 under her arm, and taking up the tray, she walked slowly 
 up the staircase. 
 
 But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. 
 Sleuth's landlady opened the door of the drawing-room 
 she very nearly dropped the tray. She actually did drop 
 the Bible, and it fell with a heavy thud to the ground. 
 
 The new lodger had turned all those nice framed en- 
 gravings of the early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. 
 Bunting had been so proud, with their faces to the wall! 
 
 For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. 
 Putting the tray down on the table, she stooped and 
 
34 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 picked up the Book. It troubled her that the Bible 
 should have fallen to the ground; but really she hadn't 
 been able to help it — it was a mercy that the tray hadn't 
 fallen, too. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth got up. "I — I have taken the liberty to 
 arrange the room as I should wish it to be," he said 
 awkwardly. "You see, Mrs. — er — Bunting, I felt as I 
 sat here that these women's eyes followed me about. It 
 was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave me quite an 
 eerie feeling." 
 
 The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over 
 half of the table. She made no answer to her lodger's 
 remark, for the good reason that she did not know what 
 to say. 
 
 Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After 
 what seemed a long pause, he spoke again. 
 
 "I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting," he spoke with 
 some agitation. "As a matter of fact, I have been used 
 to seeing bare walls about me for a long time." 
 
 And then, at last, his landlady answered him, in a 
 composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good 
 to hear. "I quite understand, sir. And when Bunting 
 comes in he shall take the pictures all down. We have 
 plenty of space in our own rooms for them." 
 
 "Thank you — thank you very much." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth appeared greatly relieved. 
 
 "And I have brought you up my Bible, sir. I under- 
 stood you wanted the loan of it?" 
 
 Mr. Sleuth stared at her as if dazed for a moment; 
 and then, rousing himself, he said, "Yes, yes, I do. 
 There is no reading like the Book. There is something 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 35 
 
 there which suits every state of mind, aye, and of body 
 too " 
 
 "Very true, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting, having 
 laid out what really looked a very appetising little meal, 
 turned round and quietly shut the door. 
 
 She went down straight into her sitting-room and 
 waited there for Bunting, instead of going to the kitchen 
 to clear up. And as she did so there came to her a com- 
 fortable recollection, an incident of her long-past youth, 
 in the days when she, then Ellen Green, had maided a 
 dear old lady. 
 
 The old lady had a favourite nephew — a bright, jolly 
 young gentleman, who was learning to paint animals in 
 Paris. And one morning Mr. Algernon — that was his 
 rather peculiar Christian name — had had the impudence 
 to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings 
 done by the famous Mr. Landseer! 
 
 Mrs. Bunting remembered all the circumstances as 
 if they had only occurred yesterday, and yet she had not 
 thought of them for years. 
 
 It was quite early; she had come down — for in those 
 days maids weren't thought so much of as they are now, 
 and she slept with the upper housemaid, and it was the 
 upper housemaid's duty to be down very early — and 
 there, in the dining-room, she had found Mr. Algernon 
 engaged in turning each engraving to the wall! Now, 
 his aunt thought all the world of those pictures, and Ellen 
 had felt quite concerned, for it doesn't do for a young 
 gentleman to put himself wrong with a kind aunt. 
 
 "Oh, sir," she had exclaimed in dismay, "whatever 
 are you doing?" And even now she could almost hear 
 
36 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 his merry voice, as he had answered, "I am doing my 
 dirty, fair Helen" — he had always called her "fair Helen " 
 when no one was listening. "How can I draw ordinary 
 animals when I see these half-human monsters staring 
 at me all the time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, 
 and my dinner?" That was what Mr. Algernon had 
 said in his own saucy way, and that was what he repeated 
 in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when 
 that dear old lady had come downstairs. In fact, he had 
 declared, quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted 
 by Mr. Landseer put his eye out! 
 
 But his aunt had been very much annoyed — in fact, 
 she had made him turn the pictures all back again; and 
 as long as he stayed there he just had to put up with 
 what he called "those half-human monsters." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of 
 Mr. Sleuth's odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that 
 funny incident of her long-gone youth. It seemed to 
 prove that her new lodger was not so strange as he ap- 
 peared to be. Still, when Bunting came in, she did not 
 tell him the queer thing which had happened. She told 
 herself that she would be quite able to manage the taking 
 down of the pictures in the drawing-room herself. 
 
 But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth's 
 landlady went upstairs to clear away, and when on the 
 staircase she heard the sound of — was it talking, in the 
 drawing-room? Startled, she waited a moment on the 
 landing outside the drawing-room door, then she realised 
 that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself. 
 
 There was something very awful in the words which 
 rose and fell on her listening ears: 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 37 
 
 "A strange woman is a narrow gate. She also lieth 
 in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressors 
 among men." 
 
 She remained where she was, her hand on the handle 
 of the door, and again there broke on her shrinking ears 
 that curious, high, sing-song voice, "Her house is the 
 way to hell, going down to the chambers of death." 
 
 It made the listener feel quite queer. But at last she 
 summoned up courage, knocked, and walked in. 
 
 "I'd better clear away, sir, had I not?" she said. 
 
 And Mr. Sleuth nodded. 
 
 Then he got up and closed the Book. "I think I'll 
 go to bed now," he said. "I am very, very tired. I've 
 had a long and a very weary day, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. 
 Bunting climbed up on a chair and unhooked the pic- 
 tures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth. Each left an 
 unsightly mark on the wall — but that, after all, could 
 not be helped. 
 
 Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, 
 she carried them down, two by two, and stood them 
 behind her bed. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling hap- 
 pier than she had felt for a very, very long time. 
 
 For just one moment she could not think why she 
 felt so different — and then she suddenly remembered. 
 
 How comfortable it was to know that upstairs, just 
 over her head, lay, in the well-found bed she had bought 
 with such satisfaction at an auction held in a Baker 
 Street house, a lodger who was paying two guineas a 
 week! Something seemed to tell her that Mr. Sleuth 
 would be "a permanency. " In any case, it wouldn't be 
 her fault if he wasn't. As to his — his queerness, well, 
 there's always something funny in everybody. 
 
 But after she had got up, and as the morning wore 
 itself away, Mrs. Bunting grew a little anxious, for there 
 came no sound at all from the new lodger's rooms. 
 
 At twelve, however, the drawing-room bell rang. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting hurried upstairs. She was painfully 
 anxious to please and satisfy Mr. Sleuth. His coming 
 had only been in the nick of time to save them from 
 horrible disaster. 
 
 She found her lodger up, and fully dressed. He was 
 sitting at the round table which occupied the middle of 
 the sitting-room, and his landlady's large Bible lay open 
 before him. 
 
 38 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 39 
 
 As Mrs. Bunting came in, he looked up, and she was 
 troubled to see how tired and worn he seemed. 
 
 "You did not happen," he asked, "to have a Con- 
 cordance, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 She shook her head; she had no idea what a Con- 
 cordance could be, but she was quite sure that she had 
 nothing of the sort about. 
 
 And then her new lodger proceeded to tell her what 
 it was he desired her to buy for him. She had supposed 
 the bag he had brought with him to contain certain 
 little necessaries of civilised life — such articles, for in- 
 stance, as a comb and brush, a set of razors, a tooth- 
 brush, to say nothing of a couple of nightshirts — but 
 no, that was evidently not so, for Mr. Sleuth required 
 all these things to be bought now. 
 
 After having cooked him a nice breakfast, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing hurried out to purchase the things of which he was 
 in urgent need. 
 
 How pleasant it was to feel that there was money in 
 her purse again — not only someone else's money, but 
 money she was now in the very act of earning so agree- 
 ably. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting first made her way to a little barber's 
 shop close by. It was there she purchased the brush 
 and comb and the razors. It was a funny, rather smelly 
 little place, and she hurried as much as she could, the 
 more so that the foreigner who served her insisted on 
 telling her some of the strange, peculiar details of this 
 Avenger murder which had taken place forty-eight hours 
 before, and in which Bunting took such a morbid interest. 
 
 The conversation upset Mrs. Bunting. She didn't 
 
40 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 want to think of anything painful or disagreeable on such 
 a day as this. 
 
 Then she came back and showed the lodger her various 
 purchases. Mr. Sleuth was pleased with everything, 
 and thanked her most courteously. But when she sug- 
 gested doing his bedroom he frowned, and looked quite 
 put out* 
 
 "Please wait till this evening," he said hastily. "It 
 is my custom to stay at home all day. I only care to 
 walk about the streets when the lights are lit. You must 
 bear with me, Mrs. Bunting, if I seem a little, just a 
 little, unlike the lodgers you have been accustomed to. 
 And I must ask you to understand that I must not be 
 
 disturbed when thinking out my problems " He 
 
 broke off short, sighed, then added solemnly, "for mine 
 are the great problems of life and death." 
 
 And Mrs. Bunting willingly fell in with his wishes. 
 In spite of her prim manner and love of order, Mr. Sleuth's 
 landlady was a true woman — she had, that is, an infinite 
 patience with masculine vagaries and oddities. 
 
 When she was downstairs again, Mr. Sleuth's land- 
 lady met with a surprise; but it was quite a pleasant 
 surprise. While she had been upstairs, talking to the 
 lodger, Bunting's young friend, Joe Chandler, the de- 
 tective, had come in, and as she walked into the sitting- 
 room she saw that her husband was pushing half a sov- 
 ereign across the table towards Joe. 
 
 Joe Chandler's fair, good-natured face was full of 
 satisfaction: not at seeing his money again, mark you, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 41 
 
 but at the news Bunting had evidently been telling him 
 — that news of the sudden wonderful change in their 
 fortunes, the coming of an ideal lodger. 
 
 "Mr. Sleuth don't want me to do his bedroom till 
 he's gone out!" she exclaimed. And then she sat down 
 for a bit of a rest. 
 
 It was a comfort to know that the lodger was eating 
 his good breakfast, and there was no need to think of 
 him for the present. In a few minutes she would be going 
 down to make her own and Bunting's dinner, and she 
 told Joe Chandler that he might as well stop and have a 
 bite with them. 
 
 Her heart warmed to the young man, for Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing was in a mood which seldom surprised her — a mood 
 to be pleased with anything and everything. Nay, 
 more. When Bunting began to ask Joe Chandler about 
 the last of those awful Avenger murders, she even lis- 
 tened with a certain languid interest to all he had to say. 
 
 In the morning paper which Bunting had begun tak^ 
 ing again that very day three columns were devoted to 
 the extraordinary mystery which was now beginning to 
 be the one topic of talk all over London, West and East, 
 North and South. Bunting had read out little bits about 
 it while they ate their breakfast, and in spite of herself 
 Mrs. Bunting had felt thrilled and excited. 
 
 "They do say," observed Bunting cautiously, "They 
 do say, Joe, that the police have a clue they won't say 
 nothing about?" He looked expectantly at his visitor. 
 To Bunting the fact that Chandler was attached to the 
 detective section of the Metropolitan Police invested the 
 .poung man with a kind of sinister glory — especially just 
 
42 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 now, when these awful and mysterious crimes were amaz- 
 ing and terrifying the town. 
 
 "Them who says that says wrong," answered Chand- 
 ler slowly, and a look of unease, of resentment, came over 
 his fair, stolid face. "'Twould make a good bit of dif- 
 ference to me if the Yard had a clue." 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting interposed. "Why that, 
 Joe?" she said, smiling indulgently; the young man's 
 keenness about his work pleased her. And in his slow, 
 sure way Joe Chandler was very keen, and took his job 
 very seriously. He put his whole heart and mind into it. 
 
 "Well, 'tis this way," he explained. "From to-day 
 I'm on this business myself. You see, Mrs. Bunting, 
 the Yard's nettled — that's what it is, and we're all on 
 our mettle — that we are. I was right down sorry for the 
 poor chap who was on point duty in the street where the 
 last one happened " 
 
 "No!" said Bunting incredulously. "You don't mean 
 there was a policeman there, within a few yards? " 
 
 That fact hadn't been recorded in his newspaper. 
 
 Chandler nodded. "That's exactly what I do mean, 
 Mr. Bunting ! The man is near off his head, so I'm told. 
 He did hear a yell, so he says, but he took no notice — 
 there are a good few yells in that part o' London, as you 
 can guess. People always quarrelling and rowing at one 
 another in such low parts." 
 
 "Have you seen the bits of grey paper on which the 
 monster writes his name?" inquired Bunting eagerly. 
 
 Public imagination had been much stirred by the ac- 
 count of those three-cornered pieces of grey paper, pinned 
 to the victims' skirts, on which was roughly written in 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 43 
 
 red ink and in printed characters the words "The 
 Avenger." 
 
 His round, fat face was full of questioning eagerness. 
 He put his elbows on the table, and stared across expect- 
 antly at the young man. 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Joe briefly. 
 
 "A funny kind of visiting card, eh!" Bunting laughed; 
 the notion struck him as downright comic. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting coloured. "It isn't a thing to make 
 a joke about," she said reprovingly. 
 
 And Chandler backed her up. "No, indeed," he said 
 feelingly. "I'll never forget what I've been made to 
 see over this job. And as for that grey bit of paper, Mr. 
 Bunting — or, rather, those grey bits of paper" — he cor- 
 rected himself hastily — "you know they've three of them 
 now at the Yard — well, they gives me the horrors!" 
 
 And then he jumped up. "That reminds me that I 
 oughtn't to be wasting my time in pleasant company " 
 
 "Won't you stay and have a bit of dinner?" said Mrs. 
 Bunting solicitously. 
 
 But the detective shook his head. "No," he said, "I 
 had a bite before I came out. Our job's a queer kind of 
 job, as you know. A lot's left to our discretion, so to 
 speak, but it don't leave us much time for lazing about, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 When he reached the door he turned round, and with 
 elaborate carelessness he inquired, "Any chance of Miss 
 Daisy coming to London again soon?" 
 
 Bunting shook his head, but his face brightened. He 
 was very, very fond of his only child; the pity was he 
 saw her so seldom. "No," he said, "I'm afraid not, Joe. 
 
44 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Old Aunt, as we calls the old lady, keeps Daisy pretty 
 tightly tied to her apron-string. She was quite put about 
 that week the child was up with us last June." 
 "Indeed? Well, so long!" 
 
 After his wife had let their friend out, Bunting said 
 cheerfully, "Joe seems to like our Daisy, eh, Ellen?" 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting shook her head scornfully. She 
 did not exactly dislike the girl, though she did not hold 
 with the way Bunting's daughter was being managed by 
 that old aunt of hers — an idle, good-for-nothing way, 
 very different from the fashion in which she herself had 
 been trained at the Foundling, for Mrs. Bunting as a 
 little child had known no other home, no other family^ 
 than those provided by good Captain Coram. 
 
 "Joe Chandler's too sensible a young chap to be think- 
 ing of girls yet awhile," she said tartly. 
 
 "No doubt you're right," Bunting agreed. "Times 
 be changed. In my young days chaps always had time 
 for that. 'Twas just a notion that came into my head, 
 hearing him asking, anxious-like, after her." 
 
 About five o'clock, after the street lamps were well 
 alight, Mr. Sleuth went out, and that same evening 
 there came two parcels addressed to his landlady. These 
 parcels contained clothes. But it was quite clear to 
 Mrs. Bunting's eyes that they were not new clothes. 
 In fact, they had evidently been bought in some good 
 second-hand clothes-shop. A funny thing for a real gen- 
 tleman like Mr. Sleuth to do! It proved that he had 
 given up all hope of getting back his lost luggage. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 45 
 
 When the lodger had gone out he had not taken his 
 bag with him, of that Mrs. Bunting was positive. And 
 yet, though she searched high and low for it, she could 
 not find the place where Mr. Sleuth kept it. And at 
 last, had it not been that she was a very clear-headed 
 woman, with a good memory, she would have been dis- 
 posed to think that the bag had never existed, save in her 
 imagination. 
 
 But no, she could not tell herself that! She remem- 
 bered exactly how it had looked when Mr. Sleuth had 
 first stood, a strange, queer-looking figure of a man, on 
 her doorstep. 
 
 She further remembered how he had put the bag down 
 on the floor of the top front room, and then, forgetting 
 what he had done, how he had asked her eagerly, in a 
 tone of angry fear, where the bag was — only to find it 
 safely lodged at his feet! 
 
 As time went on Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal 
 about that bag, for, strange and amazing fact, she never 
 saw Mr. Sleuth's bag again. But, of course, she soon 
 formed a theory as to its whereabouts. The brown 
 leather bag which had formed Mr. Sleuth's only luggage 
 the afternoon of his arrival was almost certainly locked 
 up in the lower part of the drawing-room chiffonnier. 
 Mr. Sleuth evidently always carried the key of the little 
 corner cupboard about his person; Mrs. Bunting had 
 also had a good hunt for that key, but, as was the case 
 with the bag, the key disappeared, and she never saw 
 either the one or the other again. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 How quietly, how uneventfully, how pleasantly, sped 
 the next few days. Already life was settling down into 
 a groove. Waiting on Mr. Sleuth was just what Mrs. 
 Bunting could manage to do easily, and without tiring 
 herself. 
 
 It had at once become clear that the lodger preferred 
 to be waited on only by one person, and that person 
 his landlady. He gave her very little trouble. Indeed, 
 it did her good having to wait on the lodger; it even did 
 her good that he was not like other gentlemen; for 
 the fact occupied her mind, and in a way it amused her. 
 The more so that whatever his oddities Mr. Sleuth had 
 none of those tiresome, disagreeable ways with which 
 landladies are only too familiar, and which seem peculiar 
 only to those human beings who also happen to be lodgers. 
 To take but one point: Mr. Sleuth did not ask to be 
 called unduly early. Bunting and his Ellen had fallen 
 into the way of lying rather late in the morning, and it 
 was a great comfort not to have to turn out to make the 
 lodger a cup of tea at seven, or even half-past seven. Mr. 
 Sleuth seldom required anything before eleven. 
 
 But odd he certainly was. 
 
 The second evening he had been with them Mr. Sleuth 
 had brought in a book of which the queer name was 
 46 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 47 
 
 Cruden's Concordance. That and the Bible — Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing had soon discovered that there was a relation between 
 the two books — seemed to be the lodger's only reading. 
 He spent hours each day, generally after he had eaten 
 the breakfast which also served for luncheon, poring over 
 the Old Testament and over that strange kind of index 
 to the Book. 
 
 As for the delicate and yet the all-important question 
 of money, Mr. Sleuth was everything — everything that 
 the most exacting landlady could have wished. Never 
 had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman. 
 On the very first day he had been with them he had 
 allowed his money — the considerable sum of one hundred 
 and eighty-four sovereigns — to lie about wrapped up in 
 little pieces of rather dirty newspaper on his dressing- 
 table. That had quite upset Mrs. Bunting. She had 
 allowed herself respectfully to point out to him that what 
 he was doing was foolish, indeed wrong. But as only 
 answer he had laughed, and she had been startled when 
 the loud, unusual and discordant sound had issued from 
 his thin lips. 
 
 "I know those I can trust," he had answered, stutter- 
 ing rather, as was his way when moved. "And — and 
 I assure you, Mrs. Bunting, that I hardly have to speak 
 to a human being — especially to a woman" (and he had 
 drawn in his breath with a hissing sound) "before I know 
 exactly what manner of person is before me." 
 
 It hadn't taken the landlady very long to find out 
 that her lodger had a queer kind of fear and dislike of 
 women. When she was doing the staircase and land- 
 ings she would often hear Mr. Sleuth reading aloud to 
 
48 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 himself passages in the Bible that were very uncom- 
 plimentary to her sex. But Mrs. Bunting had no very 
 great opinion of her sister woman, so that didn't put her 
 out. Besides, where one's lodger is concerned, a dislike 
 of women is better than — well, than the other thing. 
 
 In any case, where would have been the good of worry- 
 ing about the lodger's funny ways? Of course, Mr. 
 Sleuth was eccentric. If he hadn't been, as Bunting 
 funnily styled it, "just a leetle touched upstairs," he 
 wouldn't be here, living this strange, solitary life in lodg- 
 ings. He would be living in quite a different sort of way 
 with some of his relatives, or with a friend of his own 
 class. 
 
 There came a time when Mrs. Bunting, looking back 
 — as even the least imaginative of us are apt to look 
 back to any part of our own past lives which becomes 
 for any reason poignantly memorable — wondered how 
 soon it was that she had discovered that her lodger was 
 given to creeping out of the house at a time when almost 
 all living things prefer to sleep. 
 
 She brought herself to believe — but I am inclined to 
 doubt whether she was right in so believing — that the 
 first time she became aware of this strange nocturnal 
 habit of Mr. Sleuth's happened to be during the night 
 which preceded the day on which she had observed a 
 very curious circumstance. This very curious circum- 
 stance was the complete disappearance of one of Mr. 
 Sleuth's three suits of clothes. 
 
 It always passes my comprehension how people can 
 remember, over any length of time, not every moment 
 of certain happenings, for that is natural enough, but 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 49 
 
 the day, the hour, the minute when these happenings 
 took place! Much as she thought about it afterwards, 
 even Mrs. Bunting never quite made up her mind whether 
 it was during the fifth or the sixth night of Mr. Sleuth's 
 stay under her roof that she became aware that he had 
 gone out at two in the morning and had only come in 
 at five. 
 
 But that there did come such a night is certain — as . 
 certain as is the fact that her discovery coincided with 
 various occurrences which were destined to remain retro- 
 spectively memorable. 
 
 It was intensely dark, intensely quiet — the darkest, 
 quietest hour of the night, when suddenly Mrs. Bunting 
 was awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep by sounds 
 at once unexpected and familiar. She knew at once 
 what those sounds were. They were those made by 
 Mr. Sleuth, first coming down the stairs, and walking on 
 tiptoe — she was sure it was on tiptoe — past her door, 
 and finally softly shutting the front door behind him. 
 
 Try as she would, Mrs. Bunting found it quite impos- 
 sible to go to sleep again. There she lay wide awake, 
 afraid to move lest Bunting should waken up too, till 
 she heard Mr. Sleuth, three hours later, creep back into 
 the house and so up to bed. 
 
 Then, and not till then, she slept again. But in the 
 morning she felt very tired, so tired indeed, that she 
 had been very glad when Bunting good-naturedly sug- 
 gested that he should, go out and do their little bit of 
 marketing. 
 
 The worthy couple had very soon discovered that in 
 
50 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 the matter of catering it was not altogether an easy mat- 
 ter to satisfy Mr. Sleuth, and that though he always 
 tried to appear pleased. This perfect lodger had one 
 serious fault from the point of view of those who keep 
 lodgings. Strange to say, he was a vegetarian. He 
 would not eat meat in any form. He sometimes, how- 
 ever, condescended to a chicken, and when he did so 
 condescend he generously intimated that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bunting were welcome to a share in it. 
 
 Now to-day — this day of which the happenings were 
 to linger in Mrs. Bunting's mind so very long, and to 
 remain so very vivid, it had been arranged that Mr. 
 Sleuth was to have some fish for his lunch, while what he 
 left was to be "done up" to serve for his simple supper. 
 
 Knowing that Bunting would be out for at least an 
 hour, for he was a gregarious soul, and liked to have a 
 gossip in the shops he frequented, Mrs. Bunting rose and 
 dressed in a leisurely manner; then she went and "did" 
 her front sitting-room. 
 
 She felt languid and dull, as one is apt to feel after 
 a broken night, and it was a comfort to her to know that 
 Mr. Sleuth was not likely to ring before twelve. 
 
 But long before twelve a loud ring suddenly clanged 
 through the quiet house. She knew it for the front 
 door bell. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting frowned. No doubt the ring betokened 
 one of those tiresome people who come round for old 
 bottles and such-like fal-lals. 
 
 She went slowly, reluctantly to the door. And then 
 her face cleared, for it was that good young chap, Joe 
 Chandler, who stood waiting outside. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 51 
 
 He was breathing a little hard, as if he had walked 
 over-quickly through the moist, foggy air. 
 
 "Why, Joe?" said Mrs. Bunting wonderingly. "Come 
 in — do! Bunting's out, but he won't be very long now. 
 You've been quite a stranger these last few days." 
 
 "Well, you know why, Mrs. Bunting " 
 
 She stared at him for a moment, wondering what he 
 could mean. Then, suddenly she remembered. Why, 
 of course, Joe was on a big job just now — the job of 
 trying to catch The Avenger! Her husband had alluded 
 to the fact again and again when reading out to her little 
 bits from the halfpenny evening paper he was taking 
 again. 
 
 She led the way to the sitting-room. It was a good 
 thing Bunting had insisted on lighting the fire before 
 he went out, for now the room was nice and warm — 
 and it was just horrible outside. She had felt a chill 
 go right through her as she had stood, even for that 
 second, at the front door. 
 
 And she hadn't been alone to feel it, for, "I say, it 
 is jolly to be in here, out of that awful cold!" exclaimed 
 Chandler, sitting down heavily in Bunting's easy chair. 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting bethought herself that the 
 young man was tired, as well as cold. He was pale, 
 almost pallid under his usual healthy, tanned complexion 
 — the complexion of the man who lives much out of doors. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like me just to make you a cup of 
 tea?" she said solicitously. 
 
 "Well, to tell truth, I should be right down thankful 
 for one, Mrs. Bunting!" Then he looked round, and 
 again he said her name, "Mrs. Bunting ?" 
 
52 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 He spoke in so odd, so thick a tone that she turned 
 quickly. "Yes, what is it, Joe?" she asked. And then, 
 in sudden terror, "You've never come to tell me that 
 anything's happened to Bunting? He's not had an 
 accident?" 
 
 "Goodness, no! Whatever made you think that? 
 But — but, Mrs. Bunting, there's been another of them!" 
 
 His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He was star- 
 ing at her with unhappy, it seemed to her terror-filled, 
 eyes. 
 
 "Another of them?" She looked at him, bewildered 
 — at a loss. And then what he meant flashed across 
 her — "another of them" meant another of these strange, 
 mysterious, awful murders. 
 
 But her relief for the moment was so great — for she 
 really had thought for a second that he had come to give 
 her ill news of Bunting — that the feeling that she did 
 experience on hearing this piece of news was actually 
 pleasurable, though she would have been much shocked 
 had that fact been brought to her notice. 
 
 Almost in spite of herself, Mrs. Bunting had become 
 keenly interested in the amazing series of crimes which 
 was occupying the imagination of the whole of London's 
 nether-world. Even her refined mind had busied itself 
 for the last two or three days with the strange problem 
 so frequently presented to it by Bunting — for Bunting, 
 now that they were no longer worried, took an open, 
 unashamed, intense interest in "The Avenger" and his 
 doings. 
 
 She took the kettle off the gas-ring. "It's a pity 
 Bunting isn't here," she said, drawing in her breath. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 53 
 
 "He'd a-liked so much to hear you tell all about it, 
 Joe." 
 
 As she spoke she was pouring boiling water into a 
 little teapot. 
 
 But Chandler said nothing, and she turned and glanced 
 at him. "Why, you do look bad!" she exclaimed. 
 
 And, indeed, the young fellow did look bad — very bad 
 indeed. 
 
 "I can't help it," he said, with a kind of gasp. "It 
 was your saying that about my telling you all about it 
 that made me turn queer. You see, this time I was one 
 of the first there, and it fairly turned me sick — that it 
 did. Oh, it was too awful, Mrs. Bunting! Don't talk 
 of it." 
 
 He began gulping down the hot tea before it was well 
 made. 
 
 She looked at him with sympathetic interest. "Why, 
 Joe," she said, "I never would have thought, with all 
 the horrible sights you see, that anything could upset 
 you like that." 
 
 "This isn't like anything there's ever been before," 
 he said. "And then — then — oh, Mrs. Bunting, 'twas I 
 that discovered the piece of paper this time." 
 
 "Then it is true," she cried eagerly. "It is The 
 Avenger's bit of paper! Bunting always said it was. 
 He never believed in that practical joker." 
 
 "I did," said Chandler reluctantly. "You see, there 
 are some queer fellows even — even — " (he lowered his 
 voice, and looked round him as if the walls had ears) — 
 "even in the Force, Mrs. Bunting, and these murders 
 have fair got on our nerves." 
 
54 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "No, never!" she said. "D'you think that a Bobby 
 might do a thing like that?" 
 
 He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasn't worth 
 answering. Then, "It was all along of that bit of paper 
 and my finding it while the poor soul was still warm" — 
 he shuddered — "that brought me out West this morning. 
 One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince Albert Terrace, 
 and I had to go and tell him all about it. They never 
 offered me a bit or a sup — I think they might have done 
 that, don't you, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 "Yes," she said absently. "Yes, I do think so." 
 
 "But, there, I don't know that I ought to say that," 
 went on Chandler. " He had me up in his dressing-room, 
 and was very considerate-like to me while I was telling 
 him." 
 
 "Have a bit of something now?" she said suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, no, I couldn't eat anything," he said hastily. 
 "I don't feel as if I could ever eat anything any more." 
 
 "That'll only make you ill." Mrs. Bunting spoke 
 rather crossly, for she was a sensible woman. And to 
 please her he took a bite out of the slice of bread-and- 
 butter she had cut for him. 
 
 "I expect you're right," he said. "And I've a goodish 
 heavy day in front of me. Been up since four, too " 
 
 "Four?" she said. "Was it then they found " she 
 
 hesitated a moment, and then said, "it?" 
 
 He nodded. "It was just a chance I was near by. 
 If I'd been half a minute sooner either I or the officer 
 who found her must have knocked up against that — 
 that monster. But two or three people do think they 
 saw him slinking away." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 55 
 
 "What was he like?" she asked curiously. 
 
 "Well, that's hard to answer. You see, there was 
 such an awful fog. But there's one thing they all agree 
 about. He was carrying a bag " 
 
 "A bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. 
 "Whatever sort of bag might it have been, Joe?" 
 
 There had come across her — just right in her middle, 
 like — such a strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, 
 or fluttering. 
 
 She was at a loss to account for it. 
 
 "Just a hand-bag," said Joe Chandler vaguely. "A 
 woman I spoke to — cross-examining her, like — who was 
 positive she had seen him, said, ' Just a tall, thin shadow 
 — that's what he was, a tall, thin shadow of a man — with 
 a bag.'" 
 
 "With a bag?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. 
 "How very strange and peculiar " 
 
 "Why, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the 
 thing he does the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. 
 We've always wondered how he hid it. They generally 
 throws the knife or fire-arms away, you know." 
 
 "Do they, indeed?" Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that 
 absent, wondering way. She was thinking that she 
 really must try and see what the lodger had done with 
 his bag. It was possible — in fact, when one came to 
 think of it, it was very probable — that he had just lost 
 it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he 
 had gone out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the 
 Regent's Park. 
 
 "There'll be a description circulated in an hour or 
 two," went on Chandler. "Perhaps that'll help catch 
 
56 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 him. There isn't a London man or woman, I don't 
 suppose, who wouldn't give a good bit to lay that 
 chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going 
 now." 
 
 "Won't you wait a bit longer for Bunting?" she said 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "No, I can't do that. But I'll come in, maybe, either 
 this evening or to-morrow, and tell you any more that's 
 happened. Thanks kindly for the tea. It's made a 
 man of me, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Well, you've had enough to unman you, Joe." 
 
 "Aye, that I have," he said heavily. 
 
 A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and 
 his wife had quite a little tiff — the first tiff they had had 
 since Mr. Sleuth became their lodger. 
 
 It fell out this way. When he heard who had been 
 there, Bunting was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadn't got 
 more details of the horrible occurrence which had taken 
 place that morning, out of Chandler. 
 
 "You don't mean to say, Ellen, that you can't even 
 tell me where it happened?" he said indignantly. "I 
 suppose you put Chandler off — that's what you did! 
 Why, whatever did he come here for, excepting to tell 
 us all about it?" 
 
 "He came to have something to eat and drink," snapped 
 out Mrs. Bunting. "That's what the poor lad came for, 
 if you wants to know. He could hardly speak of it at 
 all — he felt so bad. In fact, he didn't say a word about 
 it until he'd come right into the room and sat down. He 
 told me quite enough!" 
 
 "Didn't he tell you if the piece of paper on which the 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 57 
 
 murderer had written his name was square or three- 
 cornered?" demanded Bunting. 
 
 "No; he did not. And that isn't the sort of thing 
 I should have cared to ask him." 
 
 "The more fool you!" And then he stopped abruptly. 
 The newsboys were coming down the Marylebone Road, 
 shouting out the awful discovery which had been made 
 that morning — that of The Avenger's fifth murder. 
 
 Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took 
 the things he had brought in down to the kitchen. 
 
 The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had 
 evidently wakened Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadn't 
 been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell rang. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's bell rang again. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's breakfast was quite ready, but for the 
 first time since he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did 
 not answer the summons at once. But when there came 
 the second imperative tinkle — for electric bells had not 
 been fitted into that old-fashioned house — she made up 
 her mind to go upstairs. 
 
 As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stair- 
 way, Bunting, sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard 
 his wife stepping heavily under the load of the well-laden 
 tray. 
 
 "Wait a minute!" he called out. "I'll help you, 
 Ellen," and he came out and took the tray from her. 
 
 She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to 
 the drawing-room floor landing. 
 
 There she stopped him. " Here," she whispered quickly, 
 "you give me that, Bunting. The lodger won't like 
 your going in to him." And then, as he obeyed her, and 
 was about to turn downstairs again, she added in a 
 rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at 
 any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here 
 heavy tray on my hands?" 
 
 She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt 
 surprised — rather put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what 
 58 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 59 
 
 you'd call a lively, jolly woman, but when things were 
 going well — as now — she was generally equable enough. 
 He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had 
 spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger 
 murder. 
 
 However, he was always for peace, so he opened the 
 drawing-room door, and as soon as he had started going 
 downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into the room. 
 
 And then at once there came over her the queerest 
 feeling of relief, of lightness of heart. 
 
 As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, read- 
 ing the Bible. 
 
 Somehow — she could not have told you why, she would 
 not willingly have told herself — she had expected to 
 see Mr. Sleuth looking different. But no, he appeared 
 to be exactly the same — in fact, as he glanced up at her 
 a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid 
 face. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept 
 myself this morning, but I feel all the better for the rest." 
 
 "I'm glad of that, sir," she answered, in a low voice. 
 "One of the ladies I once lived with used to say, 'Rest 
 is an old-fashioned remedy, but it's the best remedy of 
 all.' " 
 
 Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden's 
 Concordance off the table out of her way, and then he 
 stood watching his landlady laying the cloth. 
 
 Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talka- 
 tive in the morning. "I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there 
 was someone with you outside the door just now?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray." 
 
60 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "I'm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble," he said 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 But she answered quickly, "Oh, no, sir! Not at all, 
 sir! I was only saying yesterday that we've never had 
 a lodger that gave us as little trouble as you do, sir." 
 
 "I'm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are 
 somewhat peculiar." 
 
 He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give 
 some sort of denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing was an honest and truthful woman. It never oc- 
 curred to her to question his statement. Mr. Sleuth's 
 habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at 
 night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? 
 
 So she remained silent. 
 
 After she had laid the lodger's breakfast on the table 
 she prepared to leave the room. "I suppose I'm not to 
 do your room till you goes out, sir?" 
 
 And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. "No, no!" he 
 said. "I never want my room done when I am engaged 
 in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. Bunting. But I am 
 not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a somewhat 
 elaborate experiment — upstairs. If I go out at all" — 
 he waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly 
 — "I shall wait till night-time to do so." And then, 
 coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, 
 "Perhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, 
 about five o'clock — if that time is convenient to you, 
 that is?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she 
 took herself wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 61 
 
 not face — even in her inmost heart — the strange terrors 
 and tremors which had so shaken her. She only repeated 
 to herself again and again, "I've got upset — that's what 
 I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get my- 
 self a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's 
 what I must do." 
 
 And just as she murmured the word "do," there came 
 a loud double knock on the front door. 
 
 It was only the postman's knock, but the postman 
 was an unfamiliar visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing started violently. She was nervous, that's what was 
 the matter with her, — so she told herself angrily. No 
 doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must 
 have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the 
 world. All gentlefolk have. But when she picked the 
 small envelope off the hall floor, she saw it was a letter 
 from Daisy, her husband's daughter. 
 
 "Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter 
 for you." 
 
 She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. 
 
 Yes, there was her husband, sitting back comfortably 
 in his easy chair, reading a paper. And as she saw his 
 broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting felt a sudden 
 thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing nothing 
 — in fact, doing worse than nothing — wasting his time 
 reading all about those horrid crimes. 
 
 She sighed — a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was 
 getting into idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. 
 But how could she prevent it? He had been such an 
 active, conscientious sort of man when they had first made 
 acquaintance. . . . 
 
62 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 She also could remember, even more clearly than 
 Bunting did himself, that first meeting of theirs in the 
 dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland Terrace. As she 
 had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of port 
 wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to 
 have a good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, re- 
 spectable-looking fellow who was standing over by the 
 window. How superior he had appeared even then 
 to the man she already hoped he would succeed as 
 butler ! 
 
 To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite 
 herself, the past rose before her very vividly, and a lump 
 came into her throat. 
 
 Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the 
 table, she closed the door softly, and went down into the 
 kitchen; there were various little things to put away 
 and clean up, as well as their dinner to cook. And all 
 the time she was down there she fixed her mind obsti- 
 nately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem 
 of Bunting. She wondered what she'd better do to get 
 him into good ways again. 
 
 Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moder- 
 ately bright. A week ago everything had seemed utterly 
 hopeless. It seemed as if nothing could save them from 
 disaster. But everything was now changed! 
 
 Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the 
 new proprietor of that registry office, in Baker Street, 
 which had lately changed hands. It would be a good 
 thing for Bunting to get even an occasional job — for the 
 matter of that he could now take up a fairly regular 
 thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that 
 
THE LODGER 63 
 
 it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has 
 acquired those ways. 
 
 When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little 
 ashamed of what she had been thinking, for Bunting 
 had laid the cloth, and laid it very nicely, too, and brought 
 up their two chairs to the table. 
 
 "Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's 
 coming to-morrow! There's scarlet fever in their house. 
 Old Aunt thinks she'd better come away for a few days. 
 So, you see, she'll be here for her birthday. Eighteen, 
 that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do make me 
 feel old — that it do!" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the 
 girl here just now," she said shortly. "I've just as much 
 to do as I can manage. The lodger gives me more trouble 
 than you seem to think for." 
 
 "Rubbish!" he said sharply. "I'll help you with 
 the lodger. It's your own fault you haven't had help 
 with him before. Of course, Daisy must come here. 
 Whatever other place could the girl go to?" 
 
 Bunting felt pugnacious — so cheerful as to be almost 
 light-hearted. But as he looked across at his wife his 
 feeling of satisfaction vanished. Ellen's face was pinched 
 and drawn to-day; she looked ill — ill and horribly tired. 
 It was very aggravating of her to go and behave like 
 this — just when they were beginning to get on nicely 
 again. 
 
 "For the matter of that," he said suddenly, "Daisy '11 
 be able to help you with the work, Ellen, and she'll brisk 
 us both up a bit." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting made no answer. She sat down heavily 
 
64 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 at the table. And then she said languidly, "You might 
 as well show me the girl's letter." 
 
 He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to 
 herself. 
 
 "Dear Father (it ran) — I hope this finds you as well at it 
 leaves me. Mrs. Puddle's youngest has got scarlet fever, and 
 Aunt thinks I had better come away at once, just to stay with you 
 for a few days. Please tell Ellen I won't give her no trouble. I'll 
 start at ten if I don't hear nothing. — Your loving daughter, 
 
 "Daisy." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here/' said 
 Mrs. Bunting slowly. "It'll do her good to have a bit 
 of work to do for once in her life." 
 
 And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunt- 
 ing had to content himself. 
 
 Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When 
 dusk fell Mr. Sleuth's landlady heard him go upstairs to 
 the top floor. She remembered that this was the signal 
 for her to go and do his room. 
 
 He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw 
 his things about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them 
 all over the place. No, he kept everything scrupulously 
 tidy. His clothes, and the various articles Mrs. Bunting 
 had bought for him during the first two days he had 
 been there, were carefully arranged in the chest of drawers. 
 He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he had 
 arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather 
 shoes with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on 
 that very first day that he never wished them to go down 
 to be cleaned. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 65 
 
 A funny idea — a funny habit that, of going out for a 
 walk after midnight in weather so cold and foggy that 
 all other folk were glad to be at home, snug in bed. But 
 then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a funny 
 sort of gentleman. 
 
 After she had done his bedroom the landlady went 
 into the sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This 
 room was not kept quite as nice as she would have liked 
 it to be. Mrs. Bunting longed to give the drawing-room 
 something of a good turn out; but Mr. Sleuth disliked 
 her to be moving about in it when he himself was in his 
 bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. 
 Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he 
 only used it when making his mysterious experiments, 
 and never during the day-time. 
 
 And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood 
 chiffonnier with longing eyes — she even gave that pretty 
 little piece of furniture a slight shake. If only the doors 
 would fly open, as the locked doors of old cupboards 
 sometimes do, even after they have been securely fas- 
 tened, how pleased she would be, how much more com- 
 fortable somehow she would feel! 
 
 But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret. 
 
 About eight o'clock on that same evening Joe Chandler 
 came in, just for a few minutes' chat. He had recovered 
 from his agitation of the morning, but he was full of eager 
 excitement, and Mrs. Bunting listened in silence, in- 
 tensely interested in spite of herself, while he and Bunt- 
 ing talked. 
 
66 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I'm as right as a trivet now! I've 
 had a good rest — laid down all this afternoon. You see, 
 the Yard thinks there's going to be something on to- 
 night. He's always done them in pairs." 
 
 "So he has," exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "So 
 he has! Now, I never thought o' that. Then you think, 
 Joe, that the monster '11 be on the job again to-night?" 
 
 Chandler nodded. "Yes. And I think there's a very 
 good chance of his being caught, too " 
 
 "I suppose there'll be a lot on the watch to-night, 
 eh?" 
 
 "I should think there will be! How many of our 
 men d'you think there'll be on night duty to-night, Mr. 
 Bunting?" 
 
 Bunting shook his head. "I don't know," he said 
 helplessly. 
 
 "I mean extra," suggested Chandler, in an encour- 
 aging voice. 
 
 "A thousand?" ventured Bunting. 
 
 "Five thousand, Mr. Bunting." 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Bunting, amazed. 
 
 And even Mrs. Bunting echoed "Never!" incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 "Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his 
 monkey up!" Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper 
 out of his coat pocket. "Just listen to this: 
 
 "'The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue 
 to the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel 
 any surprise at the information that a popular attack has been 
 organised on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. 
 There is even talk of an indignation mass meeting.' 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 67 
 
 "What d'you think of that? That's not a pleasant 
 thing for a gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?" 
 
 "Well, it does seem queer that the police can't catch 
 him, now doesn't it?" said Bunting argumentatively. 
 
 "I don't think it's queer at all," said young Chandler 
 crossly. "Now you just listen again! Here's a bit of 
 the truth for once — in a newspaper." And slowly he 
 read out: 
 
 "'The detection of crime in London now resembles a game oi 
 blind man's buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his 
 eyes bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer 
 through the slums of a great city.'" 
 
 "Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your 
 hands aren't tied, and your eyes aren't bandaged, Joe?" 
 
 "It's metaphorical-like that it's intended, Mr. Bunt- 
 ing. We haven't got the same facilities — no, not a 
 quarter of them — that the French 'tecs have." 
 
 And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: 
 "What was that word, Joe — 'perpetrators'? I mean 
 that first bit you read out." 
 
 "Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly. 
 
 "Then do they think there's more than one of them?" 
 she said, and a look of relief came over her thin face. 
 
 "There's some of our chaps thinks it's a gang," said 
 Chandler. "They say it can't be the work of one man." 
 
 "What do you think, Joe?" 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don't know what to think. 
 I'm fair puzzled." 
 
 He got up. "Don't you come to the door. I'll shut 
 it all right. So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps." 
 
68 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 As he had done the other evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing's visitor stopped at the door. "Any news of Miss 
 Daisy?" he asked casually. 
 
 "Yes; she's coming to-morrow," said her father. 
 "They've got scarlet fever at her place. So Old Aunt 
 thinks she'd better clear out." 
 
 The husband and wife went to bed early that night, 
 but Mrs. Bunting found she could not sleep. She lay 
 wide awake, hearing the hours, the half-hours, the quar- 
 ters chime out from the belfry of the old church close by. 
 
 And then, just as she was dozing off — it must have 
 been about one o'clock — she heard the sound she had 
 half unconsciously been expecting to hear, that of the 
 lodger's stealthy footsteps coming down the stairs just 
 outside her room. 
 
 He crept along the passage and let himself out, very, 
 very quietly. . . . 
 
 But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did 
 not hear him come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy 
 sleep. 
 
 Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next 
 morning; odder still, it was she, not Bunting, w T ho jumped 
 out of bed, and going out into the passage, picked up the 
 newspaper which had just been pushed through the 
 letter-box. 
 
 But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back 
 at once into her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in 
 the passage, and leaning up against the wall to steady 
 herself, for she was trembling with cold and fatigue, she 
 opened the paper. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 69 
 
 Yes, there was the heading she sought: 
 
 "The Avenger Murders" 
 
 But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that fol- 
 lowed : 
 
 " Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report con- 
 cerning the extraordinary series of crimes which are amazing, and, 
 indeed, staggering not only London, but the whole civilised world, 
 and which would seem to be the work of some woman-hating teetotal 
 fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the last of these dastardly 
 murders was committed, no reliable clue to the perpetrator, or per- 
 petrators, has been obtained, though several arrests were made in 
 the course of the day. In every case, however, those arrested were 
 able to prove a satisfactory alibi." 
 
 t 
 
 And then, a little lower down: 
 
 " The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much to say that 
 even a stranger to London would know that something very unusual 
 was in the air. As for the place where the murder was committed 
 last night " 
 
 "Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and 
 then she realised that "last night," in this connection, 
 meant the night before last. 
 
 She began the sentence again: 
 
 " As for the place where the murder was committed last night, all 
 approaches to it were still blocked up to a late hour by hundreds of 
 onlookers, though, of course, nothing now remains in the way of 
 traces of the tragedy." 
 
 Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper 
 up again in its original creases, and then she stooped 
 
70 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and put it back down on the mat where she had found 
 it. She then turned out the gas, and going back into 
 bed she lay down by her still sleeping husband. 
 
 "Anything the matter? " Bunting murmured, and 
 stirred uneasily. "Anything the matter, Ellen? " 
 
 She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with 
 a strange gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting — nothing the 
 matter! Go to sleep again, my dear." 
 
 They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful 
 mood. Bunting rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's 
 coming, and even Daisy's stepmother told herself that 
 it would be pleasant having the girl about the house to 
 help her a bit. 
 
 About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some shop- 
 ping. He brought back with him a nice little bit of pork 
 for Daisy's dinner, and three mince-pies. He even re- 
 membered to get some apples for the sauce. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to 
 the gate. 
 
 It brought Daisy — pink-cheeked, excited, laughing- 
 eyed Daisy — a sight to gladden any father's heart. 
 
 " Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was 
 bad," she cried out joyously. 
 
 There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's 
 Cross, as all the world knows, is nothing like two miles 
 from the Marylebone Road, but the man clamoured for 
 one and sixpence, and hinted darkly that he had done the 
 young lady a favour in bringing her at all. 
 
 While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, 
 leaving them to it, walked up the flagged path to the 
 door where her stepmother was awaiting her. 
 
 As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 
 'twas a mere peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, 
 with startling suddenness, loud cries on the still, cold air. 
 Long-drawn and wailing, they sounded strangely sad as 
 they rose and fell across the distant roar of traffic in the 
 Edgware Road. 
 
 "What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. 
 "Why, whatever's that?" 
 
 The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying 
 out that 'orrible affair at King's Cross. He's done for 
 71 
 
72 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 two of 'em this time! That's what I meant when I 
 said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn't say nothink 
 before little missy there, but folk 'ave been coming from 
 all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs, 
 too — but there, there's nothing to see now!" 
 
 "What? Another woman murdered last night?" 
 
 Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the 
 five thousand constables been about to let such a dread- 
 ful thing happen? 
 
 The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, 
 I tell yer — within a few yards of one another. He 'ave 
 
 got a nerve But, of course, they was drunk. He 
 
 'ave got a down on. the drink!" 
 
 " Have they caught him? " asked Bunting perfunctorily. 
 
 "Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave 
 happened hours and hours ago — they was both stone 
 cold. One each end of a little passage what ain't used 
 no more. That's why they didn't find 'em before." 
 
 The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer — two 
 newsvendors trying to outshout each other. 
 
 "'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled 
 exultingly. "The Avenger again!" 
 
 And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all 
 in his hand, ran forward into the roadway and recklessly 
 gave a boy a penny for a halfpenny paper. 
 
 He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his 
 acquaintance with young Joe Chandler made these mur- 
 ders seem a personal affair. He hoped that Chandler 
 would come in soon and tell them all about it, as he had 
 done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckily 
 been out. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 73 
 
 As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy 's 
 voice — high, voluble, excited — giving her stepmother a 
 long account of the scarlet fever case, and how at first 
 Old Aunt's neighbours had thought it was not scarlet 
 fever at all, but just nettlerash. 
 
 But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting- 
 room, there came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's 
 voice, and he heard her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is 
 the matter? You do look bad!" and his wife's muffled 
 answer, "Open the window — do." 
 
 "'Orrible discovery near King's Cross — a clue at last!" 
 yelled the newspaper-boys triumphantly. 
 
 And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. 
 She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself 
 to and fro as if in an ecstasy of mirth. 
 
 "Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?" 
 
 Daisy looked quite scared. 
 
 "She's in 'sterics — that's what it is," he said shortly. 
 "I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!" 
 
 Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous— 
 that's what she was, to be so easily upset. 
 
 The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet 
 house. Either that sound, or maybe the threat of the 
 water-jug, had a magical effect on Mrs. Bunting. She 
 rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but mentally com- 
 posed. 
 
 "I'll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, 
 child, just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a 
 piece of pork roasting in the oven. You might start 
 paring the apples for the sauce." 
 
 As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they 
 
74 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 were made of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, 
 and clutched at the banister for support. But soon, 
 making a great effort over herself, she began to feel more 
 steady; and after waiting for a few moments on the 
 landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. 
 "I'm not well," he called out querulously; "I think I've 
 caught a chill. I should be obliged if you would kindly 
 bring me up a cup of tea, and put it outside my door, Mrs. 
 Bunting." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still 
 felt queer and giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, 
 she made the lodger his cup of tea over her sitting-room 
 gas-ring. 
 
 During their midday dinner the husband and wife 
 had a little discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. 
 It had been settled that a bed should be made up for her 
 in the top back room, but Mrs. Bunting saw reason to 
 change this plan. "I think 'twould be better if Daisy 
 were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to sleep 
 upstairs." 
 
 Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he ac- 
 quiesced. Ellen was probably right; the girl would be 
 rather lonely up there, and, after all, they didn't know 
 much about the lodger, though he seemed a respectable 
 gentleman enough. 
 
 Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and 
 wanted to make herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll 
 wash up; don't you bother to come downstairs," she said 
 cheerfully. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 75 
 
 Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His 
 wife gave him a furtive glance; she wondered what he 
 was thinking about. 
 
 "Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last. 
 
 "Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But 
 Fve put it away. I thought you'd rather not look at it, 
 as you're that nervous." 
 
 Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he 
 seemed just as usual — he evidently meant just what he 
 said and no more. 
 
 "I thought they was shouting something in the street 
 — I mean just before I was took bad." 
 
 It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly 
 and rather furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden 
 attack of queerness, of hysterics — call it what you might 
 — had been due to the shouting outside. She was not 
 the only woman in London who had got the Avenger 
 murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite 
 a lot of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it 
 possible that the curious way she had been taken just 
 now had had nothing to do with the shouts and excite- 
 ment outside? 
 
 "Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" 
 he asked slowly. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have 
 given a very great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that 
 she did not know what those dreadful cries had portended. 
 But when it came to the point she found she could not 
 do so. 
 
 "Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and 
 there. There's been another murder, hasn't there? " 
 
76 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Two other murders," he said soberly. 
 
 "Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale — 
 a sallow greenish-white — that Bunting thought she was 
 again going queer. 
 
 "Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a 
 care! I can't think what's come over you about these 
 murders. Turn your mind away from them, do! We 
 needn't talk about them — not so much, that is " 
 
 "But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting 
 hysterically. 
 
 The husband and wife were standing, one each side 
 of the table, the man with his back to the fire, the woman 
 with her back to the door. 
 
 Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed 
 and disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, 
 spare figure looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told 
 himself ruefully, Ellen was beginning to look her full age. 
 Her slender hands — she had kept the pretty, soft white 
 hands of the woman who has never done rough work — 
 grasped the edge of the table with a convulsive move- 
 ment. 
 
 Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," 
 he said to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! 
 That would be a to-do just now." 
 
 "Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. 
 "Can't you see I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, 
 Bunting!" 
 
 "There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. 
 "There's precious little in this paper, anyway. But 
 the cabman what brought Daisy told me " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 77 
 
 "What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, 
 and they'd both been drinking heavily, poor creatures." 
 
 "Was it where the others was done?" she asked look- 
 ing at her husband fearfully. 
 
 "No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. 
 It was a good bit farther West — in fact, not so very far 
 from here. Near King's Cross — that's how the cabman 
 knew about it, you see. They seems to have been done 
 in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as 
 lie thought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather 
 funny, he added hastily. "There, that's enough for the 
 present ! We shall soon be hearing a lot more about it 
 from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure to come in some 
 time to-day." t 
 
 "Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" 
 said Mrs. Bunting slowly. 
 
 She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing 
 more upright. 
 
 "No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful, 
 
 and no mistake about it. But wait a minute " he 
 
 turned and took up the paper which he had laid aside, 
 on a chair. "Yes, they says here that they has a clue." 
 
 "A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, 
 weak, die-away voice, and again, stooping somewhat, 
 she grasped the edge of the table. 
 
 But her husband was not noticing her now. He was 
 holding the paper close up to his eyes, and he read from 
 it, in a tone of considerable satisfaction: 
 
 "'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last be- 
 lieve they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the arrest 
 of the 
 
78 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed round 
 the table. 
 
 His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down 
 on to the floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. 
 She lay there in what appeared to be a dead faint. And 
 Bunting, scared out of his wits, opened the door and 
 screamed out, " Daisy ! Daisy ! Come up, child. Ellen's 
 took bad again." 
 
 And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense 
 and resource which even at this anxious moment roused 
 her fond father's admiration. 
 
 "Get a wet sponge, Dad — quick!" she cried, "a sponge, 
 — and, if you've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. 
 I'll see after her!" And then, after he had got the little 
 medicine flask, "I can't think what's wrong with Ellen," 
 said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quite all right 
 when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like, 
 to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly — well, you 
 saw how she was took, father? 'Taint like Ellen this, is 
 it now?" 
 
 "No," he whispered. "No, 'taint. But you see, 
 child, we've been going through a pretty bad time — 
 worse nor I should ever have let you know of, my dear. 
 Ellen's just feeling it now — that's what it is. She didn't 
 say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, but it's told 
 on her — it's told on her!" 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her 
 eyes, and instinctively put her hand up to her head to 
 see if her hair was all right. 
 
 She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have 
 been better for her if she had. She had simply had an 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 79 
 
 awful feeling that she couldn't stand up — more, that 
 she must fall down. Bunting's words touched a most 
 unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and the 
 eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not 
 thought her husband knew how she had suffered during 
 those weeks of starving and waiting. 
 
 But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sen- 
 timent. To her such betrayal betokened " foolishness/ ' 
 and so all she said was, "There's no need to make a fuss! 
 I only turned over a little queer. I never was right off, 
 Daisy." 
 
 Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting 
 had hurriedly poured a little brandy. " I wouldn't touch 
 such stuff — no, not if I was dying!" she exclaimed. 
 
 Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with 
 the help of the table, on to her feet. " Go down again to 
 the kitchen, child"; but there was a sob, a kind of tremor 
 in her voice. 
 
 "You haven't been eating properly, Ellen — that's 
 what's the matter with you," said Bunting suddenly. 
 "Now I come to think of it, you haven't eat half enough 
 these last two days. I always did say — in old days 
 many a time I telled you — that a woman couldn't live 
 on air. But there, you never believed me!" 
 
 Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow 
 over her bright, pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had 
 such a bad time, father," she said feelingly. "Why 
 didn't you let me know about it? I might have got 
 something out of Old Aunt." 
 
 "We didn't want anything of that sort," said her 
 stepmother hastily. "But of course — well, I expect I'm 
 
80 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 still feeling the worry now. I don't seem able to forget 
 
 it. Those days of waiting, of — of " she restrained 
 
 herself; another moment and the word "starving" would 
 have left her lips. 
 
 "But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, 
 "all right, thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is." 
 
 "Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of 
 voice. "Yes, we're all right now, and as you say, Bunt- 
 ing, it's all along of Mr. Sleuth." 
 
 She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm 
 just a little tottery still," she muttered. 
 
 And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and 
 said in a whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting 
 heard her, " Don't you think Ellen ought to see a doctor, 
 father? He might give her something that would pull 
 her round." 
 
 "I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sud- 
 den emphasis. "I saw enough of doctors in my last 
 place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten months did my poor 
 missis have. Just determined on having 'em she was! 
 Did they save her? No! She died just the same! 
 Maybe a bit sooner." 
 
 "She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began 
 Bunting aggressively. 
 
 Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her 
 poor mistress died. They might have been married some 
 months before they were married but for that fact. Bunt- 
 ing had always resented it. 
 
 His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words 
 about that," she said, and again she spoke in a softer, 
 kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy? If you won't go 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 81 
 
 down to the kitchen again, then I must" — she turned 
 to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room. 
 
 "I think the child grows prettier every minute," said 
 Bunting fondly. 
 
 " Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin 
 deep," said his wife. She was beginning to feel better. 
 "But still, I do agree, Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. 
 And she seems more willing, too." 
 
 "I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunt- 
 ing spoke uneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? 
 Hadn't I better just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I 
 can take it up to him, as you're not feeling quite the thing, 
 Ellen?" 
 
 "I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's lunch- 
 eon," she said quickly. It irritated her to hear her 
 husband speak of the lodger's dinner. They had dinner 
 in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth had luncheon. 
 However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot 
 her lodger was a gentleman. 
 
 "After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I 
 can manage all right. Don't you worry," she added, 
 after a long pause. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a 
 good deal later than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece 
 of steamed sole upstairs with far heartier an appetite than 
 his landlady had eaten her nice slice of roast pork down- 
 stairs. 
 
 "I hope you're feeling a little better, sir," Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing had forced herself to say when she first took in his 
 tray. 
 
 And he had answered plaintively, querulously, "No, 
 I can't say I feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tired 
 — very tired. And as I lay in bed I seemed to hear so 
 many sounds — so much crying and shouting. I trust 
 the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy 
 thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir, I don't think that. We're generally 
 reckoned very quiet indeed, sir." 
 
 She waited a moment — try as she would, she could 
 not allude to what those unwonted shouts and noises 
 had betokened. "I expect you've got a chill, sir," she 
 said suddenly. "If I was you, I shouldn't go out this 
 afternoon; I'd just stay quietly indoors. There's a lot 
 
 of rough people about " Perhaps there was an 
 
 undercurrent of warning, of painful pleading, in her 
 toneless voice which penetrated in some way to the brain 
 82 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 83 
 
 of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and an uneasy, 
 watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes. 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think 
 I'll take your advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home. 
 I am never at a loss to know what to do with myself so 
 long as I can study the Book of Books." 
 
 "Then you're not afraid about your eyes, sir?" said 
 Mrs. Bunting curiously. Somehow she was beginning 
 to feel better. It comforted her to be up here, talking 
 to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about him downstairs. 
 It seemed to banish the terror which filled her soul — aye, 
 and her body, too — at other times. When she was with 
 him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, so — so grate- 
 ful. 
 
 Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gen- 
 tleman surely wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a human 
 being. Eccentric — so much must be admitted. But 
 Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric folk, 
 eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long 
 career as useful maid. 
 
 Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well- 
 balanced woman, she had never, in old days, allowed 
 her mind to dwell on certain things she had learnt as to 
 the aberrations of which human nature is capable — even 
 well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human nature — as ex- 
 emplified in some of the households where she had served. 
 It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became 
 morbid or — or hysterical. 
 
 So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice 
 in which she had talked during the first few days of Mr. 
 Sleuth's stay in her house, that she exclaimed, "Well, 
 
84 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 sir, I'll be up again to clear away in about half an hour. 
 And if you'll forgive me for saying so, I hope you will 
 stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather — 
 that's what it is! If there's any little thing you want, 
 me or Bunting can go out and get it." 
 
 It must have been about four o'clock when there came 
 a ring at the front door. 
 
 The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy 
 had washed up — she really was saving her stepmother a 
 good bit of trouble — and the girl was now amusing her 
 elders by a funny account of Old Aunt's pernickety ways. 
 
 "Whoever can that be?" said Bunting, looking up. 
 "It's too early for Joe Chandler, surely." 
 
 "I'll go," said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from 
 her chair. "I'll go! We don't want no strangers in 
 here." 
 
 And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she 
 said to herself, "A clue? What clue?" 
 
 But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of re- 
 lief broke from her. "Why, Joe? We never thought 'twas 
 you! But you're very welcome, I'm sure. Come in." 
 
 And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his 
 good-looking, fair young face. 
 
 "I thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to 
 
 know " he began, in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. 
 
 Bunting hurriedly checked him. She didn't want the 
 lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler might be 
 going to say. 
 
 "Don't talk so loud," she said a little sharply. "The 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 85 
 
 lodger is not very well to-day. He's had a cold," she 
 added hastily, u and during the last two or three days he 
 hasn't been able to go out." 
 
 She wondered at her temerity, her — her hypocrisy, 
 and that moment, those few words, marked an epoch 
 in Ellen Bunting's life. It was the first time she had 
 told a bold and deliberate lie. She was one of those 
 women — there are many, many such — to whom there is 
 a whole world of difference between the suppression of 
 the truth and the utterance of an untruth. 
 
 But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. "Has Miss 
 Daisy arrived?" he asked, in a lower voice. 
 
 She nodded. And then he went through into the room 
 where the father and daughter were sitting. 
 
 "Well?" said Bunting, starting up. "Well, Joe? 
 Now you can tell us all about that mysterious clue! I 
 suppose it'd be too good news to expect you to tell us 
 they've caught him?" 
 
 "No fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If 
 they'd caught him," said Joe ruefully, "well, I don't 
 suppose I should be here, Mr. Bunting. But the Yard 
 are circulating a description at last. And — well, they've 
 found his weapon!" 
 
 "No?" cried Bunting excitedly. "You don't say so! 
 Whatever sort of a thing is it? And are they sure 'tis 
 his?" 
 
 "Well, 'tain't sure, but it seems to be likely." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the 
 door behind her. But she was still standing with her 
 back against the door, looking at the group in front of 
 her. None of them were thinking of her — she thanked 
 
86 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 God for that! She could hear everything that was said 
 without joining in the talk and excitement. 
 
 "Listen to this!" cried Joe Chandler exultantly. 
 "'Tain't given out yet — not for the public, that is — but 
 we was all given it by eight o'clock this morning. Quick 
 work that, eh?" He read out: 
 
 " Wanted 
 
 "A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height approx- 
 imately 5 ft. 8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or whiskers. 
 Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high white collar, and 
 tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very respectable appearance." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, flut- 
 tering sigh of unutterable relief. 
 
 "There's the chap!" said Joe Chandler triumphantly. 
 "And now, Miss Daisy" — he turned to her jokingly, but 
 there was a funny little tremor in his frank, cheerful- 
 sounding voice — "if you knows of any nice, likely young 
 fellow that answers to that description — well, you've 
 only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hun- 
 dred pounds." 
 
 "Five hundred pounds!" cried Daisy and her father 
 simultaneously. 
 
 "Yes. That's what the Lord Mayor offered yester- 
 day. Some private bloke — nothing official about it. 
 But we of the Yard is barred from taking that reward, 
 worse luck. And it's too bad, for we has all the trouble, 
 after all!" 
 
 "Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?" said 
 Bunting. "I'd like to con it over to myself." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 87 
 
 Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy. 
 
 A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it 
 back. "Well, it's clear enough, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes. And there's hundreds — nay, thousands — of 
 young fellows that might be a description of," said 
 Chandler sarcastically. "As a pal of mine said this 
 morning, 'There isn't a chap will like to carry a news- 
 paper parcel after this.' And it won't do to have a re- 
 spectable appearance — eh?" 
 
 Daisy's voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. 
 She greatly appreciated Mr. Chandler's witticism. 
 
 "Why on earth didn't the people who saw him try 
 and catch him?" asked Bunting suddenly. 
 
 And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, "Yes, 
 Joe — that seems odd, don't it?" 
 
 Joe Chandler coughed. "Well, it's this way," he said. 
 "No one person did see all that. The man who's de- 
 scribed here is just made up from the description of two 
 different folk who think they saw him. You see, the 
 murders must have taken place — well, now, let me see — 
 perhaps at two o'clock this last time. Two o'clock — 
 that's the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many 
 people are about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one 
 woman declares she saw a young chap walking away from 
 the spot where 'twas done; and another one — but that 
 was a good bit later — says The Avenger passed by her. 
 It's mostly her they're following in this 'ere description. 
 And then the boss who has charge of that sort of thing 
 looked up what other people had said — I mean when 
 the other crimes was committed. That's how he made 
 up this ' Wanted.'" 
 
88 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of 
 man? " said Bunting slowly, disappointedly. 
 
 "Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that 
 description fits him all right," said Chandler; but he also 
 spoke in a hesitating voice. 
 
 "You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?" 
 observed Bunting insinuatingly. 
 
 He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go 
 on — in fact, that she even seemed to take an intelligent 
 interest in it. She had come up close to them, and now 
 looked quite her old self again. 
 
 "Yes. They believe they've found the w T eapon what 
 he does his awful deeds with," said Chandler. "At any 
 rate, within a hundred yards of that little dark passage 
 where they found the bodies — one at each end, that was 
 — there w T as discovered this morning a very peculiar kind 
 o' knife — 'keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger' — that's 
 the exact words the boss used when he was describing 
 it to a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that 
 clue than of the other — I mean than of the description 
 people gave of the chap who walked quickly by with a 
 newspaper parcel. But now there's a pretty job in front 
 of us. Every shop where they sell or might a' sold, such 
 a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in 
 the East End, has got to be called at!" 
 
 "Whatever for?" asked Daisy. 
 
 "Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such 
 a knife fooling about there any time, and, if so, in whose 
 possession it was at the time. But, Mr. Bunting" — 
 Chandler's voice changed; it became businesslike, official 
 — "they're not going to say anything about that — not in 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 89 
 
 the newspapers — till to-morrow, so don't you go and 
 tell anybody. You see, we don't want to frighten the 
 fellow off. If he knew they'd got his knife — well, he 
 might just make himself scarce, and they don't want 
 that! If it's discovered that any knife of that kind was 
 sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways 
 
 are known, then — then " 
 
 "What'll happen then?" said Mrs. Bunting, coming 
 nearer. 
 
 "Well, then, nothing '11 be put about it in the papers 
 at all," said Chandler deliberately. "The only objec' 
 of letting the public know about it would be if nothink 
 was found — I mean if the search of the shops, and so 
 on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try and 
 find out someone — some private person-like, who's 
 watched that knife in the criminal's possession. It's 
 there the reward — the five hundred pounds will come 
 in." 
 
 "Oh, I'd give anything to see that knife!" exclaimed 
 Daisy, clasping her hands together. 
 
 "You cruel, bloodthirsty girl!" cried her stepmother 
 passionately. 
 
 They all looked round at her, surprised. 
 
 "Come, come, Ellen!" said Bunting reprovingly. 
 
 "Well, it is a horrible idea!" said his wife sullenly. 
 "To go and sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds." 
 
 But Daisy was offended. "Of course I'd like to see 
 it!" she cried defiantly. "I never said nothing about 
 the reward. That was Mr. Chandler said that! I only 
 said I'd like to see the knife." 
 
 Chandler looked at her soothingly. "Well, the day 
 may come when you will see it," he said slowly. 
 
90 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 A great idea had come into his mind. 
 
 "No! What makes you think that?" 
 
 "If they catches him, and if you comes along with 
 me to see our Black Museum at the Yard, you'll cer- 
 tainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. They keeps all them 
 kind of things there. So if, as I say, this weapon should 
 lead to the conviction of The Avenger — well, then, that 
 knife 'ull be there, and you'll see it!" 
 
 "The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have 
 a museum in your place for?" asked Daisy wonderingly. 
 "I thought there was only the British Museum " 
 
 And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and 
 Chandler, laughed aloud. 
 
 "You are a goosey girl ! " said her father fondly. " Why, 
 there's a lot of museums in London; the town's thick 
 with 'em. Ask Ellen there. She and me used to go 
 to them kind of places when we was courting — if the 
 weather was bad." 
 
 "But our museum's the one that would interest Miss 
 Daisy," broke in Chandler eagerly. "It's a regular 
 Chamber of 'Orrors!" 
 
 "Why, Joe, you never told us about that place be- 
 fore," said Bunting excitedly. "D'you really mean that 
 there's a museum where they keeps all sorts of things 
 connected with crimes? Things like knives murders 
 have been committed with?" 
 
 "Knives?" cried Joe, pleased at having become the 
 centre of attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue 
 eyes on him, and even Mrs. Bunting looked at him ex- 
 pectantly. "Much more than knives, Mr. Bunting! 
 Why, they've got there, in little .bottles, the real poison 
 what people have been done away with." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 91 
 
 "And can you go there whenever you like?" asked 
 Daisy wonderingly. She had not realised before what 
 extraordinary and agreeable privileges are attached to 
 the position of a detective member of the London Police 
 Force. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I could " Joe smiled. "Anyway 
 
 I can certainly get leave to take a friend there." He 
 looked meaningly at Daisy, and Daisy looked eagerly 
 at him. 
 
 But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with 
 Mr. Chandler? Ellen was so prim, so — so irritatingly 
 proper. But what was this father was saying? "D'you 
 really mean that, Joe?" 
 
 "Yes, o' course I do!" 
 
 "Well, then, look here! If it isn't asking too much 
 of a favour, I should like to go along there with you very 
 much one day. I don't want to wait till The Avenger's 
 caught" — Bunting smiled broadly. "I'd be quite con- 
 tent as it is with what there is in that museum o' yours. 
 Ellen, there" — he looked across at his wife — "don't 
 agree with me about such things. Yet I don't think I'm 
 a bloodthirsty man! But I'm just terribly interested in 
 all that sort of thing — always have been. I used to 
 positively envy the butler in that Balham Mystery!" 
 
 Again a look passed between Daisy and the young 
 man — it was a look which contained and carried a great 
 many things backwards and forwards, such as — "Now, 
 isn't it funny that your father should want to go to such 
 a place? But still, I can't help it if he does want to go, 
 so we must put up with his company, though it would 
 have been much nicer for us to go just by our two selves." 
 
92 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And then Daisy's look answered quite as plainly, though 
 perhaps Joe didn't read her glance quite as clearly as 
 she had read his: "Yes, it is tiresome. But father means 
 well; and 'twill be very pleasant going there, even if he 
 does come too." 
 
 "Well, what d'you say to the day after to-morrow, 
 Mr. Bunting? I'd call for you here about — shall we say 
 half-past two? — and just take you and Miss Daisy down 
 to the Yard. 'Twouldn't take very long; we could go 
 all the way by bus, right down to Westminster Bridge." 
 He looked round at his hostess: "Wouldn't you join us, 
 Mrs. Bunting? 'Tis truly a wonderful interesting place." 
 
 But his hostess shook her head decidedly. "'Twould 
 turn me sick," she exclaimed, "to see the bottle of poison 
 what had done away with the life of some poor creature! 
 
 And as for knives !" a look of real horror, of startled 
 
 fear, crept over her pale face. 
 
 "There, there!" said Bunting hastily. "Live and 
 let live — that's what I always say. Ellen ain't on in 
 this turn. She can just stay at home and mind the cat, 
 — I beg his pardon, I mean the lodger!" 
 
 "I won't have Mr. Sleuth laughed at," said Mrs. 
 Bunting darkly. "But there! I'm sure it's very kind 
 of you, Joe, to think of giving Bunting and Daisy such a 
 rare treat" — she spoke sarcastically, but none of the 
 three who heard her understood that. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The moment she passed through the great arched 
 door which admits the stranger to that portion of New 
 Scotland Yard where throbs the heart of that great or- 
 ganism which rights the forces of civilised crime, Daisy 
 Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the 
 Kingdom of Romance. Even the lift in which the three 
 of them were whirled up to one of the upper floors of the 
 huge building was to the girl a new and delightful ex- 
 perience. Daisy had always lived a simple, quiet life in 
 the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt, and this 
 was the first time a lift had come her way. 
 
 With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe 
 Chandler marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor. 
 
 Daisy clung to her father's arm, a little bewildered, a 
 little oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young 
 voice was stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful 
 place where she found herself, and by the glimpses she 
 caught of great rooms full of busy, silent men engaged 
 in unravelling — or so she supposed — the mysteries of 
 crime. 
 
 They were passing a half-open door when Chandler 
 suddenly stopped short. "Look in there," he said, in 
 a low voice, addressing the father rather than the daughter, 
 "that's the Finger-Print Room. We've records here of 
 93 
 
94 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 over two hundred thousand men's and women's finger- 
 tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once 
 we've got the print of a man's five finger-tips, well, he's 
 done for — if he ever does anything else, that is. Once 
 we've got that bit of him registered he can't never escape 
 us — no, not if he tries ever so. But though there's nigh 
 on a quarter of a million records in there, yet it don't 
 take — well, not half an hour, for them to tell whether 
 any particular man has ever been convicted before! 
 Wonderful thought, ain't it?" 
 
 "Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. 
 And then a troubled look came over his stolid face. 
 "Wonderful, but also a very fearful thought for the 
 poor wretches as has got their finger-prints in there, 
 Joe." 
 
 Joe laughed. "Agreed!" he said. "And the cleverer 
 ones knows that only too well. Why, not long ago, one 
 man who knew his record was here safe, managed to 
 slash about his fingers something awful, just so as to 
 make a blurred impression — you takes my meaning? 
 But there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right 
 again, and in exactly the same little creases as before!" 
 
 "Poor devil!" said Bunting under his breath, and a 
 cloud even came over Daisy's bright, eager face. 
 
 They were now going along a narrower passage, and 
 then again they came to a half-open door, leading into 
 a room far smaller than that of the Finger-Print Iden- 
 tification Room. 
 
 "If you'll glance in there," said Joe briefly, "you'll 
 see how we finds out all about any man whose finger- 
 tips has given him away, so to speak. It's here we keeps 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 95 
 
 an account of what he's done, his previous convictions, 
 and so on. His finger-tips are where I told you, and his 
 record in there — just connected by a number." 
 
 "Wonderful!" said Bunting, drawing in his breath. 
 
 But Daisy was longing to get on — to get to the Black 
 Museum. All this that Joe and her father were saying 
 was quite unreal to her, and, for the matter of that, not 
 worth taking the trouble to understand. However, she 
 had not long to wait. 
 
 A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, 
 who seemed on very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, 
 came forward suddenly, and, unlocking a common- 
 place-looking door, ushered the little party of three 
 through into the Black Museum. 
 
 For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of 
 keen disappointment and surprise. This big, light room 
 simply reminded her of what they called the Science 
 Room in the public library of the town where she lived 
 with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up 
 with plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor 
 which enabled their contents to be looked at closely. 
 
 She walked forward and peered into the case nearest 
 the door. The exhibits shown there were mostly small, 
 shabby-looking little things, the sort of things one might 
 turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in an untidy house — 
 old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what looked 
 like a child's broken lantern, even a box of pills. . . . 
 
 As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest- 
 looking objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things 
 made of wood and leather, and so on. 
 
 It was really rather disappointing. 
 
96 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that, 
 standing on a shelf just below the first of the broad, 
 spacious windows which made the great room look so 
 light and shadowless, was a row of life-size white plaster 
 heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. There 
 were about a dozen of these, not more — and they had 
 such odd, staring, helpless, rW-looking faces. 
 
 "Whatever's those?" asked Bunting in a low voice. 
 
 Daisy clung a thought closer to her father's arm. 
 Even she guessed that these strange, pathetic, staring 
 faces were the death-masks of those men and women 
 who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains that the 
 murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death. 
 
 "All hanged!" said the guardian of the Black Museum 
 briefly. "Casts taken after death." 
 
 Bunting smiled nervously. "They don't look dead 
 somehow. They looks more as if they were listening," 
 he said. 
 
 "That's the fault of Jack Ketch," said the man face- 
 tiously. "It's his idea — that of knotting his patient's 
 necktie under the left ear! That's what he does to each 
 of the gentlemen to whom he has to act valet on just 
 one occasion only. It makes them lean just a bit to one 
 side. You look here ?" 
 
 Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the 
 speaker pointed with his finger to a little dent imprinted 
 on the left side of each neck; running from this inden- 
 tation was a curious little furrow, well ridged above, 
 showing how tightly Jack Ketch's necktie had been 
 drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of 
 eternity. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 97 
 
 "They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or — 
 or hurt," said Bunting wonderingly. 
 
 He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by 
 those dumb, staring faces. 
 
 But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter- 
 o£-fact voice, "Well, a man would look foolish at such a 
 time as that, with all his plans brought to naught — and 
 knowing he's only got a second to live — now wouldn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose he would," said Bunting slowly. 
 
 Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless 
 atmosphere of the place was beginning to tell on her. 
 She now began to understand that the shabby little ob- 
 jects lying there in the glass case close to her were each 
 and all links in the chain of evidence which, in almost 
 every case, had brought some guilty man or woman to 
 the gallows. 
 
 "We had a yellow gentleman here the other day," 
 observed the guardian suddenly; "one of those Brah- 
 mins — so they calls themselves. Well, you'd 'a been 
 quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He 
 declared — what was the word he used?" — he turned to 
 Chandler. 
 
 "He said that each of these things, with the exception 
 of the casts, mind you — queer to say, he left them out — 
 exuded evil, that was the word he used! Exuded — • 
 squeezed out it means. He said that being here made 
 him feel very bad. And 'twasn't all nonsense either. 
 He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had 
 to shove him out quick. He didn't feel better till he'd 
 got right to the other end of the passage!" 
 
98 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "There now! Who'd ever think of that?" said Bunt- 
 ing. "I should say that man 'ud got something on 
 his conscience, wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Well, I needn't stay now," said Joe's good-natured 
 friend. "You show your friends round, Chandler. You 
 knows the place nearly as well as I do, don't you?" 
 
 He smiled at Joe's visitors, as if to say good-bye, but 
 it seemed that he could not tear himself away after all. 
 
 "Look here," he said to Bunting. "In this here 
 little case are the tools of Charles Peace. I expect you've 
 heard of him." 
 
 "I should think I have!" cried Bunting eagerly. 
 
 "Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most 
 interesting of all. Peace was such a wonderful man! 
 A great inventor they say he would have been, had he 
 been put in the way of it. Here's his ladder; you see 
 it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little bun- 
 dle — just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have 
 been seen carrying about London in those days without 
 attracting any attention. Why, it probably helped him 
 to look like an honest working man time and time again, 
 for on being arrested he declared most solemnly he'd 
 always carried that ladder openly under his arm." 
 
 "The daring of that!" cried Bunting. 
 
 "Yes, and when the ladder was opened out it could 
 reach from the ground to the second storey of any old 
 house. And, oh! how clever he was! Just open one 
 section, and you see the other sections open automat- 
 ically; so Peace could stand on the ground and force 
 the thing quietly up to any window he wished to reach. 
 Then he'd go away again, having done his job, with a 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 99 
 
 mere bundle of old wood under his arm! My word, he 
 was artful! I wonder if you've heard the tale of how 
 Peace once lost a finger. Well, he guessed the constables 
 were instructed to look out for a man missing a finger; 
 so what did he do?" 
 
 "Put on a false finger/' suggested Bunting. 
 
 "No, indeed! Peace made up his mind just to do 
 without a hand altogether. Here's his false stump; 
 you see, it's made of wood — wood and black felt? Well, 
 chat just held his hand nicely. Why, we considers that 
 one of the most ingenious contrivances in the whole 
 museum." 
 
 Meanwhile, Daisy had let go her hold of her father. 
 With Chandler in delighted attendance, she had moved 
 away to the farther end of the great room, and now she 
 was bending over yet another glass case. "Whatever 
 are those little bottles for?" she asked wonderingly. 
 
 There were five small phials, filled with varying quan- 
 tities of cloudy liquids. 
 
 "They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what they 
 are. There's enough arsenic in that little whack o* 
 brandy to do for you and me — aye, and for your father 
 as well, I should say." 
 
 "Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said Daisy, 
 smiling. Poison was so remote from herself, that the 
 sight of these little bottles only brought a pleasant thrill. 
 
 "No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a 
 flypaper, that was. Lady said she wanted a cosmetic 
 for her complexion, but what she was really going for 
 was flypapers for to do away with her husband. She'd 
 got a bit tired of him, I suspect." 
 
100 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be 
 done away with," said Daisy. The idea struck them both 
 as so very comic that they began to laugh aloud in unison. 
 
 "Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?" 
 asked Chandler, becoming suddenly serious. 
 
 "Oh, *y es >" sa id Daisy, and she shuddered a little. 
 "That was the wicked, wicked woman what killed a 
 pretty little baby and its mother. They've got her in 
 Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she won't let me go to 
 the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father take 
 me there last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I 
 called it. But somehow I don't feel as if I wanted to 
 go there now, after having been here!" 
 
 "Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of 
 relics of Mrs. Pearce. But the pram the bodies were 
 found in, that's at Madame Tussaud's — at least so they 
 claim, I can't say. Now here's something just as curi- 
 ous, and not near so dreadful. See that man's jacket 
 there?" 
 
 "Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to 
 feel oppressed, frightened. She no longer wondered that 
 the Indian gentleman had been taken queer. 
 
 "A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and 
 by mistake he went and left that jacket behind him. 
 Our people noticed that one of the buttons was broken 
 in two. Well, that don't seem much of a clue, does it, 
 Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when I tells you that 
 that other bit of button was discovered, and that it hanged 
 the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all 
 three buttons was different!" 
 
 Daisy stared wonderingly down at the little broken 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 101 
 
 button which had hung a man. "And whatever's that?" 
 she asked, pointing to a piece of dirty-looking stuff. 
 
 "Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a 
 horrible thing — that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was 
 buried with a woman — buried in the ground, I mean — 
 after her husband had cut her up and tried to burn her. 
 'Twas that bit o' shirt that brought him to the gallows." 
 
 "I considers your museum's a very horrid place!" 
 said Daisy pettishly, turning away. 
 
 She longed to be out in the passage again, away from 
 this brightly lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room. 
 
 But her father was now absorbed in the case contain- 
 ing various types of infernal machines. " Beautiful little 
 works of art some of them are," said his guide eagerly, 
 and Bunting could not but agree. 
 
 "Come along — do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've 
 seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much 
 longer it 'ud give me the horrors. I don't want to have 
 no nightmares to-night. It's dreadful to think there 
 are so many wicked people in the world. Why, we might 
 knock up against some murderer any minute without 
 knowing it, mightn't we?" 
 
 "Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I 
 don't suppose you'll ever come across even a common 
 swindler, let alone anyone who's committed a murder — 
 not one in a million does that. Why, even I have never 
 had anything to do with a proper murder case!" 
 
 But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly en- 
 joying every moment of the time. Just now he was 
 studying intently the various photographs which hung on 
 the walls of the Black Museum ; especially was he pleased 
 
102 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 to see those connected with a famous and still mysterious 
 case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, 
 and in which the servant of the man who died had played 
 a considerable part — not in elucidating, but in obscuring, 
 the mystery. 
 
 "I suppose a good many murderers get off?" he said 
 musingly. 
 
 And Joe Chandler's friend nodded. "I should think 
 they did!" he exclaimed. "There's no such thing as jus- 
 tice here in England. Tis odds on the murderer every 
 time. 'Tisn't one in ten that come to the end he should 
 do — to the gallows, that is." 
 
 "And what d'you think about what's going on now — 
 I mean about those Avenger murders? " 
 
 Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were 
 already moving towards the door. 
 
 "I don't believe he'll ever be caught," said the other 
 confidentially. "In some ways 'tis a lot more of a job 
 to catch a madman than 'tis to run down just an ordinary 
 criminal. And, of course — leastways to my thinking — 
 The Avenger is a madman — one of the cunning, quiet sort. 
 Have you heard about the letter?" his voice dropped 
 lower. 
 
 "No," said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. "What 
 letter d'you mean?" 
 
 "Well, there's a letter — it'll be in this museum some 
 day — which came just before that last double event. 
 'Twas signed 'The Avenger,' in just the same printed 
 characters as on that bit of paper he always leaves behind 
 him. Mind you, it don't follow that it actually was The 
 Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncom- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 103 
 
 monly like it, and I know that the Boss attaches quite a 
 lot of importance to it." 
 
 "And where was it posted?" asked Bunting. "That 
 might be a bit of a clue, you know." 
 
 "Oh, no," said the other. "They always goes a very 
 long way to post anything — criminals do. It stands to 
 reason they would. But this particular one was put in 
 at the Edgware Road Post Office." 
 
 "What? Close to us?" said Bunting. "Goodness I 
 How dreadful!" 
 
 "Any of us might knock up against him any minute. 
 I don't suppose The Avenger's in any way peculiar-look- 
 ing — in fact, we know he ain't." 
 
 "Then you think that woman as says she saw him did 
 meet him?" asked Bunting hesitatingly. 
 
 "Our description was made up from what she said," 
 answered the other cautiously. "But, there, you can't 
 tell ! In a case like that it's groping — groping in the dark 
 all the time — and it's just a lucky accident if it comes out 
 right in the end. Of course, it's upsetting us all very 
 much here. You can't wonder at that!" 
 
 "No, indeed," said Bunting quickly. "I give you my 
 word, I've hardly thought of anything else for the last 
 month." 
 
 Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her 
 in the passage she was listening, with downcast eyes, to 
 what Joe Chandler was saying. 
 
 He was telling her about his real home, of the place 
 where his mother lived, at Richmond — that it was a nice 
 little house, close to the park. He was asking her whether 
 she could manage to come out there one afternoon, ex- 
 
104 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 plaining that his mother would give them both tea, and 
 how nice it would be. 
 
 "I don't see why Ellen shouldn't let me," the girl said 
 rebelliously. "But she's that old-fashioned and per- 
 nickety is Ellen — a regular old maid! And, you see, Mr. 
 Chandler, when I'm staying with them, father don't like 
 for me to do anything that Ellen don't approve of. But 
 
 she's got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her ? " 
 
 She looked at him, and he nodded sagely. 
 
 "Don't you be afraid," he said confidently. "I'll 
 get round Mrs. Bunting. But, Miss Daisy" — he grew 
 very red — " I'd just like to ask you a question — no offence 
 meant " 
 
 . "Yes?" said Daisy a little breathlessly. "There's 
 father close to us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what 
 
 is it?" 
 
 "Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that 
 you've never walked out with any young fellow?" 
 
 Daisy hesitated a moment, then a very pretty dimple 
 came into her cheek. "No," she said sadly. "No, Mr. 
 Chandler, that I have not." In a burst of candour she 
 added, " You see, I never had the chance!" 
 
 And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. 
 Bunting found herself for close on an hour quite alone in 
 the house during her husband's and Daisy's jaunt with 
 young Chandler. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on 
 this particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, 
 when dusk was falling, he suddenly observed that he 
 wanted a new suit of clothes, and his landlady eagerly 
 acquiesced in his going out to purchase it. 
 
 As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up 
 to the drawing-room floor. Now had come her oppor- 
 tunity of giving the two rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. 
 Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, that it was not so 
 much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room she wanted 
 to do — as to engage in a vague search for — she hardly knew 
 for what. 
 
 During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting 
 had always had a deep, wordless contempt for those of 
 her fellow-servants who read their employers' private let- 
 ters, and who furtively peeped into desks and cupboards 
 in the hope, more vague than positive, of discovering 
 family skeletons. 
 
 But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, 
 eager, to do herself what she had once so scorned others 
 for doing. 
 
 105 
 
106 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a method- 
 ical search. He was a very tidy gentleman was the 
 lodger, and his few things, under-garments, and so on, 
 were in apple-pie order. She had early undertaken, much 
 to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of washing he 
 required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily he 
 wore soft shirts. 
 
 At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in 
 to help her with this tiresome weekly job, but lately she 
 had grown quite clever at it herself. The only things she 
 had to send out were Bunting's shirts. Everything else 
 she managed to do herself. 
 
 From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention 
 to the dressing-table. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he 
 went out, he generally left it in one of the drawers below 
 the old-fashioned looking-glass. And now, in a perfunc- 
 tory way, his landlady pulled out the little drawer, but she 
 did not touch what was lying there; she only glanced at 
 the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. The lodger 
 had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes 
 he required. He had consulted her as to how much they 
 would cost, making no secret of why he was going out, 
 and the fact had vaguely comforted Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the 
 carpet a little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so 
 much as a scrap of paper. And at last, when more or less 
 giving up the searcft, as she came and went between the 
 two rooms, leaving the connecting door wide open, her 
 mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as 
 to the lodger ? s past life. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 107 
 
 Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but 
 odd in a sensible sort of way, having on the whole the 
 same moral ideals of conduct as have other people of his 
 class. He was queer about the drink — one might say 
 almost crazy on the subject — but there, as to that, he 
 wasn't the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived 
 with a lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, 
 that is, on the question of drink and drunkards 
 
 She looked round the neat drawing-room with vague 
 dissatisfaction. There was only one place where anything 
 could be kept concealed — that place was the substantial 
 if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea sud- 
 denly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought 
 of before. 
 
 After listening intently for a moment, lest something 
 should suddenly bring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she 
 expected, she went to the corner where the chiffonnier 
 stood, and, exerting the whole of her not very great physi- 
 cal strength, she tipped forward the heavy piece of 
 furniture. 
 
 As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound, — 
 something rolling about on the second shelf, something 
 which had not been there before Mr. Sleuth's arrival. 
 Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnier backwards 
 and forwards — once, twice, thrice — satisfied, yet strangely 
 troubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag 
 of which the disappearance had so surprised her was there, 
 safely locked away by its owner. 
 
 Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. 
 Bunting's mind. She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice 
 that his bag had shifted inside the cupboard. A moment 
 
108 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth's landlady realised 
 that the fact that she had moved the chiffonnier must 
 become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of some 
 dark-coloured liquid was oozing out through the bottom 
 of the little cupboard door. 
 
 She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed 
 red, bright red, on her finger. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself 
 quickly. In fact the colour rushed into her face, and she 
 grew hot all over. 
 
 It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset — that was 
 all! How could she have thought it was anything else? 
 
 It was the more silly of her — so she told herself in scorn- 
 ful condemnation — because she knew that the lodger used 
 red ink. Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were 
 covered with notes written in Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright 
 handwriting. In fact, in some places you couldn't see the 
 margin, so closely covered was it with remarks and notes 
 of interrogation. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink 
 in the chiffonnier — that was what her poor, foolish gen- 
 tleman had done, and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, 
 her restless wish to know things she would be none the 
 better, none the happier, for knowing, that this accident 
 had taken place. . . . 
 
 She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink 
 which had fallen on the green carpet and then, still feeling, 
 as she angrily told herself, foolishly upset, she went once 
 more into the back room. 
 
 It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. 
 She would have expected him to have made that one of 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 109 
 
 his first purchases — the more so that paper is so very 
 cheap, especially that rather dirty-looking grey Silurian 
 paper. Mrs. Bunting had once lived with a lady who 
 always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friends 
 and equals, grey for those whom she called "common 
 people." She, Ellen Green, as she then was, had always 
 resented the fact. Strange she should remember it now, 
 stranger in a way because that employer of her's had 
 not been a real lady, and Mr. Sleuth, whatever his pe- 
 culiarities, was, in every sense of the word, a real gen- 
 tleman. Somehow Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he had 
 bought any notepaper it would have been white — white 
 and probably cream-laid — not grey and cheap. 
 
 Again she opened the drawer of the old-fashioned 
 wardrobe and lifted up the few pieces of underclothing- 
 Mr. Sleuth now possessed. 
 
 But there was nothing there — nothing, that is, hidden 
 away. When one came to think of it, there seemed 
 something strange in the notion of leaving all one's money 
 where anyone could take it, and in locking up such a 
 valueless thing as a cheap sham leather bag, to say noth- 
 ing of a bottle of ink. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting once more opened out each of the tiny 
 drawers below the looking-glass, each delicately fashioned 
 of fine old mahogany. Mr. Sleuth kept his money in 
 the centre drawer. 
 
 The glass had only cost seven-and-sixpence, and, after 
 the auction, a dealer had come and offered her first fifteen 
 shillings, and then a guinea for it. Not long ago, in 
 Baker Street, she had seen a looking-glass which was the 
 very spit of this one, labelled " Chippendale, Antique, £2 
 15s. Od." 
 
110 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 There lay Mr. Sleuth's money — the sovereigns, as the 
 landlady well knew, would each and all gradually pass 
 into her's and Bunting's possession, honestly earned by 
 them no doubt, but unattainable — in fact unearnable — 
 excepting in connection with the present owner of those 
 dully shining gold sovereigns. 
 
 At last she went downstairs to await Mr. Sleuth's 
 return. 
 
 When she heard the key turn in the door, she came out 
 into the passage. 
 
 "I'm sorry to say I've had an accident, sir," she said 
 a little breathlessly. "Taking advantage of your being 
 out, I went up to dust the drawing-room, and while I 
 was trying to get behind the chiffonnier it tilted. I'm 
 afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink that was inside may have 
 got broken, for just a few drops oozed out, sir. But I 
 hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well as I 
 could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified 
 glance. But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt 
 far less afraid now than she had felt before he came in. 
 Then she had been so frightened that she had nearly 
 gone out of the house, on to the pavement, for company. 
 
 "Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink 
 in there." 
 
 She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the 
 lodger's brow cleared. 
 
 "I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went 
 on, "for I have seen you marking that book of yours 
 — I mean the book you read together with the Bible. 
 Would you like me to go out and get you another bottle, 
 sir?" 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 111 
 
 "No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will 
 at once proceed upstairs and see what damage has been 
 done. When I require you I shall ring." 
 
 He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the draw- 
 ing-room bell did ring. 
 
 At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the 
 chiffonnier was wide open, and that the shelves were 
 empty save for the bottle of red ink which had turned 
 over and now lay in a red pool of its own making on the 
 lower shelf. 
 
 "I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. 
 Perhaps I was ill-advised to keep my ink in there." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a 
 drop or two fell out on to the carpet, and they don't 
 show, as you see, sir, for it's a dark corner. Shall I take 
 the bottle away? I may as well." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long 
 pause, "I think not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little 
 I require it the ink remaining in the bottle will do quite 
 well, especially if I add a little water, or better still, a 
 little tea, to what already remains in the bottle. I only 
 require it to mark up passages which happen to be of 
 peculiar interest in my Concordance — a work, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling 
 myself had not this — ah — this gentleman called Cruden, 
 been before me." 
 
 Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far 
 pleasanter in her manner than usual that evening. She 
 listened to all they had to say about their interesting 
 
112 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 visit to the Black Museum, and did not snub either of 
 them — no, not even when Bunting told of the dreadful, 
 haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the 
 hanged. 
 
 But a few minutes after that, when her husband sud- 
 denly asked her a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at 
 random. It was clear she had not heard the last few 
 words he had been saying. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. 
 
 But she shook her head. 
 
 Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, 
 came back dressed up in a blue-and- white check silk 
 gown. 
 
 "My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. 
 I've never seen you wearing that before." 
 
 "And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed 
 Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this 
 dressing up means that you're expecting someone. I 
 should have thought both of you must have seen enough 
 of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when that 
 young chap does his work — that I do! He never seems 
 too busy to come and waste an hour or two here." 
 
 But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that 
 evening. And even Daisy noticed that her stepmother 
 seemed dazed and unlike herself. She went about her 
 cooking and the various little things she had to do even 
 more silently than was her wont. 
 
 Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce 
 was the storm of dread, of sombre, anguish, and, yes, 
 of sick suspense, which shook her soul, and which so far 
 affected her poor, ailing body that often she felt as if she 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 113 
 
 could not force herself to accomplish her simple round 
 of daily work. 
 
 After they had finished supper Bunting went out and 
 bought a penny evening paper, but as he came in he 
 announced, with a rather rueful smile, that he had read 
 so much of that nasty little print this last week or two 
 that his eyes hurt him. 
 
 "Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy 
 eagerly, and he handed her the paper. 
 
 Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring 
 and a knock echoed through the house. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 It was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him 
 "Joe" now, and no longer "Chandler," as he had mostly 
 used to do. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very 
 little way. She wasn't going to have any strangers 
 pushing in past her. 
 
 To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had be- 
 come a citadel which must be defended; aye, even if 
 the besiegers were a mighty horde with right on their side. 
 And she was always expecting that first single spy who 
 would herald the battalion against whom her only weapon 
 would be her woman's wit and cunning. 
 
 But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the 
 muscles of her face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, 
 almost agonised look it assumed the moment she turned 
 her back on her husband and stepdaughter. 
 
 "Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door 
 open behind her, and Daisy had already begun to read 
 aloud, as her father had bidden her. "Come in, do! 
 It's fairly cold to-night." 
 
 A glance at his face had shown her that there was no 
 fresh news. 
 
 Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. 
 Cold? Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked 
 quickly to be the sooner where he was now. 
 
 114 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 115 
 
 Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occur- 
 rence, the double murder which had been committed 
 early in the morning of the day Daisy had arrived in 
 London. And though the thousands of men belonging 
 to the Metropolitan Police — to say nothing of the smaller, 
 more alert body of detectives attached to the Force — 
 were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel 
 that there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, 
 even with horror, breeds contempt. 
 
 But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day 
 something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled 
 horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series of 
 crimes had evoked. Even the more sober organs of the 
 Press went on attacking, with gathering severity and 
 indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the 
 huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days be- 
 fore violent speeches had also been made against the 
 Home Secretary. 
 
 But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. 
 The little house in the Marylebone Road had become 
 to him an enchanted isle of dreams, to which his thoughts 
 were ever turning when he had a moment to spare from 
 what had grown to be a wearisome, because an unsatisfac- 
 tory, job. He secretly agreed with one of his pals who 
 had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the 
 last double crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a 
 needle in a rick o' hay than this bloke!" 
 
 And if that had been true then, how much truer it 
 was now — after nine long, empty days had gone by? 
 
 Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, 
 and low hat. Then he put his finger on his lip, and mo- 
 tioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a moment. 
 
116 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter 
 made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity. 
 Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight. 
 
 Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress 
 about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat 
 on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, 
 leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was 
 listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude — as it was 
 the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought 
 a pang to Mrs. Bunting — which showed that age was 
 beginning to creep over the listener. 
 
 One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt 
 was that of reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided 
 herself on her accomplishment. 
 
 Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been 
 asking, "Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had 
 answered quickly, "Aye, do, my dear." 
 
 He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing 
 Joe at the door, he had only just nodded his head. The 
 young man was becoming so frequent a visitor as to be 
 almost one of themselves. 
 
 Daisy read out* 
 
 "The Avenger: A " 
 
 And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled 
 her greatly. Bravely, however, she went on. " A the-o-ry." 
 
 "Go in — do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. 
 "Why should we stay out here in the cold? It's ridic'- 
 lous." 
 
 "I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered 
 Chandler back, rather hoarsely. 
 
 "Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room. Don't 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 117 
 
 think she'll stop because of you, bless you ! There's noth- 
 ing shy about our Daisy!" 
 
 The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor 
 little girl!" he said to himself tenderly. "That's what 
 it is having a stepmother, instead of a proper mother." 
 But he obeyed Mrs. Bunting, and then he was pleased he 
 had done so, for Daisy looked up, and a bright blush came 
 over her pretty face. 
 
 "Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with 
 your reading," commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. " Now, 
 Joe, you can go and sit over there, close to Daisy, and 
 then you won't miss a word." 
 
 There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even 
 Chandler noticed that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, 
 and crossing the room he went and sat on a chair just 
 behind Daisy. From there he could note with reverent 
 delight the charming way her fair hair grew upwards 
 from the nape of her slender neck. 
 
 "The Avenger: A The-o-ry" 
 
 began Daisy again, clearing her throat. 
 
 " Dear Sir — I have a suggestion to put forward for which I think 
 there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable that 
 The Avenger — to give him the name by which he apparently wishes 
 to be known — comprises in his own person the peculiarities of Jekyll 
 and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous hero. 
 
 " The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, pleasant- 
 looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of London. 
 He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the husband of a 
 dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and is never men- 
 tioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his widowed mother 
 and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he has become 
 
118 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, occupying 
 himself eaeh day with some harmless hobby. On foggy nights, 
 once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out of the 
 house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes his 
 way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area. 
 Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like gen- 
 tleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home 
 again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once 
 more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, 
 esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and acquaint- 
 ances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene of the 
 tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal lunatic. 
 
 "I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that I 
 am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to the 
 part of London where these murders have been actually committed. 
 I am quite sure from all that has come out — and we must remember 
 that full information is never given to the newspapers — The Avenger 
 should be sought for in the West, and not in the East End of Lon- 
 don. — Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly " 
 
 Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she 
 brought out the word " Gab-o-ri-you," said she. 
 
 "What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly. 
 
 And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French 
 chap what wrote detective stories/' he said. "Pretty 
 good, some of them are, too!" 
 
 "Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these 
 Avenger murders, I take it?" said Bunting. 
 
 "Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's 
 written that silly letter just signed that name for fun." 
 
 "It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in re- 
 sentfully. "I wonder a respectable paper prints such 
 rubbish." 
 
 "Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman r 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 119 
 
 cried Daisy, in an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how- 
 to-do!" 
 
 "There may be something in the notion," said her 
 father thoughtfully. "After all, the monster must be 
 somewhere. This very minute he must be somewhere 
 a-hiding of himself." 
 
 "Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 
 'Twould soon be time for the lodger's supper. 
 
 She hurried on: "But what I do say is that — that — 
 he has nothing to do with the West End. Why, they say 
 it's a sailor from the Docks — that's a good bit more likely, 
 I take it. But there, I'm fair sick of the whole subject! 
 We talk of nothing else in this house. The Avenger this — 
 The Avenger that " 
 
 "I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," 
 said Bunting cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything 
 new?" 
 
 "I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in 
 excitedly. She read out: 
 
 " Bloodhounds to be Seriously Considered " 
 
 "Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there 
 was terror in her tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do 
 seem to me a most horrible idea!" 
 
 Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. 
 "Why, 'twould be a very good idea, if 'twas possible to 
 have bloodhounds in a town. But, there, how can that 
 be done in London, full of butchers' shops, to say nothing 
 of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?" 
 
120 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking 
 ear there seemed a horrible thrill of delight, of gloating 
 pleasure, in her fresh young voice. 
 
 "Hark to this," she said: 
 
 "A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near 
 Blackburn was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to 
 the sagacious instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally 
 convicted and hanged." 
 
 " La, now ! Who'd ever have thought of such a thing? " 
 Bunting exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do 
 have some useful hints in sometimes, Joe." 
 
 But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds 
 ain't no use," he said; "no use at all! If the Yard was 
 to listen to all the suggestions that the last few days have 
 brought in — well, all I can say is our work would be cut 
 out for us — not but what it's cut out for us now, if it 
 comes to that!" He sighed ruefully. He was beginning 
 to feel very tired; if only he could stay in this pleasant, 
 cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading on and on 
 for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would pres- 
 ently have to do, into the cold and foggy night! 
 
 Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new 
 job. There was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the 
 business, too. Why, even in the house where he lived, 
 and in the little cook-shop where he habitually took his 
 meals, the people round him had taken to taunt him with 
 the remissness of the police. More than that. One of 
 his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the 
 young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been 
 among those who had spoken at the big demonstration in 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 121 
 
 Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not only against 
 the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also 
 against the Home Secretary. 
 
 But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves 
 blessed with the possession of an accomplishment, had 
 no mind to leave off reading just yet. 
 
 "Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another 
 letter, father!" 
 
 " Pardon to Accomplices. 
 
 "Dear Sir — During the last day or two several of the more in- 
 telligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, 
 whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of per- 
 sons. It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however 
 nomad he may be in his habits " 
 
 "Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy in- 
 terrupted herself, and looked round at her little audience. 
 
 "I've always declared the fellow had all his senses 
 about him," observed Bunting confidently. 
 
 Daisy went on, quite satisfied: 
 
 " however nomad he may be in his habits, must have some 
 
 habitat where his ways are known to at least one person. Now 
 the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding 
 information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being 
 an accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. 
 My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free par- 
 don. The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to 
 justice. Unless he be caught red-handed in the act, it will be ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, 
 for English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence." 
 
 "There's something worth listening to in that letter," 
 said Joe, leaning forward. 
 
122 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled 
 involuntarily as she turned her gay, pretty little face the 
 better to hear what he was saying. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively. 
 
 "Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old 
 gentleman in a railway carriage? He took refuge with 
 someone — a woman his mother had known, and she kept 
 him hidden for quite a long time. But at last she gave 
 him up, and she got a big reward, too!" 
 
 "I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a re- 
 ward," said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler con- 
 fidently. "You'd only be doing what it's the plain duty 
 of everyone — everyone, that is, who's a good citizen. 
 And you'd be getting something for doing it, which is 
 more than most people gets as does their duty." 
 
 "A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better 
 than a common informer," went on Bunting obstinately. 
 "And no man 'ud care to be called that! It's different 
 for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's your job to catch 
 those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be a 
 fool who'd take refuge-like with you. He'd be walking 
 into the lion's mouth " Bunting laughed. 
 
 And then Daisy broke in coquettishly : "If I'd done 
 anything I wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," 
 she said. 
 
 And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you 
 did you needn't be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!" 
 
 And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke 
 from Mrs. Bunting, sitting with bowed head over the 
 table, an exclamation of impatience and anger, and, it 
 seemed to those listening, of pain. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 123 
 
 "Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting 
 quickly. 
 
 "Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," an- 
 swered the poor woman heavily. " It's over now. Don't 
 mind me." 
 
 "But I don't believe — no, that I don't — that there's 
 anybody in the world who knows who The Avenger is," 
 went on Chandler quickly. "It stands to reason that 
 anybody'd give him up — in their own interest, if not in 
 anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? Why, 
 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with 
 one!" 
 
 "Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the 
 wicked things he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, 
 and looked over at Chandler with eager, anxious eyes. 
 
 "I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to 
 hang! " said Chandler deliberately. " After all the trouble 
 he's been giving us, too!" 
 
 "Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting. 
 
 "Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I 
 never heard of anything so cruel — that I never did! If 
 the man's a madman, he ought to be in an asylum — that's 
 where he ought to be." 
 
 "Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with 
 amusement. "Contrary isn't the word for her! But 
 there, I've noticed the last few days that she seemed to 
 be taking that monster's part. That's what comes of 
 being a born total abstainer." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What non- 
 sense you do talk!" she said angrily. "Not but what 
 it's a good thing if these murders have emptied the public* 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 houses of women for a bit. England's drink is England's 
 shame — I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, 
 get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite 
 enough. You can be laying the cloth while I goes down 
 to the kitchen." 
 
 "Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," 
 
 called out Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring " 
 
 he turned to Chandler. "For one thing, he's often out 
 about this time." 
 
 "Not often — just now and again, when he wants to 
 buy something," snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I 
 hadn't forgot his supper. He never do want it before 
 eight o'clock." 
 
 "Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's 
 eager voice broke in. She had got up in obedience to 
 her stepmother, and was now laying the cloth. 
 
 "Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to 
 wait on him. You have your work cut out looking after 
 things down here — that's where I wants you to help me." 
 
 Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be 
 doing nothing while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, 
 looking across at Mrs. Bunting, "I'd forgotten about 
 your lodger. Going on all right, eh?" 
 
 " Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman," 
 said Bunting. "He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth." 
 
 His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy 
 laughed. "You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but 
 I've never seen this wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him 
 to herself, that she does. If I was father I'd be jealous!" 
 
 Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too 
 funny. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 "All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One 
 can't always do just what one wants to do — not in this 
 world, at any rate!" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in 
 particular, though both her husband and her stepdaughter 
 were in the room. She was standing by the table, staring 
 straight before her, and as she spoke she avoided looking 
 at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in her voice a 
 tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which they 
 were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew 
 the other would have to bow. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out 
 passionately, " I don't see why I should go if I don't want 
 to!" she cried. "You'll allow I've been useful to you, 
 Ellen? 'Tisn't even as if you was quite well " 
 
 "I am quite well — perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. 
 Bunting, and she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked 
 angrily at her stepdaughter. 
 
 "'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and 
 father." There were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting 
 glanced deprecatingly at his wife. 
 
 An invitation had come to Daisy — an invitation from 
 her own dead mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a 
 big house in Belgrave Square. "The family" had gone 
 125 
 
126 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 away for the Christmas holidays, and Aunt Margaret 
 — Daisy was her godchild — had begged that her niece 
 might come and spend two or three days with her. 
 
 But the girl had already had more than one taste of 
 what life was like in the great gloomy basement of 100 
 Belgrave Square. Aunt Margaret was one of those old- 
 fashioned servants for whom the modern employer is 
 always sighing. While "the family" were away it was 
 her joy — she regarded it as a privilege — to wash sixty- 
 seven pieces of very valuable china contained in two 
 cabinets in the drawing-room; she also slept in every 
 bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. These were 
 the two duties with which she intended her young niece 
 to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect. 
 
 But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter 
 had come an hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph 
 form, and Aunt Margaret was not one to be trifled with. 
 
 Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, 
 and from the very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy 
 ought to go — that there was no doubt about it, that it 
 did not admit of discussion. But discuss it they all did, 
 and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. But that, 
 as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set 
 on her own view. 
 
 "What the child says is true," he observed. "It 
 isn't as if you was quite well. You've been took bad 
 twice in the last few days — you can't deny of it, Ellen. 
 Why shouldn't I just take a bus and go over and see Mar- 
 garet? I'd tell her just how it is. She'd understand, 
 bless you!" 
 
 "I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 127 
 
 Mrs. Bunting, speaking almost as passionately as her 
 stepdaughter had done. "Haven't I a right to be ill, 
 haven't I a right to be took bad, aye, and to feel all right 
 again — same as other people? " 
 
 Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, 
 Ellen!" she cried; "do say that you can't spare me! I 
 don't want to go across to that horrid old dungeon of a 
 place." 
 
 "Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm 
 fair tired of you both ! There'll come a day, Daisy, when 
 you'll know, like me, that money is the main thing that 
 matters in this world; and when your Aunt Margaret's 
 left her savings to somebody else just because you wouldn't 
 spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'll 
 know what it's like to go without — you'll know what a 
 fool you were, and that nothing can't alter it any more!" 
 
 And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor 
 Daisy saw it snatched from her. 
 
 "Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does 
 matter — a terrible deal — though I never thought to hear 
 Ellen say 'twas the only thing that mattered. But 
 'twould be foolish — very, very foolish, my girl, to offend 
 your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be two days after all — 
 two days isn't a very long time." 
 
 But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She 
 had already rushed from the room, and gone down to 
 the kitchen to hide her childish tears of disappointment 
 — the childish tears which came because she was begin- 
 ning to be a woman, with a woman's natural instinct 
 for building her own human nest. 
 
 Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings 
 
128 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 of any strange young man, and she had a peculiar dislike 
 to the police. 
 
 " Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much 
 as that!" Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; 
 already his heart was misgiving him. 
 
 "It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us all 
 of a sudden," said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as 
 her husband stared at her uncomprehendingly, she added, 
 in a tantalising tone, "as plain as the nose on your face, 
 my man." 
 
 "What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit 
 slow, Ellen, but I really don't know what you'd be at?" 
 
 "Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came 
 here that Joe Chandler had become sweet on her last 
 summer? I thought it only foolishness then, but I've 
 come round to your view — that's all." 
 
 Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got 
 into the way of coming very often, and there had been 
 the expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, 
 but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the 
 Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any 
 other connection — not this time, at any rate. 
 
 "And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was 
 an unwonted tone of excitement, of tenderness, in Bunt- 
 ing's voice. 
 
 His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an 
 unkindly smile by any means, lit up her pale face. " I've 
 never been one to prophesy," she answered deliberately. 
 "But this I don't mind telling you, Bunting — Daisy'U 
 have plenty o' time to get tired of Joe Chandler before 
 they two are dead. Mark my words ! " 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 129 
 
 "Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminat- 
 ingly. " He's as steady as God makes them, and he's 
 already earning thirty-two shillings a week. But I 
 wonder how Old Aunt'd like the notion? I don't see her 
 parting with Daisy before she must." 
 
 "I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about 
 such a thing as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not 
 for millions of gold!" And Bunting looked at her in 
 silent wonder. Ellen was singing a very different tune 
 now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, when she was 
 so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square. 
 
 "If she still seems upset while she's having her din- 
 ner," said his wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've 
 gone out for something, and then you just say to her, 
 * Absence makes the heart grow fonder' — just that, and 
 nothing more! She'll take it from you. And I shouldn't 
 be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot." 
 
 "For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe 
 Chandler shouldn't go over and see her there," said Bunt- 
 ing hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. 
 "Plenty of reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she 
 allows her aunt to know any of her secrets. I've only 
 seen that woman once, but I know exactly the sort Mar- 
 garet is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt to drop off, 
 and then she'll want to have Daisy herself — to wait on 
 her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there 
 was a young fellow what stood in her way." 
 
 She glanced at the clock, the pretty little eight-day 
 clock which had been a wedding present from a kind 
 friend of her last mistress. It had mysteriously disap- 
 
130 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 peared during their time of trouble, and had as mys- 
 teriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth's 
 arrival, 
 
 "I've time to go out with that telegram," she said 
 briskly — somehow she felt better, different to what she 
 had done the last few days — "and then it'll be done. 
 It's no good having more words about it, and I expect 
 we should have plenty more words if I wait till the child 
 comes upstairs again." 
 
 She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at 
 her rather wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of 
 Daisy as "the child" — in fact, he could only remember 
 her having done so once before, and that was a long 
 time ago. They had been talking over their future life 
 together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting, I 
 promise I will do my duty — as much as lies in my power, 
 that is — by the child." 
 
 But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her 
 duty by Daisy. As not infrequently happens with the 
 duties that we are willing to do, that particular duty 
 had been taken over by someone else who had no mind 
 to let it go. 
 
 "What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, 
 rather nervously. It was the first time since the lodger 
 had come to them that Ellen had offered to go out in the 
 morning. 
 
 She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of 
 Daisy settled, she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange 
 that she should have done so — strange, and, to herself, 
 very comfortable and pleasant. 
 
 "Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 131 
 
 and say I'll be back in a few minutes — that I had to go 
 out with a message. He's quite a reasonable gentleman." 
 
 She went into the back room to put on her bonnet 
 and thick jacket, for it was very cold — getting colde* 
 every minute. 
 
 As she stood, buttoning her gloves — she wouldn't 
 have gone out untidy for the world — Bunting suddenly 
 came across to her. "Give us a kiss, old girl/' he said. 
 And his wife turned up her face. 
 
 "One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there 
 was a lilt in her voice. 
 
 "So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that 
 old cook get married just after us? She'd never 'a thought 
 of it if it hadn't been for you!" 
 
 But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven 
 pavement, Mr. Sleuth revenged himself for his land- 
 lady's temporary forgetfulness. 
 
 During the last two days the lodger had been queer, 
 odder than usual, unlike himself, or, rather, very much 
 as he had been some ten days ago, just before that double 
 murder had taken place. . . . 
 
 The night before, while Daisy was telling all about 
 the dreadful place to which Joe Chandler had taken 
 her and her father, Mrs. Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth 
 moving about overhead, restlessly walking up and down 
 his sitting-room. And later, when she took up his sup- 
 per, she had listened a moment outside the door, while 
 he read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in — 
 terrible texts telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so 
 possessed with the curious personality of her lodger, that 
 
132 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 she did not look where she was going, and suddenly a 
 young woman bumped up against her. 
 
 She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the 
 young person muttered a word of apology; then she 
 again fell into deep thought. 
 
 It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few 
 days; it made the problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer 
 ways less disturbing. She, Ellen, was sorry she had 
 spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but after all it wasn't 
 wonderful that she had been snappy. This last night 
 she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake 
 listening — and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake 
 listening for a sound that never comes. 
 
 The house had remained so still you could have heard 
 a pin drop. Mr. Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed 
 upstairs, had not stirred. Had he stirred his landlady 
 was bound to have heard him, for his bed was, as we 
 know, just above hers. No, during those long hours of 
 darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had 
 fallen on Mrs. Bunting's ears. 
 
 And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She 
 made a determined effort to expel him, to toss him, as it 
 were, out of her thoughts. . . . 
 
 It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his 
 hand, for, as Joe had said only last evening, it was full 
 time that he should again turn that awful, mysterious 
 searchlight of his on himself. Mrs. Bunting always 
 visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centre 
 of a bright blinding light — but the shadow had no form 
 or definite substance. Sometimes he looked like one 
 thing, sometimes like another. . . . 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 133 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up 
 the street where there was a Post Office. But instead of 
 turning sharp to the left she stopped short for a minute. 
 
 There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible 
 self-rebuke and even self-loathing. It was dreadful 
 that she, of all women, should have longed to hear that 
 another murder had been committed last night! 
 
 Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all 
 through breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being 
 shouted outside; yes, and more or less during the long 
 discussion which had followed on the receipt of Margaret's 
 letter she had been hoping — hoping against hope — that 
 those dreadful triumphant shouts of the newspaper- 
 sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone 
 Road. And yet, hypocrite that she was, she had re- 
 proved Bunting when he had expressed, not disappoint- 
 ment exactly — but, well, surprise, that nothing had hap- 
 pened last night. 
 
 Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange 
 to think how afraid she had been of that young man! 
 She was no longer afraid of him, or hardly at all. He 
 was dotty — that's what was the matter with him, dotty 
 with love for rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. Any- 
 thing might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very 
 nose — but, bless you, he'd never see it! 
 
 Last summer, when this affair, this nonsense of young 
 Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had had very little 
 patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way 
 Joe had gone on then, the tiresome way he would be 
 always dropping in, had been one reason (though not the 
 most important reason of all) why she had felt so ter- 
 
134 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 ribly put about at the idea of the girl coming again. But 
 now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant, quite 
 kindly — at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 She wondered why. 
 
 Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the 
 girl for a couple of days. In fact, 'twould be a very 
 good thing, for then he'd think of Daisy — think of her 
 to the exclusion of all else. Absence does make the 
 heart grow fonder — at first, at any rate. Mrs. Bunting 
 was well aware of that. During the long course of hers 
 and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for 
 about three months, and it was that three months which 
 had made up her mind for her. She had got so used to 
 Bunting that she couldn't do without him, and she had 
 felt — oddest fact of all — acutely, miserably jealous. But 
 she hadn't let him know that — no fear! 
 
 Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job — that would 
 never do. But what a good thing it was, after all, that 
 he wasn't like some of those detective chaps that are 
 written about in stories — the sort of chaps that know 
 everything, see everything, guess everything — even when 
 there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess! 
 
 Why, to take only one little fact — Joe Chandler had 
 never shown the slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and 
 hurried quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder 
 what had happened to her. 
 
 She went into the Post Office and handed the form 
 to the young woman without a word. Margaret, a 
 sensible woman, who was accustomed to manage other 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 135 
 
 people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Will 
 be with you to tea. — Daisy." 
 
 It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for 
 all. If anything horrible was going to happen in the 
 next two or three days — it was just as well Daisy shouldn't 
 be at home. Not that there was any real danger that 
 anything would happen, — Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that. 
 
 By this time she was out in the street again, and she 
 began mentally counting up the number of murders The 
 Avenger had committed. Nine, or was it ten? Surely 
 by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely by now, 
 if — as that writer in the newspaper had suggested — he 
 was a quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, 
 whatever vengeance he had to wreak, must be satisfied? 
 
 She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for 
 the lodger to ring before she had got back. Bunting 
 would never know how to manage Mr. Sleuth, especially 
 if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock 
 and passed into the house. Then her heart stood still 
 with fear and terror. There came the sound of voices 
 — of voices she thought she did not know — in the sit- 
 ting-room. 
 
 She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. 
 It was only Joe Chandler — Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, 
 talking together. They stopped rather guiltily as she 
 came in, but not before she had heard Chandler utter the 
 words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just run out 
 and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy." 
 
 And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunt- 
 
136 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 ing's face. There had fallen on her ear the still distant, 
 but unmistakable, shouts which betokened that some- 
 thing had happened last night — something which made 
 it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come crying 
 down the Marylebone Road. 
 
 "Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? 
 I suppose you've brought us news? I suppose there's 
 been another?" 
 
 He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, 
 Mrs. Bunting — not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're 
 thinking of those newspaper chaps? They've got to 
 cry out something," he grinned. "You wouldn't 'a 
 thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're just shout- 
 ing out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take no 
 stock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up 
 last night at Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was a- 
 pitying of himself. Why, since this business began, 
 there's been about twenty arrests, but they've all come 
 to nothing." 
 
 "Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," 
 said Bunting jokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high 
 time The Avenger was at work again." He laughed as 
 he made his grim joke. Then turned to young Chandler: 
 "Well, you'll be glad when it's all over, my lad." 
 
 " Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. " But one 
 *ud have liked to have caught him. One doesn't like to 
 know such a creature's at large, now, does one?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. 
 "I must just go and see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," 
 she said in a weary, dispirited voice, and left them there. 
 
 She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 137 
 
 to the plot which had been hatching when she came in, 
 that had no chance of success; Bunting would never 
 dare let Daisy send out another telegram contradicting 
 the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmother shrewdly sus- 
 pected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care to do 
 such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away 
 somewhere in her pretty little head. If it ever became 
 her fate to live as a married woman in London, it would 
 be best to stay on the right side of Aunt Margaret. 
 
 And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's 
 heart became very soft, for Daisy had got everything 
 beautifully ready. In fact, there was nothing to do but 
 to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feeling suddenly more 
 cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting took the 
 tray upstairs. 
 
 "As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, 
 sir," she said. 
 
 And the lodger looked up from the table where, as 
 usual, he was studying with painful, almost agonising 
 intentness, the Book. "Quite right, Mrs. Bunting — 
 quite right! I have been pondering over the command, 
 'Work while it is yet light.' " 
 
 "Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole 
 over her heart. "Yes, sir?" 
 
 "'The spirit is willing, but the flesh — the flesh is 
 weak,' " said Mr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "You studies too hard, and too long — that's what's 
 ailing you, sir," said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly. 
 
 When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that 
 a great deal had been settled in her absence; among 
 
138 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 other things, that Joe Chandler was going to escort Miss 
 Daisy across to Belgrave Square. He could carry Daisy's 
 modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead of walk, 
 why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station 
 to Victoria — that would land them very near Belgrave 
 Square. 
 
 But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't 
 had a walk, she declared, for a long, long time — and then 
 she blushed rosy red, and even her stepmother had to 
 admit to herself that Daisy was very nice-looking, not 
 at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to go about 
 the London streets by herself. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at 
 the front door, watching the girl and young Chandler 
 walk off into the darkness. 
 
 A yellow pall of fog had suddenly descended on Lon- 
 don, and Joe had come a full half-hour before they ex- 
 pected him, explaining, rather lamely, that it was the 
 fog which had brought him so soon. 
 
 "If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps, 
 'twouldn't have been possible to walk a yard," he ex- 
 plained, and they had accepted, silently, his explanation. 
 
 "I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that?" 
 
 Bunting looked deprecatingly at his wife. She had 
 already told him more than once that he was too fussy 
 about Daisy, that about his daughter he was like an old 
 hen with her last chicken. 
 
 "She's safer than she would be with you or me. She 
 couldn't have a smarter young fellow to look after her." 
 
 "It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner," said 
 Bunting. "It's always worse there than anywhere else. 
 If I was Joe I'd 'a taken her by the Underground Rail- 
 way to Victoria — that 'ud been the best way, consider- 
 ing the weather 'tis." 
 
 "They don't think anything of the weather, bless 
 you!" said his wife. "They'll walk and walk as long 
 as there's a glimmer left for 'em to steer bv. Daisy's 
 
 139 
 
140 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 just been pining to have a walk with that young chap. 
 I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both 
 were when you was so set on going along with them to 
 that horrid place." 
 
 "D'you really mean that, Ellen?" Bunting looked 
 upset. "I understood Joe to say he liked my company." 
 
 "Oh, did you?" said Mrs. Bunting dryly. "I expect 
 he liked it just about as much as we liked the company 
 of that old cook who would go out wifh us when we was 
 courting. It always was a wonder to me how that woman 
 could force herself upon two people who didn't want her." 
 
 "But I'm Daisy's father, and an old friend of Chandler," 
 said Bunting remonstratingly. " I'm quite different from 
 that cook. She was nothing to us, and we was nothing 
 to her." 
 
 "She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no 
 doubt," observed his Ellen, shaking her head, and her 
 husband smiled, a little foolishly. 
 
 By this time they were back in their nice, cosy sitting- 
 room, and a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude 
 stole over Mrs. Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy 
 out of her way for a bit. The girl, in some ways, was 
 very wide awake and inquisitive, and she had early be- 
 trayed what her stepmother thought to be a very unseemly 
 and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. "You might 
 just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?" she had pleaded, 
 only that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. 
 "No, that I won't! He's a very quiet gentleman; but he 
 knows exactly what he likes, and he don't like anyone but 
 me waiting on him. Why, even your father's hardly seen 
 him." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 141 
 
 But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire 
 to view Mr. Sleuth. 
 
 There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad 
 that her stepdaughter had gone away for two days. Dur- 
 ing her absence young Chandler was far less likely to 
 haunt them in the way he had taken to doing lately, the 
 more so that, in spite of what she had said to her hus- 
 band, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe 
 Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. 'Twouldn't be 
 human nature — at any rate, not girlish human nature — 
 not to do so, even if Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. 
 
 Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the 
 Buntings, would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and 
 that would be a good thing. 
 
 When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his 
 attention, Mrs. Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler. 
 After all, he was a detective — it was his job to be always 
 nosing about, trying to find out things. And, though she 
 couldn't fairly say to herself that he had done much of 
 that sort of thing in her house, he might start doing it any 
 minute. And then — then — where would she, and — and 
 Mr. Sleuth, be? 
 
 She thought of the bottle of red ink — of the leather 
 bag which must be hidden somewhere — and her heart 
 almost stopped beating. Those were the sort of things 
 which, in the stories Bunting was so fond of reading, 
 always led to the detection of famous criminals. . . . 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier 
 than usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made 
 him think it later than it was. 
 
 When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, 
 
142 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and just one piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said 
 wearily. "I don't feel like having anything else this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a 
 cheerier voice than usual. "No wonder you don't feel 
 hungry, sir. And then it isn't so very long since you 
 had your dinner, is it? " 
 
 "No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. 
 And then, as she came into the room, she uttered an 
 exclamation of sharp dismay. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing 
 his long Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay 
 on the table, ready for him to put on. 
 
 "You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked 
 falteringly. "Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a 
 yard ahead of you!" 
 
 Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen 
 almost to a scream. She moved back, still holding the 
 tray, and stood between the door and her lodger, as if 
 she meant to bar his way — to erect between Mr. Sleuth 
 and the dark, foggy world outside a living barrier. 
 
 "The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; 
 and he looked at her with so wild and pleading a look 
 in his eyes that, slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As 
 she did so she noticed for the first time that Mr. Sleuth 
 held something in his right hand. It was the key of the 
 chiffonnier cupboard. He had been on his way there 
 when her coming in had disturbed him. 
 
 "It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," 
 he stammered, "but — but, Mrs. Bunting, you must ex- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 143 
 
 cuse me if I say that I do not welcome such solicitude. I 
 prefer to be left alone. I — I cannot stay in your house 
 if I feel that my comings and goings are watched — spied 
 upon." 
 
 She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, 
 sir," she said, with considerable dignity. " I've done my 
 best to satisfy you " 
 
 "You have — you have!" he spoke in a distressed, 
 apologetic tone. "But you spoke just now as if you 
 were trying to prevent my doing what I wish to do — 
 indeed, what I have to do. For years I have been mis- 
 understood — persecuted" — he waited a moment, then in 
 a hollow voice added the one word, "tortured! Do not 
 tell me that you are going to add yourself to the number 
 of my tormentors, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 She stared at him helplessly. "Don't you be afraid 
 I'll ever be that, sir. I only spoke as I did because — 
 well, sir, because I thought it really wasn't safe for a 
 gentleman to go out this afternoon. Why, there's hardly 
 anyone about, though we're so near Christmas." 
 
 He walked across to the window and looked out. " The 
 fog is clearing somewhat, Mrs. Bunting," but there was 
 no relief in his voice, rather was there disappointment and 
 dread. 
 
 Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. 
 Sleuth was right. The fog was lifting — rolling off in that 
 sudden, mysterious way in which local fogs sometimes do 
 lift in London. 
 
 He turned sharply from the window. "Our conversa- 
 tion has made me forget an important thh*g, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing. I should be glad if you would just leave out a glass 
 
144 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 of milk and some bread-and-butter for me this evening. 
 I shall not require supper when I come in, for after my 
 walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through 
 a very difficult experiment." 
 
 "Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the 
 lodger. 
 
 But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden 
 hall, for it had drifted in as she and her husband had stood 
 at the door seeing Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting 
 she did a very odd thing — a thing she had never thought 
 of doing in her life before. She pressed her hot forehead 
 against the cool bit of looking-glass let into the hat-and- 
 umbrella stand. "I don't know what to do!" she 
 moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear it! I can't 
 bear it!" 
 
 But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble 
 was becoming intolerable, the one way in which she could 
 have ended her misery never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 In the long history of crime it has very, very seldom 
 happened that a woman has betrayed one who has taken 
 refuge with her. The timorous and cautious woman has 
 not infrequently hunted a human being fleeing from his 
 pursuer from her door, but she has not revealed the fact 
 that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost be said 
 that such betrayal has never taken place unless the be- 
 trayer has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing 
 for revenge. So far, perhaps because she is subject rather 
 than citizen, her duty as a component part of civilised 
 society weighs but lightly on woman's shoulders. 
 
 And then — and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting 
 had become attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 145 
 
 sometimes light up his sad face when he saw her come in 
 with one of his meals, and when this happened Mrs. 
 Bunting felt pleased — pleased and vaguely touched. In 
 between those — those dreadful events outside, which 
 filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such sus- 
 pense, she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth. 
 
 Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she 
 turned over the strange problem in her mind. After all, 
 the lodger must have lived somewhere during his forty- 
 odd years of life. She did not even know if Mr. Sleuth 
 had any brothers or sisters; friends she knew he had none. 
 But, however odd and eccentric he was, he had evidently, 
 or so she supposed, led a quiet, undistinguished kind of 
 life, till — till now. 
 
 What had made him alter all of a sudden — if, that is, 
 he had altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always 
 debating fitfully with herself; and, what was more, and 
 very terribly, to the point, having altered, why should he 
 not in time go back to what he evidently had been — that 
 is, a blameless, quiet gentleman? 
 
 If only he would! If only he would! 
 
 As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all 
 these thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at light- 
 ning speed through her brain. 
 
 She remembered what young Chandler had said the 
 other day — that there had never been, in the history of 
 the world, so strange a murderer as The Avenger had 
 proved himself to be. 
 
 She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had hung, 
 fascinated, on Joe's words, a,s he had told them of other 
 famous series of murders which had taken place in 
 
146 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 the past, not only in England, but abroad — especially 
 abroad. 
 
 One woman, whom all the people round her believed 
 to be a kind, respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer 
 than fifteen people in order to get their insurance money. 
 Then there }iad been the terrible tale of an apparently 
 respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living 
 at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travel- 
 lers who took shelter under their roof, simply for their 
 clothes, and any valuables they possessed. But in all 
 those stories the murderer or murderers always had a very 
 strong motive, the motive being, in almost every case, a 
 wicked lust for gold. 
 
 At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her 
 forehead, she went into the room where Bunting was sit- 
 ting smoking his pipe. 
 
 "The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an ill-assured voice. 
 "I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler 
 are right out of it." 
 
 But the other shook his head silently. " No such luck ! " 
 he said briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde 
 Park, Ellen. I expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here 
 as 'twas half an hour ago!" 
 
 She wandered over to the window, and pulled the cur- 
 tain back. "Quite a lot of people have come out, any- 
 way," she observed. 
 
 "There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. 
 1 was thinking of asking if you wouldn't like to go along 
 there with me." 
 
 "No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at 
 home." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 147 
 
 She was listening — listening for the sounds which would 
 betoken that the lodger was coming downstairs. 
 
 At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of his 
 rubber-soled shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting 
 only woke to the fact when the front door shut to. 
 
 "That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on 
 his wife, startled. " Why, the poor gentleman '11 come to 
 harm — that he will! One has to be wide awake on an 
 evening like this. I hope he hasn't taken any of his 
 money out with him." 
 
 " 'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog," 
 said Mrs. Bunting sombrely. 
 
 Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true 
 words. And then she turned, eager and half frightened, 
 to see how Bunting had taken what she said. 
 
 But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard 
 her. "We don't get the good old fogs we used to get — 
 not what people used to call 'London particulars.' I ex- 
 pect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley — I've often told 
 you about her, Ellen?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting nodded. 
 
 Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of 
 those he had liked best — a cheerful, jolly lady, who used 
 often to give her servants what she called a treat. It 
 was seldom the kind of treat they would have chosen for 
 themselves, but still they appreciated her kind thought. 
 
 "Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his 
 slow, dogmatic way, " that she never minded how bad the 
 weather was in London, so long as it was London and 
 not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked the country best, 
 but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull-like there. Fog never 
 
148 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 kept her from going out — no, that it didn't. She wasn't 
 a bit afraid. But — " he turned round and looked at 
 his wife — "I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should 
 
 have thought him a timid kind of gentleman " 
 
 He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer 
 him. 
 
 "I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a 
 low voice, "but he is very quiet, certainly. That's why 
 he dislikes going out when there are a lot of people bus- 
 tling about the streets. I don't suppose he'll be out long." 
 
 She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be 
 in very soon — that he would be daunted by the now in- 
 creasing gloom. 
 
 Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very 
 long. She got up, and went over to the farthest window. 
 
 The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the lamp- 
 lights on the other side of the Marylebone Road, glim- 
 mering redly; and shadowy figures were hurrying past, 
 mostly making their way towards the Edgware Road, to 
 see the Christmas shops. 
 
 At last, to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He 
 went over to the cupboard where he kept his little store 
 of books, and took one out. 
 
 "I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time 
 since I've looked at a book. The papers was so jolly 
 interesting for a bit, but now there's nothing in 'em." 
 
 His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. 
 A good many days had gone by since the last two Avenger 
 murders, and the papers had very little to say about 
 them that they hadn't said in different language a dozen 
 times before. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 149 
 
 She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit 
 of plain sewing. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked 
 to see her so engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be 
 their lodger she had not had much time for that sort of 
 work. 
 
 It was funny how quiet the house was without either 
 Daisy, or — or the lodger, in it. 
 
 At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of 
 cambric slipped down on her knee, while she listened, 
 longingly, for Mr. Sleuth's return home. 
 
 And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with 
 a painful wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, 
 for, from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting 
 felt sure that if he got into any kind of — well, trouble 
 outside, he would never betray where he had lived during 
 the last few weeks. 
 
 No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as 
 sudden a way as he had come. And Bunting would 
 never suspect, would never know, until, perhaps — God, 
 what a horrible thought! — a picture published in some 
 newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunt- 
 ing's knowledge. 
 
 But if that happened — if that unthinkably awful thing 
 came to pass, she made up her mind, here and now, never 
 to say anything. She also would pretend to be amazed, 
 shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revela- 
 tion. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't 
 a night you would wish a dog to be out in." 
 
 Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn 
 round and look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he con- 
 tinued to read the evening paper he held in his hand. 
 
 He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably 
 in his nice arm-chair. He looked very well — well and 
 ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch 
 of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment. And this was 
 very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond 
 of Bunting. 
 
 "You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth 
 can look out for himself all right." 
 
 Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on 
 his knee. "I can't think why he wanted to go out in 
 such weather," he said impatiently. 
 
 "Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?" 
 
 "No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very 
 bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This 
 lodger's the first bit of luck we've had for a terrible long 
 time, Ellen." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high 
 chair. She remained silent for a moment. What Bunt- 
 ing had said was too obvious to be worth answering. 
 Also she was listening, following in imagination her 
 150 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 151 
 
 lodger's quick, singularly quiet progress — " stealthy " she 
 called it to herself — through the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. 
 Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What was that 
 
 Bunting was saying ? 
 
 " It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather 
 — no, that it ain't, not unless they have something to do 
 that won't wait till to-morrow." The speaker was look- 
 ing straight into his wife's narrow, colourless face. Bunt- 
 ing was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself 
 right. "I've a good mind to speak to him about it, that 
 I have! He ought to be told that it isn't safe — not for 
 the sort of man he is — to be wandering about the streets 
 at night. I read you out the accidents in Lloyd's — shock- 
 ing, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And 
 then, that horrid monster 'ull soon be at his work 
 again " 
 
 "Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. 
 
 She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. 
 She was very curious to know whether he had gone into 
 his nice sitting-room, or straight upstairs, to that cold 
 experiments-room, as he now always called it. 
 
 But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and 
 she gave up trying to listen to what was going on above. 
 
 "It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such 
 a party as that in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if 
 the notion had a certain pleasant thrill in it after all. 
 
 "What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply. 
 And then she got up. Her husband's remarks had dis- 
 turbed her. Why couldn't they talk of something pleas- 
 ant when they did have a quiet bit of time together? 
 
 Bunting looked down again at his paper, and she 
 
152 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 moved quietly about the room. Very soon it would be 
 time for supper, and to-night she was going to cook her 
 husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That fortunate 
 man, as she was fond of telling him, with mingled con- 
 tempt and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet 
 he was rather fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have 
 lived in good places often are. 
 
 Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his diges- 
 tion. Mrs. Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, 
 and she would never have allowed an unrefined word — 
 such a word as "stomach," for instance, to say nothing 
 of an even plainer term — to pass her lips, except, of 
 course, to a doctor in a sick-room. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into 
 her cold kitchen; instead, with a sudden furtive move- 
 ment, she opened the door leading into her bedroom, 
 and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back into the 
 darkness, and stood motionless, listening. 
 
 At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole 
 on her listening ears the sound of someone moving softly 
 about in the room just overhead, that is, in Mr. Sleuth's 
 bedroom. But, try as she might, it was impossible for 
 her to guess what the lodger was doing. 
 
 At last she heard him open the door leading out on the 
 little landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That 
 meant, no doubt, that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of 
 the evening in the cheerless room above. He hadn't 
 spent any time up there for quite a long while — in fact, 
 not for nearly ten days. 'Twas odd he chose to-night, 
 when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment. 
 
 She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She 
 
THE LODGER 153 
 
 felt very tired — strangely tired, as if she had gone through 
 some great physical exertion. 
 
 Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her and 
 Bunting luck, and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever 
 to forget that. 
 
 As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not 
 for the first time, what the lodger's departure would 
 mean. It would almost certainly mean ruin; just as 
 his staying meant all sorts of good things, of which 
 physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth stayed 
 on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, 
 it meant respectability, and, above all, security. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He 
 never received a letter, and yet he must have some kind 
 of income — so much was clear. She supposed he went 
 and drew his money, in sovereigns, out of a bank as he 
 required it. 
 
 Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately, away 
 from Mr. Sleuth. 
 
 The Avenger? What a strange name! Again she as- 
 sured herself that there would come a time when The 
 Avenger, whoever he was, must feel satiated; when he 
 would feel himself to be, so to speak, avenged. 
 
 To go back to Mr. Sleuth; it was lucky that the lodger 
 seemed so pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his 
 landlord and landlady — indeed, there was no real reason 
 why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish to leave such nice 
 lodgings. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong 
 effort, and shook off her awful sense of apprehension and 
 
154 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 unease. Feeling for the handle of the door giving into 
 the passage she turned it, and then, with light, firm steps, 
 she went down into the kitchen. 
 
 When they had first taken the house, the basement 
 had been made by her care, if not into a pleasant, then, 
 at any rate, into a very clean place. She had had it 
 whitewashed, and against the still white walls the gas- 
 stove loomed up, a great square of black iron and bright 
 steel. It was a large gas-stove, the kind for which one 
 pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, 
 and here, in the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in- 
 the-slot arrangement. Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a 
 woman to have anything to do w r ith that kind of busi- 
 ness. There was a proper gas-meter, and she paid for 
 what she consumed after she had consumed it. 
 
 Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden 
 table, she turned up the gas-jet, and blew out the candle. 
 
 Then, lighting one of the gas-rings, she put a frying- 
 pan on the stove, and once more her mind reverted, as 
 if in spite of herself, to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there 
 been a more confiding or trusting gentleman than the 
 lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, so — so 
 peculiar. 
 
 She thought of the bag — that bag which had rumbled 
 about so queerly in the chiffonnier. Something seemed to 
 tell her that to-night the lodger had taken that bag out 
 with him. 
 
 And then she thrust away the thought of the bag 
 almost violently from her mind, and went back to the 
 more agreeable thought of Mr. Sleuth's income, and of 
 how little trouble he gave. Of course, the lodger was 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 155 
 
 eccentric, otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger at all 
 — he would be living in quite a different sort of way with 
 some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. 
 
 While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through 
 her mind, Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, pre- 
 paring the cheese, cutting it up into little shreds, care- 
 fully measuring out the butter, doing everything, as was 
 always her way, with a certain delicate and cleanly 
 precision. 
 
 And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread 
 on which was to be poured the melted cheese, she sud- 
 denly heard sounds which startled her, made her feel un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the 
 house. 
 
 She looked up and listened. 
 
 Surely the lodger was not going out again into the 
 cold and foggy night — going out, as he had done the 
 other evening, for a second time? But no; the sounds 
 she heard, the sounds of now familiar footsteps, did not 
 continue down the passage leading to the front door. 
 
 Instead ■ Why, what was this she heard now? 
 
 She began to listen so intently that the bread she was 
 holding at the end of the toasting-fork grew quite black. 
 With a start she became aware that this was so, and she 
 frowned, vexed with herself. That came of not attend- 
 ing to one's work. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had 
 never yet done. He was coming down into the kitchen. 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading 
 heavily on the kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart 
 
156 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 began to beat, as if in response. She put out the flame 
 of the gas-ring, unheedful of the fact that the cheese 
 would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. 
 
 Then she turned and faced the door. 
 
 There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment 
 later the door opened, and revealed, as she had at once 
 known and feared it would do, the lodger. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was 
 clad in a plaid dressing-gown, which she had never seen 
 him wear before, though she knew that he had pur- 
 chased it not long after his arrival. In his hand was a 
 lighted candle. 
 
 When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman 
 standing in it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken 
 aback, almost aghast. 
 
 "Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you 
 didn't ring, sir?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. 
 Mr. Sleuth had no business to come like this into her 
 kitchen, and she intended to let him know that such was 
 her view. 
 
 "No, I — I didn't ring," he stammered awkwardly. 
 "The truth is, I didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing. Please excuse my costume. My gas-stove has gone 
 wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot arrangement 
 has done so. So I came down to see if you had a gas- 
 stove. I am going to ask you to allow me to use it to- 
 night for an important experiment I wish to make." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly — quickly. 
 She felt horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't 
 Mr. Sleuth's experiment wait till the morning? She 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 157 
 
 stared at him dubiously, but there was that in his face 
 that made her at once afraid and pitiful. It was a wild, 
 eager, imploring look. 
 
 "Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold 
 down here." 
 
 "It seems most pleasantly warm," he observed, his 
 voice full of relief, "warm and cosy, after my cold room 
 upstairs." 
 
 Warm and cosy? Mrs. Bunting stared at him in 
 amazement. Nay, even that cheerless room at the top 
 of the house must be far warmer and more cosy than 
 this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. 
 
 "I'll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, 
 but it's in perfect order, for the first thing I did after 
 I came into the house was to have the chimney swept. 
 It was terribly dirty. It might have set the house on 
 fire." Mrs. Bunting's housewifely instincts were roused. 
 "For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in 
 your bedroom this cold night." 
 
 "By no means — I would prefer not. I certainly do 
 not want a fire there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing. I thought I had told you as much." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange- 
 looking figure, his candle still alight, just inside the 
 kitchen door. 
 
 "I shan't be very long, sir. Just about a quarter 
 of an hour. You could come down then. I'll have 
 everything quite tidy for you. Is there anything I can 
 do to help you?" 
 
 "I do not require the use of your kitchen yet — thank 
 you all the same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down 
 
158 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 later — altogether later — after you and your husband 
 have gone to bed. But I should be much obliged if 
 you would see that the gas people come to-morrow and 
 put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. 
 That the shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is 
 very unpleasant. It has upset me greatly." 
 
 "Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For 
 the matter of that, I could ask him to go up now." 
 
 "No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done 
 to-night. Besides, he couldn't put it right. I am some- 
 thing of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, and I have done all I 
 could. The cause of the trouble is quite simple. The 
 machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish plan, 
 so I always felt it to be." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than 
 he was wont to speak, but Mrs. Bunting sympathised 
 with him in this matter. She had always suspected that 
 those slot machines were as dishonest as if they were 
 human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up 
 the shillings! She had had one once, so she knew. 
 
 And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth 
 walked forward and stared at the stove. "Then you 
 haven't got a slot machine?" he said wonderingly. "I'm 
 very glad of that, for I expect my experiment will 
 take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you some- 
 thing for the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't think of charging you any- 
 thing for that. We don't use our stove very much, you 
 know, sir. I'm never in the kitchen a minute longer than 
 I can help this cold weather." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 159 
 
 she was actually in Mr. Sleuth's presence her morbid 
 fears would be lulled, perhaps because his manner al- 
 most invariably was gentle and very quiet. But still 
 there came over her an eerie feeling, as, with him pre- 
 ceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. 
 
 Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady 
 good-night, and proceeded upstairs to his own apart- 
 ments. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she 
 lighted the stove; but she felt unnerved, afraid of she 
 knew not what. As she was cooking the cheese, she tried 
 to concentrate her mind on what she was doing, and on 
 the whole she succeeded. But another part of her mind 
 seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent 
 questions. 
 
 The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, 
 and once she caught herself listening — which was absurd, 
 for, of course, she could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth 
 was doing two, if not three, flights upstairs. She won- 
 dered in what the lodger's experiments consisted. It 
 was odd that she had never been able to discover what 
 it was he really did with that big gas-stove. All she 
 knew was that he used a very high degree of heat. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. 
 Bunting made up her mind to keep awake. She was set 
 upon knowing at what hour of the night the lodger would 
 come down into her kitchen to carry through his experi- 
 ment, and, above all, she was anxious to know how long 
 he would stay there. 
 
 But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and 
 presently she fell asleep. 
 
 The church clock hard by struck two, and suddenly 
 Mrs. Bunting awoke. She felt put out, sharply annoyed 
 with herself. How could she have dropped off like that? 
 Mr. Sleuth must have been down and up again hours 
 ago! 
 
 Then, gradually, she became aware that there was a 
 faint acrid odour in the room. Elusive, intangible, it 
 yet seemed to encompass her and the snoring man by 
 her side, almost as a vapour might have done. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, 
 in spite of the cold, she quietly crept out of her nice, 
 warm bedclothes, and crawled along to the bottom of 
 the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's landlady did a very 
 curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail and put 
 her face close to the hinge of the door giving into the 
 halL Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible 
 160 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 161 
 
 odour was coming; the smell must be very strong in the 
 passage. 
 
 As, shivering, she crept back under the bedclothes, 
 she longed to give her sleeping husband a good shake, 
 and in fancy she heard herself saying, "Bunting, get up! 
 There's something strange and dreadful going on down- 
 stairs which we ought to know about." 
 
 But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening 
 with painful intentness for the slightest sound, she knew 
 very well that she would do nothing of the sort. 
 
 What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess 
 — a certain amount of smell — in her nice clean kitchen? 
 Was he not — was he not an almost perfect lodger? If 
 they did anything to upset him, where could they ever 
 hope to get another like him? 
 
 Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, 
 heavy steps creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. 
 Sleuth did not go straight up to his own quarters, as she 
 had expected him to do. Instead, he went to the front 
 door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he came 
 past her door, and she thought — but could not be sure — 
 that he sat down on the stairs. 
 
 At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down 
 the passage again. Very softly he closed the front door. 
 By then she had divined why the lodger had behaved 
 in this funny fashion. He wanted to get the strong, 
 acrid smell of burning — was it of burning wool? — out of 
 the house. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listen- 
 ing to the lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself 
 would never get rid of the horrible odour. 
 
162 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. 
 
 At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled 
 sleep; and then she dreamed a most terrible and unnat- 
 ural dream. Hoarse voices seemed to be shouting in her 
 ear : " The Avenger close here ! The Avenger close here ! " 
 " 'Orrible murder off the Edgware Road ! " " The Avenger 
 at his work again!" 
 
 And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered — 
 angered and impatient. She knew so well why she was 
 being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! It was be- 
 cause of Bunting — Bunting, who could think and talk of 
 nothing else than those frightful murders, in which only 
 morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. 
 
 Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her hus- 
 band speaking to her about it: 
 
 "Ellen" — so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear — 
 "Ellen, my dear, I'm just going to get up to get a paper. 
 It's after seven o'clock." 
 
 The shouting — nay, worse, the sound of tramping, 
 hurrying feet smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back 
 her hair off her forehead with both hands, she sat up and 
 listened. 
 
 It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely 
 worse — reality. 
 
 Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile 
 longer, and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most 
 awful dream would have been easier to bear than this 
 awakening. 
 
 She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as 
 he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with 
 the newspaper-seller. Then he came back. There was 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 163 
 
 a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the 
 sitting-room. 
 
 Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the 
 morning. He had promised to do this when they first 
 married, and he had never yet broken his word. It was 
 a very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for 
 a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge 
 that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale 
 blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be rather longer 
 than usual over the job. 
 
 When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting 
 found his wife lying with her face to the wall. 
 
 "Here's your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill 
 of eager, nay happy, excitement in his voice. 
 
 She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she 
 asked. "Well? Why don't you tell me about it?" 
 
 "I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I 
 thought, Ellen, you never heard nothing." 
 
 "How could I have slept through all that din? Of 
 course I heard. Why don't you tell me?" 
 
 "I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," 
 he said slowly. 
 
 "You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for 
 I heard the rustling. You begun reading it before you 
 lit the gas-ring. Don't tell me! Wliat was that they 
 was shouting about the Edgware Road?" 
 
 "Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well 
 tell you. The Avenger's moving West — that's what he's 
 doing. Last time 'twas King's Cross — now 'tis the Edg- 
 ware Road. I said he'd come our way, and he has come 
 our way!" 
 
164 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "You just go and get me that paper," she commanded. 
 "I wants to see for myself." 
 
 Bunting went into the next room; then he came back 
 and handed her silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. 
 
 "Why, whatever's this?" she asked. "This ain't our 
 paper!" 
 
 "'Course not," he answered, a trifle crossly. "It's a 
 special early edition of the Sun, just because of The 
 Avenger. Here's the bit about it" — he showed her the 
 exact spot. But she would have found it, even by the 
 comparatively bad light of the gas-jet now flaring over 
 the dressing-table, for the news was printed in large, clear 
 characters : — 
 
 "Once more the murder fiend who chooses to call himself The 
 Avenger has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the 
 police, and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking 
 an interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes, were concen- 
 trating their attention round the East End and King's Cross, he 
 moved swiftly and silently Westward. And, choosing a time when 
 the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another 
 human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. 
 
 " Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he had 
 lured his victim to destruction were passing up and down scores of 
 happy, busy people, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that 
 cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of com- 
 mitting his atrocious crime. And it was only owing to the merest 
 accident that the body was discovered as soon as it was — that is, 
 just after midnight. 
 
 " Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion 
 that the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It 
 was at first thought — we were going to say, hoped — that this murder 
 had nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrify- 
 ing the whole of the civilised world. But no — pinned on the edge 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 165 
 
 of the dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular 
 piece of grey paper — the grimmest visiting card ever designed by 
 the wit of man! And this time The Avenger has surpassed himself 
 as regards his audacity and daring — so cold in its maniacal fanat- 
 icism and abhorrent wickedness." 
 
 All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading with slow, 
 painful intentness, her husband was looking at her, long- 
 ing, yet afraid, to burst out with a new idea which he was 
 burning to confide even to his Ellen's unsympathetic ears. 
 
 At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up 
 defiantly. 
 
 "Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at 
 me like that?" she said irritably. "Murder or no mur- 
 der, I've got to get up! Go away — do!" 
 
 And Bunting went off into the next room. 
 
 After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. 
 
 She tried to think of nothing. Nay, more — so strong, 
 so determined was her will that for a few moments she 
 actually did think of nothing. She felt terribly tired and 
 weak, brain and body both quiescent, as does a person 
 who is recovering from a long, wearing illness. 
 
 Presently detached, puerile thoughts drifted across the 
 surface of her mind like little clouds across a summer 
 sky. She wondered if those horrid newspaper men were 
 allowed to shout in Belgrave Square; she wondered if, in 
 that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her brother-in-law, 
 would get up and buy a paper. But no. Margaret was 
 not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason 
 as that. 
 
 Was it to-morrow Daisy was coming back? Yes — 
 to-morrow, not to-day. Well, that was a comfort, at 
 
166 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 any rate. What amusing things Daisy would be able 
 to tell about her visit to Margaret! The girl had an 
 excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her pre- 
 cise, funny ways, her perpetual talk about "the family," 
 lent herself to the cruel gift. 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting's mind — her poor, weak, tired 
 mind — wandered off to young Chandler. A funny thing 
 love was, when you came to think of it — which she, Ellen 
 Bunting, didn't often do. There was Joe, a likely young 
 fellow, seeing a lot of young women, and pretty young 
 women, too, — quite as pretty as Daisy, and ten times 
 more artful, — and yet there ! He passed them all by, had 
 done so ever since last summer, though you might be sure 
 that they, artful minxes, by no manner of means passed 
 him by, — without giving them a thought! As Daisy 
 wasn't here, he would probably keep away to-day. There 
 was comfort in that thought, too. 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned 
 in a dreadful turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must 
 nerve herself to bear all that — that talk there'd be about 
 The Avenger between him and Bunting. 
 
 Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly 
 as if she had just recovered from an illness which had left 
 her very weak, very, very tired in body and soul. 
 
 She stood for a moment listening — listening, and shiver- 
 ing, for it was very cold. Considering how early it still 
 was, there seemed a lot of coming and going in the 
 Marylebone Road. She could hear the unaccustomed 
 sounds through her closed door and the tightly fastened 
 windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular 
 crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurry- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 167 
 
 ing to the scene of The Avenger's last extraordinary 
 crime. . . . 
 
 She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning 
 paper falling from the letter-box on to the floor of the 
 hall, and a moment later came the sound of Bunting 
 quickly, quietly going out and getting it. She visualised 
 him coming back, and sitting down with a sigh of satis- 
 faction by the newly-lit fire. 
 
 Languidly she began dressing herself to the accom- 
 paniment of distant tramping and of noise of passing 
 traffic, which increased in volume and in sound as the 
 moments slipped by. 
 
 When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen every- 
 thing looked just as she had left it, and there was no 
 trace of the acrid smell she had expected to find there. 
 Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed room was full of 
 fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were bolted 
 and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them 
 had been widely opened to the air. She had left them 
 shut. 
 
 Making a "spill" out of a twist of newspaper — she had 
 been taught the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses 
 — she stooped and flung open the oven-door of her gas- 
 stove. Yes, it was as she had expected; a fierce heat 
 had been generated there since she had last used the oven, 
 and through to the stone floor below had fallen a mass of 
 black, gluey soot. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had 
 bought the previous day for her own and Bunting's 
 breakfast upstairs, and broiled them over the gas-ring 
 
168 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in sur- 
 prised silence. She had never done such a thing before. 
 
 "I couldn't stay down there," she said; "it was so cold 
 and foggy. I thought I'd make breakfast up here, just 
 for to-day." 
 
 "Yes," he said kindly; "that's quite right, Ellen. I 
 think you've done quite right, my dear." 
 
 But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat 
 any of the nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had 
 another cup of tea. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen?" Bunting asked solici- 
 tously. 
 
 "No," she said shortly; "I'm not ill at all. Don't be 
 silly! The thought of that horrible thing happening so 
 close by has upset me, and put me off my food. Just 
 hark to them now!" 
 
 Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of 
 scurrying feet and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd, 
 nay, what a mob, must be hastening busily to and from 
 the spot where there was now nothing to be seen ! 
 
 Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. 
 "I don't want any of those ghouls in here!" she ex- 
 claimed angrily. And then, "What a lot of idle people 
 there are Ip the world I" she said. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He 
 would go to the window; stand there awhile staring out 
 at the people hurrying past; then, coming back to the 
 fireplace, sit down. 
 
 But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at 
 his paper, up he would rise from his chair, and go to the 
 window again. 
 
 "I wish you'd stay still," his wife said at last. And 
 then, a few minutes later, "Hadn't you better put your 
 hat and coat on and go out? " she exclaimed. 
 
 And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put 
 on his hat and coat and go out. 
 
 As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but 
 human; it was natural that he should be thrilled and ex- 
 cited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing which had just 
 happened close by. Ellen wasn't reasonable about such 
 things. How queer and disagreeable she had been that 
 very morning — angry with him because he had gone out 
 to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry 
 when he had come back and said nothing, because he 
 thought it would annoy her to hear about it! 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down 
 again into the kitchen, and as she went through into the 
 low, whitewashed place, a tremor of fear, of quick terror, 
 came over her. She turned and did what she had never 
 169 
 
170 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 in her life done before, and what she had never heard of 
 anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. 
 
 But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, 
 shut off from everybody, she was still beset by a strange, 
 uncanny dread. She felt as if she were locked in with 
 an invisible presence, which mocked and jeered, re- 
 proached and threatened her, by turns. 
 
 Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go 
 away for two days? Daisy, at any rate, was company 
 — kind, young, unsuspecting company. With Daisy she 
 could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort to 
 be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought 
 to, say nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued 
 by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame. She was the man's 
 wedded wife — in his stolid way he was very kind to her, 
 and yet she was keeping from him something he cer- 
 tainly had a right to know. 
 
 Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting 
 of her dreadful suspicion — nay, of her almost certainty. 
 
 At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. 
 Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom. 
 That made her feel a little better. 
 
 She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way 
 she was relieved by his absence. She would have liked 
 to feel him near by, and yet she welcomed anything that 
 took her husband out of the house. 
 
 And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put 
 her whole mind into what she was doing, she was asking 
 herself all the time what was going on upstairs. . . . 
 
 What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, 
 that was only natural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 171 
 
 had been up a long time last night, or rather this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. 
 Sleuth's landlady did not go up, as she generally did, 
 before getting ready the simple meal which was the 
 lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, she 
 went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's 
 food. 
 
 Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, 
 she walked up, and just outside the sitting-room — for 
 she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had got up, that he was 
 there already, waiting for her — she rested the tray on 
 the top of the banisters and listened. For a few mo- 
 ments she heard nothing; then through the door came 
 the high, quavering voice with which she had become so 
 familiar: 
 
 "'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread 
 eaten in secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that 
 the dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths 
 of hell.'" 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear 
 the leaves of her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily; 
 and then again Mr. Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer 
 voice : 
 
 "'She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, 
 many strong men have been slain by her.'" And in a 
 softer, lower, plaintive tone came the words: '"I applied 
 my heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom 
 and the reason of things, and to know the wickedness of 
 folly, even of foolishness and madness.'" 
 
172 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen dis- 
 tress, of spiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. 
 For the first time in her life she visioned the infinite 
 mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of human life. 
 
 Poor Mr. Sleuth — poor unhappy, distraught Mr. 
 Sleuth! An overwhelming pity blotted out for a mo- 
 ment the fear, aye, and the loathing, she had been feeling 
 for her lodger. 
 
 She knocked at the door, and then she took up her 
 tray. 
 
 "Come in, Mrs. Bunting/' Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded 
 feebler, more toneless than usual. 
 
 She turned the handle of the door and walked in. 
 
 The lodger was not sitting in his usual place; he had 
 taken the little round table on which his candle gen- 
 erally rested when he read in bed, out of his bedroom, 
 and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it 
 were placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But 
 as his landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the 
 Bible, and began staring dreamily out of the window, 
 down at the sordid, hurrying crowd of men and women 
 which now swept along the Marylebone Road. 
 
 "There seem a great many people out to-day," he ob- 
 served, without looking round. 
 
 "Yes, sir, there do." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the 
 cloth and putting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she 
 did so she was seized with a mortal, instinctive terror of 
 the man sitting there. 
 
 At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She 
 forced herself to look at him. How tired, how worn, 
 he looked, and — how strange! 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 173 
 
 Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, 
 he rubbed his hands together with a nervous gesture- 
 it was a gesture he only made when something had 
 pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at 
 him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together 
 thus when he had first seen the room upstairs, and re- 
 alised that it contained a large gas-stove and a con- 
 venient sink. 
 
 What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her 
 in an odd way of a play she had once seen — a play to 
 which a young man had taken her when she was a girl, 
 unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled and 
 fascinated her. "Out, out, damned spot!" that was 
 what the tall, fierce, beautiful lady who had played the 
 part of a queen had said, twisting her hands together just 
 as the lodger was doing now. 
 
 "It's a fine day," said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and 
 unfolding his napkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not 
 know if you will agree with me, Mrs. Bunting, but I 
 always feel brighter when the sun is shining, as it is now, 
 at any rate, trying to shine." He looked at her inquir- 
 ingly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only 
 nodded. However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth ad- 
 versely. 
 
 He had acquired a great liking and respect for this 
 well-balanced, taciturn woman. She was the first 
 woman for whom he had experienced any such feeling 
 for many years past. 
 
 He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook 
 his head. "I don't feel as if I could eat very much 
 to-day," he said plaintively. And then he suddenly 
 took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. 
 
174 
 
 THP; LODGER 
 
 Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not 
 the same waistcoat Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the 
 day before. 
 
 "Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here?" 
 And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed 
 him. 
 
 "Will you please accept this little gift for the use you 
 kindly allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?" 
 he said quietly. "I tried to make as little mess as I 
 could, Mrs. Bunting, but — well, the truth is I was carry- 
 ing out a very elaborate experiment " 
 
 Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and 
 then she took the coin. The fingers which for a mo- 
 ment brushed lightly against her palm were icy cold — 
 cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently not well. 
 
 As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet 
 ball hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's 
 landlady, and threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to 
 her, on to the piece of gold she was holding in her hand. 
 
 The day went by, as other days had gone by in that 
 quiet household, but, of course, there was far greater 
 animation outside the little house than was usually the 
 case. 
 
 Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time 
 for some days, the whole of London seemed to be making 
 holiday in that part of the town. 
 
 When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened 
 silently while he told her of the extraordinary excitement 
 reigning everywhere. And then, after he had been talk- 
 ing a long while, she suddenly shot a strange look at him. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 175 
 
 "I suppose you went to see the place?" she said. 
 And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, there wasn't anything much to see — not now. 
 But, oh, Ellen, the daring of him! Why, Ellen, if the 
 poor soul had had time to cry out — which they don't 
 believe she had — it's impossible someone wouldn't 'a 
 heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like that 
 — in the afternoon, like — he never will be caught. He 
 must have just got mixed up with all the other people 
 within ten seconds of what he'd done!" 
 
 During the afternoon Bunting bought papers reck- 
 lessly — in fact, he must have spent the best part of six- 
 pence. But in spite of all the supposed and suggested 
 clues, there was nothing — nothing at »all new to read, 
 less, in fact, than ever before. 
 
 The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. 
 Bunting began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, 
 less — less terrified than she had felt through the morning. 
 
 And then something happened which broke with 
 dramatic suddenness the quietude of the day. 
 
 They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the 
 last of the papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly 
 there came a loud, thundering, double knock at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. 4 'Why, whoever 
 can that be?" she said. 
 
 But as Bunting got up she added quickly, "You just 
 sit down again. I'll go myself. Sounds like someone 
 after lodgings. I'll soon send them to the right-about I" 
 
 And then she left the room, but not before there had 
 come another loud double knock. 
 
176 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment 
 she saw that the person who stood there was a stranger 
 to her. He was a big, dark man, with fierce, black mous- 
 taches. And somehow — she could not have told you 
 why — he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. 
 
 This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first 
 words he uttered. For, "I'm here to execute a war- 
 rant!" he exclaimed in a theatrical, hollow tone. 
 
 With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly 
 threw out her arms as if to bar the way; she turned 
 deadly white — but then, in an instant, the supposed 
 stranger's laugh rang out, with a loud, jovial, familiar 
 sound ! 
 
 "There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take 
 you in as well as all that!" 
 
 It was Joe Chandler — Joe Chandler dressed up, as 
 she knew he sometimes, not very often, did dress up in 
 the course of his work. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting began laughing — laughing helplessly, 
 hysterically, just as she had done on the morning of 
 Daisy's arrival, when the newspaper-sellers had come 
 shouting down the Marylebone Road. 
 
 "What's all this about?" Bunting came out. 
 
 Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I 
 didn't mean to upset her like this," he said, looking 
 foolish; "'twas just my silly nonsense, Mr. Bunting." 
 And together they helped her into the sitting-room. 
 
 But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse 
 than ever; she threw her black apron over her face, and 
 began to sob hysterically. 
 
 "I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke," 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 177 
 
 went on the young fellow apologetically. "But, there 
 now, I have upset her. I am sorry!" 
 
 "It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron 
 off her face, but the tears were still streaming from her 
 eyes as she sobbed and laughed by turns. " Don't matter 
 one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupid of me to be so taken 
 aback. But, there, that murder that's happened close 
 by, it's just upset me — upset me altogether to-day." 
 
 "Enough to upset anyone — that was," acknowledged 
 the young man ruefully. "I've only come in for a min- 
 ute, like. I haven't no right to come when I'm on duty 
 like this " 
 
 Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains 
 of the meal were still on the table. 
 
 "You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," 
 said Bunting hospitably; "and then you can tell us any 
 news there is, Joe. We're right in the middle of every- 
 thing now, ain't we?" He spoke with evident enjoy- 
 ment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact. 
 
 Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread- 
 and-butter. He waited a moment, and then: "Weil 
 I have got one piece of news — not that I suppose it'll 
 interest you very much." 
 
 They both looked at him — Mrs. Bunting suddenly 
 calm, though her breast still heaved from time to time. 
 
 "Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, 
 impressively. 
 
 "No! Not the Commissioner o' Police?" exclaimed 
 Bunting. 
 
 "Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about 
 us any longer — and I don't wonder! He done his best, 
 
178 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 and so's we all. The public have just gone daft — in the 
 West End, that is, to-day. As for the papers, well, 
 they're something cruel — that's what they are. And the 
 ridiculous ideas they print! You'(" never believe the 
 things they asks us to do — and quite serious-like." 
 
 "What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She 
 really wanted to know. 
 
 "Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a 
 house-to-house investigation — all over London. Just 
 think of it! Everybody to let the police go all over their 
 house, from garret to kitchen, just to see if The Avenger 
 isn't concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, 'twould 
 take us months and months just to do that one job in a 
 town like London." 
 
 "I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said 
 Mrs. Bunting angrily. 
 
 "It's all along of them blarsted papers that The 
 Avenger went to work a different way this time," said 
 Chandler slowly. 
 
 Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his 
 guest, and was eagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" 
 he asked. "I don't take your meaning, Joe." 
 
 "Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was 
 always saying how extraordinary it was that The Avenger 
 chose such a peculiar time to do his deeds — I mean, the 
 time when no one's about the streets. Now, doesn't it 
 stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that, and 
 seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go on another 
 tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a strip 
 of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of 
 his pocket: 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 179 
 
 "'An ex-Lord Mayor of London on The Avenger 
 
 "'Will the murderer be caught? Yes,' replied Sir John, 'he will 
 certainly be caught — probably when he commits his next crime. 
 A whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on 
 his track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole com- 
 munity against him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remem- 
 bered that he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his 
 crimes. 
 
 "'Londoners are now in such a state of nerves — if I may use the 
 expression, in such a state of funk — that every passer-by, however 
 innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if his avoca- 
 tion happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and three 
 in the morning.' 
 
 "I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe 
 Chandler wrathfully. 
 
 Just then the lodger's bell rang. 
 
 "Let me go up, my dear/' said Bunting. 
 
 His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright 
 she had had. 
 
 "No, no," she said hastily. "You stop down here, 
 and talk to Joe. I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may 
 be wanting his supper just a bit earlier than usual to- 
 day." 
 
 Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were 
 made of cotton wool, she dragged herself up to the first 
 floor, knocked at the door, and then went in. 
 
 "You did ring, sir?" she said, in her quiet, respectful 
 way. 
 
 And Mr. Sleuth looked up. 
 
 She thought — but, as she reminded herself afterwards, 
 it might have been just her idea, and nothing else — that 
 
180 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 for the first time the lodger looked frightened — frightened 
 and cowed. 
 
 "I heard a noise downstairs/' he said fretfully, "and 
 I wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, 
 Mrs. Bunting, when I first took these rooms, quiet is 
 essential to me." 
 
 "It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were 
 disturbed. Would you like the knocker taken off to- 
 morrow? Bunting '11 be pleased to do it if you don't 
 like to hear the sound of the knocks." 
 
 "Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." 
 Mr. Sleuth looked quite relieved. "Just a friend of 
 yours, was it, Mrs. Bunting? He made a great deal of 
 noise." 
 
 "Just a young fellow," she said apologetically. "The 
 son of one of Bunting's old friends. He often comes 
 here, sir; but he never did give such a great big double 
 knock as that before. I'D speak to him about it." 
 
 "Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you 
 did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoy- 
 ance — nothing more." 
 
 She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth 
 said nothing of the hoarse cries which had made of the 
 road outside a perfect Bedlam every hour or two through- 
 out that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to 
 what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman 
 at his reading. 
 
 "I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little 
 earlier to-night, sir?" 
 
 "Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting — just when it's 
 convenient. I do not wish to put you out in any way." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 181 
 
 She felt herself dismissed, and going out quietly, closed 
 the door. 
 
 As she did so, she heard the front door banging to. 
 She sighed — Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young 
 fellow. 
 
CHAPTER XVn 
 
 Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that dur- 
 ing which the lodger had been engaged in making his 
 mysterious experiments in her kitchen. She was so 
 tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her the 
 moment she laid her head upon her pillow. 
 
 Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morn- 
 ing. Hardly giving herself time to swallow the tea 
 Bunting had made and brought her, she got up and 
 dressed. 
 
 She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the 
 hall and staircase required a thorough "doing down," 
 and she did not even wait till they had eaten their break- 
 fast before beginning her labours. It made Bunting 
 feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading 
 his morning paper — the paper which was again of such 
 absorbing interest — he called out, "There's no need for 
 so much hurry, Ellen. Daisy '11 be back to-day. Why 
 don't you wait till she's come home to help you?" 
 
 But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweep- 
 ing, polishing, his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't 
 no good at this sort of work. Don't you worry about 
 me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an extra bit of cleaning 
 to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone could come in and 
 see my place dirty." 
 
 182 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 183 
 
 "No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a 
 new thought struck him: "Ain't you afraid of waking 
 the lodger?" he called out. 
 
 "Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last 
 night," she answered quickly. "As it is, I study him 
 over-much; it's a long, long time since I've done this 
 staircase down." 
 
 All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. 
 Bunting left the sitting-room door wide open. 
 
 That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting 
 didn't like to get up and shut her out, as it were. Still, 
 try as he would, he couldn't read with any comfort while 
 all that noise was going on. He had never known Ellen 
 make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he looked 
 up and frowned rather crossly. 
 
 There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to 
 see that Ellen was standing in the doorway, staring at 
 him, doing nothing. 
 
 "Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?" 
 
 "I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't 
 tell me nothing. I'd like to know if there's anything — 
 I mean anything new — in the paper this morning." 
 
 She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were 
 ashamed of her unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, 
 of pallor, made Bunting suddenly uneasy. "Come in 
 — do!" he repeated sharply. "You've done quite enough 
 — and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary. Come 
 in and shut that door." 
 
 He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, 
 obeyed him. 
 
 She came in, and did -what she had never done before 
 
184 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 — brought the broom with her, and put it up against the 
 wall in the corner. 
 Then she sat down. 
 
 "I think I'll make breakfast up here/' she said. "I 
 — I feel cold, Bunting." And her husband stared at 
 her surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening 
 on her forehead. 
 
 He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the 
 eggs up. Don't you worry. For the matter of that, I 
 can cook them downstairs if you like." 
 
 "No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own 
 work. You just bring them up here — that'll be all 
 right. To-morrow morning we'll have Daisy to help 
 see to things." 
 
 "Come over here and sit down comfortable in my 
 chair," he suggested kindly. "You never do take any 
 bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'd such a woman!" 
 
 And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walk- 
 ing across the room with languid steps. 
 
 He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. 
 
 She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and 
 Bunting took two steps towards her. 
 
 "I'll show you the most interesting bit," he said 
 eagerly. "It's the piece headed, 'Our Special Investi- 
 gator.' You see, they've started a special investi- 
 gator of their own, and he's got hold of a lot of little 
 facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man 
 who writes all that — I mean the Special Investigator 
 — was a famous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back 
 out of his retirement o' purpose to do this bit of work 
 for the paper. You read what he says — I shouldn't be 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 187 
 
 While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through 
 his mind, Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. 
 He was going to give Ellen a nice little surprise — to cook 
 an omelette as a French chef had once taught him to do, 
 years and years ago. He didn't know how she would 
 take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but 
 never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. 
 Ellen hadn't been eating her food properly of late. 
 
 And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, 
 it must be admitted, to his surprise, took it very well. 
 She had not even noticed how long he had been down- 
 stairs, for she had been reading with intense, painful care 
 the column that the great daily paper they took in had 
 allotted to the one-time famous detective. 
 
 According to this Special Investigator's own account, he 
 had discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye 
 of the police and of the official detectives. For instance, 
 owing, he admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been 
 at the place where the two last murders had been com- 
 mitted very soon after the double crime had been dis- 
 covered—in fact, within half an hour, and he had found, 
 or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavement imprints 
 of the murderer's right foot. 
 
 The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn 
 rubber sole. At the same time, he also admitted — for 
 the Special Investigator was very honest, and he had a 
 good bit of space to fill in the enterprising paper which 
 had engaged him to probe the awful mystery — that there 
 were thousands of rubber soles being worn in London. . . . 
 
 And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting 
 looked up, and there came a wan smile over her thin, 
 
188 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 closely-shut lips. It was quite true — that about rubber 
 soles; there were thousands of rubber soles being worn 
 just now. She felt grateful to the Special Investigator 
 for having stated the fact so clearly. 
 The column ended up with the words: 
 
 "And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten 
 days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public 
 inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery 
 of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible 
 to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general 
 public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same 
 people have been examined and cross-examined in private by the 
 police, their impressions have had time to become blurred and hope- 
 lessly confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt 
 that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually 
 saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double 
 crime; — this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highest 
 value and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account of 
 the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements 
 made during its course." 
 
 Even when her husband had come in with the tray 
 Mrs. Bunting had gone on reading, only lifting up her 
 eyes for a moment. At last he said rather crossly, "Put 
 down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The omelette Fve 
 cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't eat it." 
 
 But once his wife had eaten her breakfast — and, to 
 Bunting's mortification, she left more than half the nice 
 omelette untouched — she took the paper up again. She 
 turned over the big sheets, until she found, at the foot of 
 one of the ten columns devoted to The Avenger and his 
 crimes, the information she wanted, and then uttered an 
 exclamation under her breath. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 189 
 
 What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for — what at 
 last she had found — was the time and place of the inquest 
 which was to be held that day. The hour named was a 
 rather odd time — two o'clock in the afternoon, but, from 
 Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was most convenient. 
 
 By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would 
 have had his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and 
 Bunting would have had their dinner, and — and Daisy 
 wasn't coming home till tea-time. 
 
 She got up out of her husband's chair. " I think you're 
 right," she said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about 
 me seeing a doctor, Bunting. I think I will go and see a 
 doctor this very afternoon." 
 
 "Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked. 
 
 "No, that I wouldn't. In fact, I wouldn't go at all 
 if you was to go with me." 
 
 "All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my 
 dear; you know best." 
 
 " I should think I did know best where my own health 
 is concerned." 
 
 Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. 
 "'Twas I said, long ago, you ought to go and see the 
 doctor; 'twas you said you wouldn't!" he exclaimed 
 pugnaciously. 
 
 "Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? 
 At any rate, I'm going." 
 
 "Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with 
 a look of real solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. 
 
 Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there oppo- 
 site him. Her shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even 
 her cheeks had fallen in a little. She had never looked so 
 
190 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 bad — not even when they had been half starving, and 
 dreadfully, dreadfully worried. 
 
 "Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at 
 the back of my neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets 
 worse when anything upsets me, like I was upset last 
 night by Joe Chandler/ ' 
 
 "He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" 
 said Bunting crossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him 
 so, too. But I must say, Ellen, I wonder he took you 
 in — he didn't me!" 
 
 "Well, you had no chance he should — you knew who 
 it was," she said slowly. 
 
 And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe 
 Chandler had already spoken when he, Bunting, came out 
 into the hall, and saw their cleverly disguised visitor. 
 
 "Those big black moustaches," he went on complain- 
 ingly, "and that black wig — why, 'twas too ridic'lous — 
 that's what I call it!" 
 
 "Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man — 
 nohow. If he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever 
 see him looking like that!" and Bunting laughed, a com- 
 fortable laugh. 
 
 He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young 
 Chandler the last two days, and, on the whole, he was well 
 pleased. It was a dull, unnatural life the girl was leading 
 with Old Aunt. And Joe was earning good money. They 
 wouldn't have long to wait, these two young people, as 
 a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, Bunting, 
 and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long before 
 they could be married. No, there was no reason why 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 191 
 
 they shouldi^t be spliced quite soon — if so the fancy took 
 them. And Bunting had very little doubt that so the 
 fancy would take Joe, at any rate. 
 
 But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be 
 eighteen till the week after next. They might wait till 
 she was twenty. By that time Old Aunt might be dead, 
 and Daisy might have come into quite a tidy little bit of 
 money. 
 
 "What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply. 
 
 And he shook himself . "I — smiling? At nothing that 
 I knows of." Then he waited a moment. "Well, if 
 you will know, Ellen, I was just thinking of Daisy and 
 that young chap Joe Chandler. He is gone on her, ain't 
 he?" 
 
 "Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, 
 odd, not unkindly laugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she re- 
 peated. "Why, he's out o' sight — right out o' sight!" 
 
 Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, 
 she went on, twisting a bit of her black apron with her 
 fingers as she spoke: — "I suppose he'll be going over this 
 afternoon to fetch her? Or — or d'you think he'll have to 
 be at that inquest, Bunting?" 
 
 " Inquest? What inquest? " He looked at her puzzled. 
 
 " Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage 
 near by King's Cross." 
 
 "Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For 
 the matter o' that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. 
 He said so last night — just when you went up to the 
 lodger." 
 
 "That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with con- 
 siderable satisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' 
 
192 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 had to go. I wouldn't like the house left — not with us 
 out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be upset if there came a 
 ring at the door." 
 
 "Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, 
 Ellen — not while you're out." 
 
 " Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting." 
 
 "No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your 
 idea to see that doctor at Ealing? " 
 
 He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting 
 nodded. Somehow nodding didn't seem as bad as speak- 
 ing a lie. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with 
 courage, when it is repeated, than is even a milder experi- 
 ence which is entirely novel. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the 
 character of a witness, and it was one of the few happen- 
 ings of her life which was sharply etched against the some- 
 what blurred screen of her memory. 
 
 In a country house where the then Ellen Green had 
 been staying for a fortnight with her elderly mistress, 
 there had occurred one of those sudden, pitiful tragedies 
 which occasionally destroy the serenity, the apparent 
 decorum, of a large, respectable household. 
 
 The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, 
 had drowned herself for love of the footman, who had 
 given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The girl 
 had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange lady's 
 maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, and it was 
 during the conversation the two women had had together 
 that the girl had threatened to take her own life. 
 
 As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, prepara- 
 tory to going out, she recalled very clearly all the details 
 of that dreadful affair, and of the part she herself had 
 unwillingly played in it. 
 
 She visualised the country inn where the inquest on 
 that poor, unfortunate creature had been held. 
 
 193 
 
194 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he 
 also was to give evidence, and as they came up there 
 had been a look of cheerful animation about the inn 
 yard; people coming and going, many women as well as 
 men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate had 
 aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror 
 which those who live on a dull countryside welcome 
 rather than avoid. 
 
 Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite 
 to her, to Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting 
 in a room upstairs in the old inn, and the witnesses had 
 been accommodated, not only with chairs, but with cake 
 and wine. 
 
 She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, 
 how she had felt as if she would like to run away from 
 her nice, easy place, rather than have to get up and tell 
 the little that she knew of the sad business. 
 
 But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The 
 coroner had been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact 
 he had complimented her on the clear, sensible way she 
 had given her evidence concerning the exact words the 
 unhappy girl had used. 
 
 One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a ques- 
 tion put by an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh 
 in the crowded, low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss 
 Ellen Green," so the man had asked, "to have told some- 
 one of the girl's threat? If she had done so, might not 
 the girl have been prevented from throwing herself into 
 the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with 
 some asperity — for by that time the coroner's kind man- 
 ner had put her at her ease — that she had not attached 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 195 
 
 any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, 
 never believing that any young woman could be so silly 
 as to drown herself for love! 
 
 Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at 
 which she was going to be present this afternoon would 
 be like that country inquest of long ago. 
 
 It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remem- 
 bered very well how little by little that pleasant-spoken 
 gentleman, the coroner, had got the whole truth out — 
 the story, that is, of how that horrid footman, whom she, 
 Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had 
 set eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. 
 It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited 
 by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; 
 more, the dead girl's letters had been read out — piteous, 
 queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and bitter, 
 threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the 
 young man most severely; she remembered the look on 
 his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a 
 passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. 
 
 Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never 
 told Bunting that long-ago tale. It had occurred years 
 before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever hap- 
 pened to make her tell him about it. 
 
 She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an 
 inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him 
 now, this minute, he might guess where she was thinking 
 of going. 
 
 And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she 
 shook her head — no, no, Bunting would never guess such 
 
196 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 a thing; he would never, never suspect her of telling him 
 a lie. 
 
 Stop — had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the 
 doctor after the inquest was finished — if there was time, 
 that is. She wondered uneasily how long such an in- 
 quiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little 
 had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be 
 very formal — formal and therefore short. 
 
 She herself had one quite definite object — that of hear- 
 ing the evidence of those who believed they had seen the 
 murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay weltering 
 in their still flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, 
 secret, and, yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who 
 were so positive about the matter would describe the 
 appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of people 
 must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the 
 day before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a 
 ghost; he was a living man with some kind of hiding- 
 place where he was known, and where he spent his time 
 between his awful crimes. 
 
 As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme 
 pallor struck her husband. 
 
 "Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the 
 doctor. You looks just as if you was going to a funeral. 
 Til come along with you as far as the station. You're 
 going by train, ain't you? Not by bus, eh? It's a very 
 long way to Ealing, you know." 
 
 "There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to 
 me the very first minute!" But somehow she did not 
 speak unkindly, only fretfully and sadly. 
 
 And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 197 
 
 gone and clean forgot the lodger! But will you be all 
 right, Ellen? Why not wait till to-morrow, and take 
 Daisy with you?" 
 
 "I like doing my own business in my own way, and 
 not in someone else's way!" she snapped out; and then 
 more gently, for Bunting really looked concerned, and 
 she did feel very far from well, " I'll be all right, old man. 
 Don't you worry about me!" 
 
 As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the 
 black shawl she had put over her long jacket more closely 
 round her. 
 
 She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so 
 kind a husband. And yet, what could she do? How 
 could she share her dreadful burden with poor Bunting? 
 Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft. Even 
 she often felt as if she could stand it no longer — as if she 
 would give the world to tell someone — anyone — what 
 it was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so 
 feared to be the truth. 
 
 But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog- 
 laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She 
 had gone out far too little the last few days, for she had 
 had a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected, 
 as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come 
 into contact with the lodger. 
 
 When she reached the Underground station she stopped 
 short. There were two ways of getting to St. Pancras 
 — she could go by bus, or she could go by train. She 
 decided on the latter. But before turning into the sta- 
 tion her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon 
 papers lying on the ground. 
 
198 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Two words, 
 
 "The Avenger," 
 
 stared up at her in varying type. 
 
 Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her 
 shoulders, Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. 
 She did not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of 
 the people round her were doing. Her eyes were smart- 
 ing, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the 
 close print in the paper Bunting took in. 
 
 Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground 
 station. 
 
 And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell 
 Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 The third-class carriage in which she took her place 
 happened to be empty, save for the presence of a police 
 inspector. And once they were well away she summoned 
 up courage, and asked him the question she knew she 
 would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. 
 
 "Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where 
 death inquests are held" — she moistened her lips, waited 
 a moment, and then concluded — "in the neighbourhood 
 of King's Cross?" 
 
 The man turned and looked at her attentively. She 
 did not look at all the sort of Londoner who goes to an 
 inquest — there are many such — just for the fun of the 
 thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her 
 neat black coat and skirt, and the plain Princess bonnet 
 which framed her pale, refined face. 
 
 "I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself," he said 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 199 
 
 good-naturedly. "So you can come along of me. You 
 see there's that big Avenger inquest going on to-day, so 
 I think they'll have had to make other arrangements 
 for — hum, hum — ordinary cases." And as she looked 
 at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd 
 of people at The Avenger inquest — a lot of ticket folk to 
 be accommodated, to say nothing of the public." 
 
 "That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. 
 Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She 
 realised with acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how 
 strange, how untoward, was that which she was going 
 to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a 
 murder inquest! 
 
 During the last few days all her perceptions had be^ 
 come sharpened by suspense and fear. She realised now, 
 as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown friend, 
 how she herself would have regarded any woman who 
 wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple, morbid 
 feeling of curiosity. And yet — and yet that was just 
 what she was about to do herself. 
 
 "I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she mur- 
 mured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little 
 way even to a stranger. 
 
 "Ah!" he said reflectively. "A — a relative connected 
 with one of the two victims' husbands, I presume?" 
 
 And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. 
 
 "Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and 
 then he turned and looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more 
 attention than he had yet done. 
 
 "Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in 
 the speaker's voice. 
 
200 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't 
 seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?" 
 
 " Never had seen her. "I'm from the country." Some- 
 thing impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But 
 she hastily corrected herself, "At least, I was." 
 
 "Will he be there?" 
 
 She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing 
 to whom he was alluding. 
 
 "I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. 
 " I felt sorry for the last poor chap — I mean the husband 
 of the last one — he seemed so awfully miserable. You 
 see, she'd been a good wife and a good mother till she 
 took to the drink." 
 
 "It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 "Aye." He waited a moment. "D'you know T any- 
 one about the court?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. 
 You'd never get in by yourself." 
 
 They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some 
 one's charge, of having a determined man in uniform to 
 look after one! And yet even now there was to Mrs. 
 Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial about the 
 whole business. 
 
 "If he knew — if he only knew what I know!" she 
 kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked 
 lightly by the big, burly form of the police inspector. 
 
 "Tisn't far — not three minutes," he said suddenly. 
 "Am I walking too quick for you, ma'am?" 
 
 "No, not at all. I'm a quick walker." 
 
 And then suddenly they turned a corner and came 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 201 
 
 on a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and 
 women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into 
 a high wall. 
 
 "Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. 
 "Make way there! Make way!" he cried authorita- 
 tively; and he swept her through the serried ranks which 
 parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his 
 uniform. 
 
 "Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd 
 never have got through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, 
 not by any manner of means." 
 
 The small door opened just a little way, and they found 
 themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into 
 a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking. 
 
 Before preceding her into the building which rose at 
 the back of the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend 
 took out his watch. "There's another twenty minutes 
 before they'll begin," he said. "There's the mortuary" 
 — he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to 
 the right of the court. "Would you like to go in and see 
 them?" he whispered. 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And 
 he looked down at her with sympathy, and with in- 
 creased respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, 
 she was. She had not come here imbued with any 
 morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it 
 her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in- 
 law to one of The Avenger's victims. 
 
 They walked through into a big room or hall, now 
 full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones. 
 
 "I think you'd better sit down here," he said con- 
 
202 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 siderately, and, leading her to one of the benches that 
 stood out from the whitewashed walls — "unless you'd 
 rather be with the witnesses, that is." 
 
 But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an 
 effort, "Oughtn't I to go into the court now, if it's likely 
 to be so full?" 
 
 "Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you 
 get a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, 
 but I'll come back in good time and look after you." 
 
 She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over 
 her face while they were going through that sinister, 
 wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her. 
 
 Many of the gentlemen — they mostly wore tall hats 
 and good overcoats — standing round and about her 
 looked vaguely familiar. She picked out one at once. 
 He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated 
 face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was 
 widely advertised in connection with a preparation for 
 the hair — a preparation which in happier, more prosper- 
 ous days Bunting had had great faith in, and used, or 
 so he always said, with great benefit to himself. This 
 gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a dozen 
 men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he 
 spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, 
 was a Somebody. 
 
 How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all 
 parts of London, from their doubtless important avoca- 
 tions, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all 
 these men here together, to this sordid place, on this 
 bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking 
 of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious per- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 203 
 
 sonality — that of the shadowy and yet terribly real 
 human being who chose to call himself The Avenger. 
 And somewhere, not. so very far away from them all, 
 The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly 
 trained minds — aye, and bodies, too — at bay. 
 
 Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised 
 the irony of her presence among them. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 If seemed to Mrs. Bunting that she had been sitting 
 therw a long time — it was really about a quarter of an 
 hour — when her official friend came back. 
 
 "Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin 
 soon." 
 
 She followed him out into a passage, up a row of steep 
 stone steps, and so into the Coroner's Court. 
 
 The court was a big, well-lighted room, in some ways 
 not unlike a chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery 
 ran half-way round, a gallery evidently set aside for the 
 general public, for it was now crammed to its utmost 
 capacity. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row 
 of faces. Had it not been for her good fortune in meet- 
 ing the man she was now following, it was there that 
 she would have had to try and make her way. And 
 she would have failed. Those people had rushed in the 
 moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their 
 way in a way she could never have pushed or fought. 
 
 There were just a few women among them, set, de- 
 termined-looking women, belonging to every class, but 
 made one by their love of sensation and their power of 
 forcing their way in where they wanted to be. But the 
 women were few; the great majority of those standing 
 204 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 205 
 
 there were men — men who were also representative of 
 every class of Londoner. 
 
 The centre of the court was like an arena; it was 
 sunk two or three steps below the surrounding gallery. 
 Just now it was comparatively clear of people, save for 
 the benches on which sat the men who were to compose 
 the jury. Some way from these men, huddled together 
 in a kind of big pew, stood seven people — three women 
 and four men. 
 
 "D'you see the witnesses? " whispered the inspector, 
 pointing these out to her. He supposed her to know 
 one of them with familiar knowledge, but, if that were 
 so, she made no sign. 
 
 Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a 
 kind of little platform, on which stood a desk and an 
 arm-chair. Mrs. Bunting guessed rightly that it was 
 there the coroner would sit. And to the left of the plat- 
 form was the witness-stand, also raised considerably 
 above the jury. 
 
 Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and awe- 
 inspiring than the scene of the inquest which had taken 
 place so long ago, on that bright April day, in the village 
 inn. There the coroner had sat on the same level as the 
 jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped forward one 
 by one, and taken their place before him. 
 
 Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought 
 she would surely die if ever she were exposed to the 
 ordeal of standing in that curious box-like stand, and 
 she stared across at the bench where sat the seven wit- 
 nesses with a feeling of sincere pity in her heart. 
 
 But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted. 
 
206 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Each woman witness looked eager, excited, and ani- 
 mated; well pleased to be the centre of attention and 
 attraction to the general public. It was plain each 
 was enjoying her part of important, if humble, actress 
 in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the at- 
 tention of all London — it might almost be said of the 
 whole world. 
 
 Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered 
 vaguely which was which. Was it that rather draggle- 
 tailed-looking young person who had certainly, or almost 
 certainly, seen The Avenger within ten seconds of the 
 double crime being committed? The woman who, 
 aroused by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed 
 to her window and seen the murderer's shadowy form 
 pass swiftly by in the fog? 
 
 Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered, 
 had given a most circumstantial account of what The 
 Avenger looked like, for he, it was supposed, had actually 
 brushed by her as he passed. 
 
 Those two women now before her had been interro- 
 gated and cross-examined again and again, not only by 
 the police, but by representatives of every newspaper 
 in London. It was from what they had both said — 
 unluckily their accounts materially differed — that that 
 official description of The Avenger had been worked up 
 — that which described him as being a good-looking, re- 
 spectable young fellow of twenty-eight, carrying a news- 
 paper parcel. . . . 
 
 As for the third woman, she was doubtless an acquaint- 
 ance, a boon companion of the dead. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 207 
 
 focused her gaze on another unfamiliar sight. Specially 
 prominent, running indeed through the whole length of 
 the shut-in space, that is, from the coroner's high dais 
 right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, was an 
 ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken 
 her place, there had been sitting three men busily sketch- 
 ing; but now every seat at the table was occupied by 
 tired, intelligent-looking men, each with a notebook, or 
 with some loose sheets of paper, before him. 
 
 "Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They 
 don't like coming till the last minute, for they has to be 
 the last to go. At an ordinary inquest there are only 
 two — maybe three — attending, but now every paper in 
 the kingdom has pretty well applied for a pass to that 
 reporters' table." 
 
 He looked consideringly down into the well of the court. 
 "Now let me see what I can do for you " 
 
 Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps 
 you could put this lady just over there, in a corner by 
 herself? Related to a relation of the deceased, but 
 
 doesn't want to be " He whispered a word or two, 
 
 and the other nodded sympathetically, and looked at 
 Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here," he 
 muttered. "There's no one coming there to-day. You 
 see, there are only seven witnesses — sometimes we have 
 a lot more than that." 
 
 And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite 
 to where the seven witnesses stood and sat with their 
 eager, set faces, ready — aye, more than ready — to play 
 their part. 
 
 For a. moment every eye in the court was focused on 
 
208 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Mrs. Bunting, but soon those who had stared so hun- 
 grily, so intently, at her, realised that she had nothing 
 to do with the case. She was evidently there as a spec- 
 tator, and, more fortunate than most, she had a " friend 
 at court/' and so was able to sit comfortably, instead of 
 having to stand in the crowd. 
 
 But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon 
 some of the important-looking gentlemen she had seen 
 downstairs came into the court, and were ushered over 
 to her seat, while two or three among them, including the 
 famous writer whose face was so familiar that it almost 
 seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a kindly acquaint- 
 ance, were accommodated at the reporters' table. 
 
 "Gentlemen, the Coroner." 
 
 The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then sat 
 down again; over the spectators there fell a sudden 
 silence. 
 
 And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. 
 Bunting, for the first time, that informal little country 
 inquest of long ago. 
 
 First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman- 
 French summons to all whose business it is to attend a 
 solemn inquiry into the death — sudden, unexplained, 
 terrible — of a fellow-being. 
 
 The jury — there were fourteen of them — all stood up 
 again. They raised their hands and solemnly chanted 
 together the curious words of their oath. 
 
 Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences 
 'twixt the coroner and his officer. 
 
 Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed 
 the bodies — he quickly corrected himself — the body, for, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 209 
 
 technically speaking, the inquest just about to be held 
 only concerned one body. 
 
 And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest 
 rustle could be heard through the court, the coroner — a 
 clever-looking gentleman, though not so old as Mrs. 
 Bunting thought he ought to have been to occupy so 
 important a position on so important a day — gave a 
 little history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious 
 Avenger crimes. 
 
 He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he 
 went on. 
 
 He told them that he had been present at the inquest 
 held on one of The Avenger's former victims. "I only 
 went through professional curiosity/' he threw in by way 
 of parenthesis, "little thinking, gentlemen, that the in- 
 quest on one of these unhappy creatures would ever be 
 held in my court." 
 
 On and on he went, though he had, in truth, but 
 little to say, and though that little was known to every 
 one of his listeners. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sit- 
 ting near her whisper to another: "Drawing it out all 
 he can; that's what he's doing. Having the time of his 
 life, evidently!" And then the other whispered back, 
 so low that she could only just catch the words, "Aye, 
 aye. But he's a good chap — I knew his father; we were 
 at school together. Takes his job very seriously, you 
 know — he does to-day, at any rate." 
 
 She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sen- 
 tence, which would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the 
 
210 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 other hand, confirm them. But the word, the sentence, 
 was never uttered. 
 
 And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the 
 coroner did throw out a hint which might mean any- 
 thing — or nothing. 
 
 " I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence 
 to-day as will in time lead to the apprehension of the 
 miscreant who has committed, and is still committing, 
 these terrible crimes." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's 
 firm, determined-looking face. What did he mean by 
 that? Was there any new evidence — evidence of which 
 Joe Chandler, for instance, was ignorant? And, as if in 
 answer to the unspoken question, her heart gave a sud- 
 den leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the 
 witness-box — a policeman who had not been sitting with 
 the other witnesses. 
 
 But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This wit- 
 ness was simply the constable who had found the first 
 body. In quick, business-like tones he described exactly 
 what had happened to him on that cold, foggy morning 
 ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it 
 slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the 
 exact place — no, he was making a mistake — that was the 
 place where the other body had lain. He explained apol- 
 ogetically that he had got rather mixed up between the 
 two bodies — that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle. 
 
 And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: 
 "For the purpose of this inquiry," he said, "we must, 
 I think, for a moment, consider the two murders to- 
 gether." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 211 
 
 After that, the witness went on far more comfort- 
 ably; and as he proceeded, in a quick monotone, the 
 full and deadly horror of The Avenger's acts came over 
 Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood of sick fear and — ■ 
 and, yes, remorse. 
 
 Up to now she had given very little thought — if, in- 
 deed, any thought — to the drink-sodden victims of The 
 Avenger. It was he who had filled her thoughts, — he 
 and those who were trying to track him down. But 
 now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here 
 to-day. She wondered if she would ever be able to get 
 the vision the policeman's words had conjured up out of 
 her mind — out of her memory. 
 
 And then there came an eager stir of excitement and 
 of attention throughout the whole court, for the police- 
 man had stepped down out of the witness-box, and one 
 of the women witnesses was being conducted to his place. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at 
 the woman, remembering how she herself had trembled 
 with fear, trembled as that poor, bedraggled, common- 
 looking person was trembling now. The woman had 
 looked so cheerful, so — so well pleased with herself till a 
 minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she 
 looked round her as a hunted animal might have done. 
 
 But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and 
 gentle in his manner, just as that other coroner had 
 been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on 
 that poor drowned girl. 
 
 After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the 
 solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step 
 by step, through her story. At once Mrs. Bunting 
 
212 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 realised that this was the woman who claimed to have 
 seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining 
 confidence as she went on, the witness described how 
 she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech, and, aroused 
 from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed 
 and rushed to her window. 
 
 The coroner looked down at something lying on his 
 desk. "Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes — I think 
 I understand that the house in which you are lodging 
 exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were com- 
 mitted?" 
 
 And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house 
 did not face the alley, but the window of the witness's 
 bedroom faced the alley. 
 
 "A distinction without a difference," said the cor- 
 oner testily. "And now tell us as clearly and quickly 
 as you can what you saw when you looked out." 
 
 There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And 
 then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and 
 firmly than she had yet done. "I saw 'im!" she cried. 
 "I shall never forget it — no, not till my dying day!" 
 And she looked round defiantly. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the 
 newspaper men had had with a person who slept under 
 this woman's room. That person had unkindly said she 
 felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that night — that 
 she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, 
 slept lightly, and that night had been tending a sick 
 child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had" 
 been either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the 
 sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 213 
 
 "We quite understand that you think you saw the" 
 — the coroner hesitated — "the individual who had just 
 perpetrated these terrible crimes. But what we want 
 to have from you is a description of him. In spite of 
 the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you 
 say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards 
 below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what 
 he was like." 
 
 The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner 
 of a coloured handkerchief she held in her hand. 
 
 "Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner 
 patiently. "What sort of a hat was this man wearing 
 when you saw him hurrying from the passage?" 
 
 "It was just a black 'at," said the witness at last, in a 
 husky, rather anxious tone. 
 
 "Yes — just a black hat. And a coat — were you able 
 to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?" 
 
 "'E 'adn't got no coat," she said decidedly. "No 
 coat at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I 
 thought it queer, as it was so cold — everybody as can 
 wears some sort o' coat this weather!" 
 
 A juryman who had been looking at a strip of news- 
 paper, and apparently not attending at all to what the 
 witness was saying, here jumped up and put out his hand. 
 
 "Yes?" the coroner turned to him. 
 
 " I just want to say that this 'ere witness — if her name 
 is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing 
 a coat — a big, heavy coat. I've got it here, in this bit 
 of paper." 
 
 "I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I 
 was made to say all those things by the young man 
 
214 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 what came to me from the Evening Sun. Just put in 
 what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e did — not what I said at 
 all!" 
 
 At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed. 
 
 "In future," said the coroner severely, addressing the 
 juryman, who had now sat down again, "you must ask 
 any question you wish to ask through your foreman, 
 and please wait till I have concluded my examination 
 of the witness." 
 
 But this interruption, this — this accusation, had utterly 
 upset the witness. She began contradicting herself hope- 
 lessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi- 
 darkness below was tall — no, he was short. He was thin 
 — no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether 
 he was carrying anything, there was quite an acrimonious 
 discussion. 
 
 Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared 
 that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it 
 had bulged out at the back — so she declared. But it 
 was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had said 
 nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard 
 who had taken down her first account — in fact, to him 
 she had declared confidently that the man had carried 
 nothing — nothing at all; that she had seen his arms 
 swinging up and down. 
 
 One fact — if fact it could be called — the coroner did 
 elicit. Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement 
 that as he had passed her window he had looked up at 
 her. This was quite a new statement. 
 
 "He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You 
 said nothing of that in your examination." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 215 
 
 "I said nothink because I was scared — nigh scared t& 
 death !" 
 
 "If you could really see his countenance, for we know 
 the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what 
 he was like?'' 
 
 But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand stray- 
 ing over his desk; not a creature in that court now be- 
 lieved the woman's story. 
 
 "Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost 
 black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of 
 nigger look." 
 
 And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. 
 And sharply the coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. 
 
 Far more credence was given to the evidence of the 
 next witness. 
 
 This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently 
 dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman 
 whose work lay in a big warehouse situated about a 
 hundred yards from the alley or passage where thfc 
 crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her 
 husband some food he always had at one in the morning. 
 And a man had passed her, breathing hard and walking 
 very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him 
 because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and 
 because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it 
 was very much from what this witness had said that 
 the official description of The Avenger had been com- 
 posed — that description which had brought such comfort 
 to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul. 
 
 This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her ac- 
 
216 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 count of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was 
 perfectly clear and positive. 
 
 "It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with 
 string." 
 
 She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably 
 dressed young man to carry such a parcel — that was what 
 had made her notice it. But when pressed, she had to 
 admit that it had been a very foggy night — so foggy that 
 she herself had been afraid of losing her way, though 
 every step was familiar. 
 
 When the third woman went into the box, and with 
 sighs and tears told of her acquaintance with one of the 
 deceased, with Johanna Cobbett, there was a stir of sym- 
 pathetic attention. But she had nothing to say throwing 
 any light on the investigation, save that she admitted 
 reluctantly that "Anny " would have been such a nice, re- 
 spectable young woman if it hadn't been for the drink. 
 
 Her examination was shortened as much as possible; 
 and so was that of the next witness, the husband of 
 Johanna Cobbett. He was a very respectable-looking 
 man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. 
 He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn't 
 seen his wife for two years; he hadn't had news of her 
 for six months. Before she took to drink she had been 
 an admirable wife, and — and yes, mother. 
 
 Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had. 
 a heart, or imagination to understand, was spent when 
 the father of the murdered woman was in the box. He 
 had had later news of his unfortunate daughter than her 
 husband had had, but of course he could throw no light 
 at all on her murder or murderer. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 217 
 
 A barman, who had served both the women with drink 
 just before the public-house closed for the night, was 
 handled rather roughly. He had stepped with a jaunty 
 air into the box, and came out of it looking cast down, 
 uneasy. 
 
 And then there took place a very dramatic, because 
 an utterly unexpected, incident. It was one of which 
 the evening papers made the utmost, much to Mrs. 
 Bunting's indignation. But neither coroner nor jury 
 ■ — and they, after all, were the people who mattered — ■ 
 thought a great deal of it. 
 
 There had come a pause in the proceedings. All 
 seven witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near 
 Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are now going to call 
 Dr. Gaunt. He's been in every big murder case for the 
 last thirty years. He's sure to have something inter- 
 esting to say. It was really to hear him I came." 
 
 But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from 
 the seat with which he had been accommodated close to 
 the coroner, there came a stir among the general public, 
 or, rather, among those spectators who stood near the 
 low wooden door which separated the official part of the 
 court from the gallery. 
 
 The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air, ap- 
 proached the coroner, and handed him up an envelope. 
 And again in an instant, there fell absolute silence on 
 the court. 
 
 Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the en- 
 velope. He glanced down the sheet of notepaper it con- 
 tained. Then he looked up. 
 
 "Mr. " then he glanced down again. "Mr. — ah 
 
218 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 — Mr. — is it Cannot?" he said doubtfully, "may come 
 forward." 
 
 There ran a titter through the spectators, and the 
 coroner frowned. 
 
 A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur- 
 lined overcoat, with a fresh, red face and white side- 
 whiskers, was conducted from the place where he had 
 been standing among the general public, to the witness- 
 box. 
 
 "This is somewhat out of order, Mr. — er — Cannot," 
 said the coroner severely. "You should have sent me 
 this note before the proceedings began. This gentle- 
 man," he said, addressing the jury, "informs me that he 
 has something of the utmost importance to reveal in 
 connection with our investigation." 
 
 "I have remained silent — I have locked what I knew 
 within my own breast" — began Mr. Cannot, in a quaver- 
 ing voice, "because I am so afraid of the Press! I knew 
 if I said anything, even to the police, that my house would 
 be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. ... I 
 have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of 
 things — the state of things I imagine — might cause her 
 death — indeed, I hope she will never read a report of 
 these proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent 
 trained nurse " 
 
 "You will now take the oath," said the coroner sharply. 
 He already regretted having allowed this absurd person 
 to have his say. 
 
 Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum 
 which had been lacking in most of those who had pre- 
 ceded him. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 219 
 
 "I will address myself to the jury/ ' he began. 
 
 "You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the coroner. 
 ~'S.ow, please attend to me. You assert in your letter 
 •!:at you know who is the — the " 
 
 "The Avenger/' put in Mr. Cannot promptly. 
 
 "The perpetrator of these crimes. You further de- 
 clare that you met him on the very night he committed 
 the murder we are now investigating?" 
 
 "I do so declare/' said Mr. Cannot confidently. 
 "Though in the best of health myself," — he beamed 
 round the court, a now amused, attentive court — "it is 
 my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to have only 
 ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private 
 affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I hap- 
 pened to be out at so undue an hour as one o'clock in 
 the morning " 
 
 Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury 
 broke into broad smiles. 
 
 "Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a 
 sick friend — in fact, I may say a dying friend, for since 
 then he has passed away. I will not reveal my exact 
 dwelling-place; you, sir, have it on my notepaper. It 
 is not necessary m reveal it, but you will understand me 
 when I say that in order to come home I had to pass 
 through a portion of the Regent's Park; and it was 
 there — to be exact, about the middle of Prince's Terrace 
 — when a very peculiar-looking individual stopped and 
 accosted me." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling 
 of deadly fear took possession of her. 
 
 "I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I 
 
220 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 mustn't faint! Whatever's the matter with me?" She 
 took out her bottle of smelling-salts, and gave it a good, 
 long sniff. 
 
 "He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr. 
 Coroner, with a very odd-looking face. I should say 
 an educated man — in common parlance, a gentleman. 
 What drew my special attention to him was that he was 
 talking aloud to himself — in fact, he seemed to be re- 
 peating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought 
 of The Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, 
 I thought this gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a 
 man who'd got away from his keeper. The Regent's 
 Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you, is a most quiet and 
 soothing neighbourhood " 
 
 And then a member of the general public gave a loud 
 guffaw. 
 
 "I appeal to you, sir," the old gentleman suddenly 
 cried out, "to protect me from this unseemly levity! I 
 have not come here with any other object than that of 
 doing my duty as a citizen!" 
 
 "I must ask you to keep to what is strictly relevant," 
 said the coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have 
 another important witness to call — a medical witness. 
 Kindly tell me, as shortly as possible, what made you 
 suppose that this stranger could possibly be — " with an 
 effort he brought out for the first time since the proceed' 
 ings began, the words, "The Avenger?" 
 
 "I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I 
 am coming to that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. 
 Coroner. It was a foggy night, but not as foggy as it 
 became later. And just when we were passing one an- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 221 
 
 other, I and this man, who was talking aloud to himself 
 — he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards 
 me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the 
 more so that there was a very wild, mad look on his 
 face. I said to him, as soothingly as possible, 'A very 
 foggy night, sir/ And he said, 'Yes — yes, it is a foggy 
 night, a night fit for the commission of dark and salu- 
 tary deeds/ A very strange phrase, sir, that — 'dark and 
 salutary deeds/ " He looked at the coroner expect- 
 antly 
 
 "Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you 
 see this person go off in the direction of — of King's Cross, 
 for instance?" 
 
 "No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. 
 "No, I must honestly say I did not. He walked along 
 a certain way by my side, and then he crossed the road 
 and was lost in the fog." 
 
 "That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more 
 kindly. " I thank you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and 
 giving us what you evidently consider important in- 
 formation." 
 
 Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned 
 bow, and again some of those present tittered rather 
 foolishly. 
 
 As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he 
 turned and looked up at the coroner, opening his lips 
 as he did so. There was a murmur of talking going on, 
 but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard quite distinctly 
 what it was that he said: 
 
 "One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of 
 importance. The man carried a bag — a rather light- 
 
222 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 coloured leather bag, in his left hand. It was such a 
 bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled knife." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She 
 remembered suddenly that she had told Bunting about 
 the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. And then a 
 feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a 
 single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put 
 down that last remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one 
 of them had heard it. 
 
 Again the last witness put up his hand to command 
 attention. And then silence did fall on the court 
 
 "One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May 
 I ask to be accommodated with a seat for the rest of the 
 proceedings? I see there is some room left on the wit- 
 nesses' bench." And, without waiting for permission, 
 he nimbly stepped across and sat down. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the 
 inspector, was bending over her. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said 
 urgently. "I don't suppose you want to hear the med- 
 ical evidence. It's always painful for a female to hear 
 that. And there'll be an awful rush when the inquest's 
 over. I could get you away quietly now." 
 
 She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale 
 face, followed him obediently. 
 
 Down the stone staircase they went, and through the 
 big, now empty, room downstairs. 
 
 "I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect 
 you're tired, ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup 
 o' tea." 
 
 "I don't know how to thank you!" There were 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 223 
 
 tears in her eyes. She was trembling with excitement 
 and emotion. "You have been good to me." 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I 
 expect you went through a pretty bad time, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "Will they be having that old gentleman again?" 
 she spoke in a whisper, and looked up at him with a 
 pleading, agonised look. 
 
 "Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled 
 with a lot of those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and 
 they often do have funny names, too. You see, that 
 sort is busy all their lives in the City, or what not; then 
 they retires when they gets about sixty, and they're 
 fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hun- 
 dreds of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You 
 can't go about at night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 
 'em!" 
 
 "Then you don't think there was anything in what 
 he said?" she ventured. 
 
 "In what that old gent said? Goodness — no!" he 
 laughed good-naturedly. "But I'll tell you what I do 
 think. If it wasn't for the time that had gone by, I 
 should believe that the second witness had seen that 
 crafty devil — " he lowered his voice. "But, there, Dr. 
 Gaunt declares most positively — so did two other medical 
 gentlemen — that the poor creatures had been dead hours 
 when they was found. Medical gentlemen are always 
 very positive about their evidence. They have to be — 
 otherwise who'd believe 'em? If we'd time I could tell 
 you of a case in which — well, 'twas all because of Dr* 
 Gaunt that the murderer escaped. We all knew per- 
 
224 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 fectly well the man we caught did it, but he was able to 
 prove an alibi as to the time Dr. Gaunt said the poor 
 soul was killed." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun 
 very punctually, but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on 
 earth should force her to go to Ealing. She felt quite 
 tired out, and as if she could think of nothing. 
 
 Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old 
 woman, she began listlessly turning her steps towards 
 home. Somehow she felt that it would do her more 
 good to stay out in the air than take the train. Also 
 she would thus put off the moment — the moment to 
 which she looked forward with dread and dislike — when 
 she would have to invent a circumstantial story as to 
 what she had said to the doctor, and what the doctor 
 had said to her. 
 
 Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took 
 a great interest in other people's ailments, the more in- 
 terest that he was himself so remarkably healthy. He 
 would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't tell him every- 
 thing that had happened; everything, that is, that the 
 doctor had told her. 
 
 As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it 
 seemed to her, and outside every public-house, stood 
 eager boys selling the latest edition of the afternoon 
 papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger Inquest'" 
 they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At 
 
226 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned 
 to the pavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. 
 "Opening of the Avenger Inquest. What is he really 
 like? Full description." On yet another ran the ironic 
 query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?" 
 
 And as that facetious question stared up at her in 
 huge print, Mrs. Bunting turned sick^so sick and faint 
 that she did what she had never done before in her life 
 — she pushed her way into a public-house, and, putting 
 two pennies down on the counter, asked for, and re- 
 ceived, a glass of cold water. 
 
 As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found 
 her mind dwelling persistently — not on the inquest at 
 which she had been present, not even on The Avenger, 
 but on his victims. 
 
 Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying 
 in the mortuary. She seemed also to see that third 
 body, which, though cold, must yet be warmer than the 
 other two, for at this time yesterday The Avenger's last 
 victim had been alive, poor soul — alive and, according 
 to a companion of hers whom the papers had already 
 interviewed, particularly merry and bright. 
 
 Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real 
 sense a vision of The Avenger's victims. Now they 
 haunted her, and she wondered wearily if this fresh 
 horror was to be added to the terrible fear which encom- 
 passed her night and day. 
 
 As she came within sight of home, her spirit sud- 
 denly lightened. The narrow, drab-coloured little house, 
 flanked each side by others exactly like it in every single 
 particular, save that their front yards were not so well 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 227 
 
 kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, keep any se- 
 cret closely hidden. 
 
 For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims 
 receded from her mind. She thought of them no more. 
 All her thoughts were concentrated on Bunting — Bunt- 
 ing and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what had happened 
 during her absence — whether the lodger had rung his 
 bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and 
 Bunting with him? 
 
 She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet 
 with a pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she 
 saw that Bunting must have been watching for her be- 
 hind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she could 
 either knock or ring he had opened the door. 
 
 "I was getting quite anxious about you," he ex- 
 claimed. "Come in, Ellen, quick! You must be fair 
 perished a day like now — and you out so little as you 
 are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all right?" 
 He looked at her with affectionate anxiety. 
 
 And then there came a sudden, happy thought to 
 Mrs. Bunting. "No," she said slowly, "Doctor Evans 
 wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and waited, but he 
 never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she added 
 quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself 
 that though she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to 
 lie to her husband, she had no right to slander the doctor 
 who had been so kind to her years ago. "I ought to 
 have sent him a card yesterday night," she said. "Of 
 course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance of 
 finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to 
 go out to people at all times of day." 
 
228 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said. 
 
 And again she hesitated, debating a point with her- 
 self : if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, 
 she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, 
 especially if she explained she'd known him a long time. 
 
 She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, 
 in a weak, tired voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't 
 feel as if I wanted it. I'd be very grateful for a cup 
 now — if you'd just make it for me over the ring." 
 
 "'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in 
 and sit down, my dear. Don't trouble to take your 
 things off now — wait till you've had tea." 
 
 And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked 
 suddenly. "I thought the girl would be back by the 
 time I got home." 
 
 "She ain't coming home to-day" — there was an odd, 
 sly, smiling look on Bunting's face. 
 
 " Did she send a telegram? " asked Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 "No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. 
 He's been over there and, — would you believe it, Ellen? 
 — he's managed to make friends with Margaret. Won- 
 derful what love will do, ain't it? He went over there 
 just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then 
 Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some 
 money to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to 
 go with them this evening — she and Daisy — to the pan- 
 tomime. Did you ever hear o' such a thing?" 
 
 "Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting 
 absently. But she was pleased — pleased to have her 
 mind taken off herself. "Then when is that girl coming 
 home?" she asked patiently. 
 
THE LODGER 229 
 
 "Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow 
 morning off too — this evening and to-morrow morning. 
 He'll be on duty all night, but he proposes to go over 
 and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner. Will 
 that suit you, Ellen?" 
 
 "Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge 
 the girl her bit of pleasure. One's only young once. 
 By the way, did the lodger ring while I was out?" 
 
 Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he 
 was watching to see the kettle boil. "No," he said. 
 "Come to think of it, it's rather a funny thing, but the 
 truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a thought. You 
 see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about Mar- 
 garet, laughing-like, and then something else happened 
 while you was out, Ellen." 
 
 "Something else happened?" she said in a startled 
 voice. Getting up from her chair she came towards 
 her husband: "What happened? Who came?" 
 
 "Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night 
 to wait at a young lady's birthday party. In Hanover 
 Terrace it is. A waiter — one of them nasty Swiss fellows 
 as works for nothing — fell out just at the last minute, 
 and so they had to send for me." 
 
 His honest face shone with triumph. The man who 
 had taken over his old friend's business in Baker Street 
 had hitherto behaved very badly to Bunting, and that 
 though Bunting had been on the books for ever so long, 
 and had always given every satisfaction. But this new 
 man had never employed him — no, not once. 
 
 "I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said 
 his wife jealously. 
 
230 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and 
 I could see the fellow was quite worried — in fact, at the 
 end he offered me half-a-crown more. So I graciously 
 consented!" 
 
 Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they 
 had done for a long time. 
 
 "You won't mind being alone here? I don't count 
 
 the lodger — he's no good " Bunting looked at her 
 
 anxiously. He was only prompted to ask the question 
 because lately Ellen had been so queer, so unlike herself. 
 Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that she 
 could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had 
 often been so in the days when he got more jobs. 
 
 She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?'* 
 she echoed. "Certainly not. Why should I be? I've 
 never been afraid before. What d'you exactly mean by 
 that, Bunting?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny- 
 like, all alone on this ground floor. You was so upset 
 yesterday when that young fool Chandler came, dressed 
 up, to the door." 
 
 "I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an 
 ordinary stranger," she said shortly. "He said some- 
 thing silly to me — just in keeping with his character-like, 
 and it upset me. Besides, I feel better now." 
 
 As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there 
 came a noise outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers. 
 
 "I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and 
 see what happened at that inquest to-day. Besides, 
 they may have a clue about the horrible affair last night. 
 Chandler was full of it — when he wasn't talking about 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 231 
 
 Daisy and Margaret, that is. He's on to-night, luckily 
 not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time to escort the two 
 of 'em back after the play. Besides, he said he'll put 
 them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto' goes 
 on too long for him to take 'em home." 
 
 "On to-night?" repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever 
 for?" 
 
 "Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in 
 couples, so to speak. They've got an idea that he'll 
 have a try again to-night. However, even so, Joe's 
 only on from midnight till five o'clock. Then he'll go 
 and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy. Fine 
 thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?" 
 
 "I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as 
 this!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. 
 Ellen had spoken so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce 
 and passionate a tone. 
 
 "What do I mean?" she repeated — and a great fear 
 clutched at her heart. What had she said? She had 
 been thinking aloud. 
 
 "Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has 
 to go out. Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 
 'Twould be a pretty thing if the police didn't go out, 
 just because it was cold!" 
 
 "I — I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bun- 
 ting. She looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she 
 had felt impelled to utter those true words. 
 
 "He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting 
 sombrely. "I take it the man's dead to all human 
 feeling — saving, of course, revenge." 
 
232 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked 
 across at her husband. Somehow this dangerous, this per- 
 ilous conversation between them attracted her strangely. 
 She felt as if she must go on with it. "D'you think he 
 was the man that woman said she saw? That young 
 man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?" 
 
 "Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas 
 from the bedroom window a woman saw him?" 
 
 "No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking 
 her husband's breakfast to him in the warehouse. She 
 was far the most respectable-looking woman of the two," 
 said Mrs. Bunting impatiently. 
 
 And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank 
 astonishment, she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She 
 must have gone suddenly mad to have said what she 
 did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. "There, 
 now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing 
 when I ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. 
 It was someone in the train talked to me about that per- 
 son as thinks she saw The Avenger." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bed- 
 room, lit the gas, and shut the door. A moment later 
 she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had both 
 forgotten during their dangerous discussion. 
 
 As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat 
 and shawl, Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It 
 was dreadfully cold, quite unnaturally cold even for the 
 time of year. 
 
 She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now 
 concealed by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant 
 it would be to drag that stand aside and light a bit of 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 233 
 
 fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out to-night. 
 He would have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn't 
 like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suit her 
 ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire 
 here, in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have 
 a bit of fire to cheer her up after he had gone. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have 
 very little sleep the coming night. She looked over, 
 with shuddering distaste, at her nice, soft bed. There 
 she would lie, on that couch of little ease, listening — lis- 
 tening. . . . 
 
 She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready 
 for Mr. Sleuth's supper, for she had made all her prepa- 
 rations before going out so as not to have to hurry back 
 before it suited her to do so. 
 
 Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the ban- 
 isters, she listened. Even in that nice warm drawing- 
 room, and with a good fire, how cold the lodger must 
 feel sitting studying at the table! But unwonted sounds 
 were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was moving 
 restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his 
 wont at this time of the evening. 
 
 She knocked, and then waited a moment. 
 
 There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key 
 turning in the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard — or so 
 Mr. Sleuth's landlady could have sworn. 
 
 There was a pause — she knocked again. 
 
 "Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the 
 door and carried in the tray. 
 
234 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "You are a little earlier than usual, are you not, 
 Mrs. Bunting? " he said, with a touch of irritation in his 
 voice. 
 
 "I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I 
 lost count of the time. I thought you'd like your break- 
 fast early, as you had dinner rather sooner than usual. " 
 
 "Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." 
 
 He looked at her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting 
 that there was a terrible questioning look in his dark, 
 sunken eyes. 
 
 "Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look 
 well, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to 
 see a doctor this afternoon, to Ealing, sir." 
 
 "I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting" — the lodger's 
 voice had become softer, kinder in quality. 
 
 "It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. 
 Bunting evasively. 
 
 And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. 
 "Doctors are a maligned body of men," he said. "I'm 
 glad to hear you speak well of them. They do their best, 
 Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to err, but 
 I assure you they do their best." 
 
 "That I'm sure they do, sir" — she spoke heartily, 
 sincerely. Doctors had always treated her most kindly, 
 and even generously. 
 
 And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's 
 one hot dish upon it, she went towards the door. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like me to bring up another scuttleful 
 of coals, sir? It's bitterly cold — getting colder every 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 235 
 
 minute. A fearful night to have to go out in " she 
 
 looked at him deprecatingly. 
 
 And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled 
 her very much. Pushing his chair back, he jumped up 
 and drew himself to his full height. 
 
 "What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you 
 say that, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there 
 came an awful questioning look over his face. 
 
 "I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to- 
 night. He's going to act as waiter at a young lady's 
 birthday party. I was thinking it's a pity he has to 
 turn out, and in his thin clothes, too" — she brought out 
 her words jerkily. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he 
 sat down. "Ah!" he said. "Dear me — I'm sorry to 
 hear that! I hope your husband will not catch cold, 
 Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 And then she shut the door, and went downstairs. 
 
 Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she 
 dragged the heavy washhand-stand away from the 
 chimneypiece, and lighted the fire. 
 
 Then in some triumph she called Bunting in. 
 
 "Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, 
 "and I've got a little bit of fire for you to dress by." 
 
 As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be 
 pleasant for me, too; keep me company-like while you're 
 out; and make the room nice and warm when you come 
 in. You'll be fair perished, even walking that short 
 way," she said. 
 
236 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bun- 
 ting went upstairs and cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper. 
 
 The lodger said no word while she was so engaged — no 
 word at all. 
 
 He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual 
 thing for him to do, and staring into the fire, his hands 
 on his knees. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. 
 Somehow, a great rush of pity, as well as of horror, came 
 over Mrs. Bunting's heart. He was such a — a — she 
 searched for a word in her mind, but could only find the 
 word "gentle" — he was such a nice, gentle gentleman, 
 was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving 
 his money about, as he had done the first day or two, 
 and with some concern his landlady had seen that the 
 store had diminished a good deal. A very simple cal- 
 culation had made her realise that almost the whole of 
 that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, 
 had passed through her hands. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted 
 them, his landlord and his landlady, as to what he had 
 said he would pay. And Mrs. Bunting's conscience 
 pricked her a little, for he hardly ever used that room 
 upstairs — that room for which he had paid extra so gen- 
 erously. If Bunting got another job or two through 
 that nasty man in Baker Street, — and now that the ice 
 had been broken between them it was very probable 
 that he would do so, for he was a very well-trained, ex- 
 perienced waiter — then she thought she would tell Mr. 
 Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as 
 he was now doing. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 237 
 
 She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent 
 back. 
 
 "Good-night, sir," she said at last. 
 Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and 
 worn. 
 
 "I hope you'll sleep well, sir." 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I 
 shall take a little turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. 
 Bunting; after I have been studying all day I require a 
 little exercise." 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecat- 
 ingly. " 'Tisn't fit for anyone to be out in the bitter 
 cold." 
 
 "And yet — and yet" — he looked at her attentively — ■ 
 "there will probably be many people out in the streets 
 to-night." 
 
 "A many more than usual, I fear, sir." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a 
 strange thing, Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all 
 day in which to amuse themselves should carry their 
 revels far into the night?" 
 
 • "Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was think- 
 ing" — she hesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. 
 Bunting brought out the words, "of the police." 
 
 "The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked 
 his chin two or three times with a nervous gesture. " But 
 what is man — what is man's puny power or strength 
 against that of God, or even of those over whose feet 
 God has set a guard?" 
 
 Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of tri- 
 umph lighting up his face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shud- 
 
238 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 dering sense of relief. Then she had not offended her 
 lodger? She had not made him angry by that, that — 
 was it a hint she had meant to convey to him? 
 
 "Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Provi- 
 dence means us to take care o' ourselves too." And then 
 she closed the door behind her and went downstairs. 
 
 But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to 
 the kitchen. She came into her sitting-room, and, 
 careless of what Bunting would think the next morning, 
 put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal on 
 her table. Having done that, and having turned out 
 the gas in the passage and the sitting-room, she went 
 into her bedroom and closed the door. 
 
 The fire was burning brightly and clearly. She told 
 herself that she did not need any other light to undress 
 by. 
 
 But once she was in bed Mrs. Bunting turned rest- 
 less. She tossed this way and that, full of discomfort 
 and unease. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed firelight 
 dancing on the walls, making queer shadows all round 
 her, which kept her so wide awake. 
 
 She lay thinking and listening — listening and think- 
 ing. It even occurred to her to do the one thing that 
 might have quieted her excited brain — to get a book, one 
 of those detective stories of which Bunting had a slender 
 store in the next room, and then, lighting the gas, to 
 sit up and read. 
 
 No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very 
 wrong to read in bed, and she was not in a mood just 
 now to begin doing anything that she had been told was 
 wrong. . . . 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 239 
 
 What was it made the flames of the fire shoot up, 
 shoot down, in that queer way? But, watching it for 
 awhile, she did at last doze off a bit. 
 
 And then — and then Mrs. Bunting woke with a sudden 
 thumping of her heart. Woke to see that the fire was 
 almost out — woke to hear a quarter to twelve chime out 
 — woke at last to the sound she had been listening for 
 before she fell asleep — the sound of Mr. Sleuth, wearing 
 his rubber-soled shoes, creeping downstairs, along the 
 passage, and so out, very, very quietly by the front door. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 It was a very cold night — so cold, so windy, so snow- 
 laden was the atmosphere, that everyone who could do 
 so stayed indoors. 
 
 Bunting, however, was now on his way home from 
 what had proved a really pleasant job. A remarkable 
 piece of luck had come his way this evening, all the 
 more welcome because it was quite unexpected! The 
 young lady at whose birthday party he had been present 
 in capacity of waiter had come into a fortune that day, 
 and she had had the gracious, the surprising thought of 
 presenting each of the hired waiters with a sovereign! 
 
 This gift, which had been accompanied by a few kind 
 words, had gone to Bunting's heart. It had confirmed 
 him in his Conservative principles; only gentlefolk ever 
 behaved in that way; quiet, old-fashioned, respectable 
 gentlefolk, the sort of people of whom those nasty Radicals 
 know nothing and care less! 
 
 But the ex-butler was not as happy as he should have 
 been. Slackening his footsteps, he began to think with 
 puzzled concern of how queer his wife had seemed lately. 
 Ellen had become so nervous, so "jumpy," that he didn't 
 know what to make of her sometimes. She had never 
 been really good-tempered — your capable, self-respect- 
 ing woman seldom is — but she had never been like what 
 240 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 241 
 
 she was now. And she didn't get better as the days 
 went on; in fact she got worse. Of late she had been 
 quite hysterical, and for no reason at all! Take that 
 little practical joke of young Joe Chandler. Ellen knew 
 quite well he often had to go about in some kind of dis- 
 guise, and yet how she had gone on, quite foolish-like— 
 not at all as one would have expected her to do. 
 
 There was another queer thing about her which dis- 
 turbed him in more senses than one. During the last 
 three weeks or so Ellen had taken to talking in her sleep. 
 "No, no, no!" she had cried out, only the night before. 
 "It isn't true — I won't have it said — it's a lie!" And 
 there had been a wail of horrible fear and revolt in her 
 usually quiet, mincing voice. 
 
 Whew! it was cold; and he had stupidly forgotten 
 his gloves. 
 
 He put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, 
 and began walking more quickly. 
 
 As he tramped steadily along, the ex-butler suddenly 
 caught sight of his lodger walking along the opposite 
 side of the solitary street — one of those short streets lead- 
 ing off the broad road which encircles Regent's Park. 
 
 Well! This was a funny time o' night to be taking a 
 stroll for pleasure, like! 
 
 Glancing across, Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth's 
 tall, thin figure was rather bowed, and that his head 
 was bent toward the ground. His left arm was thrust 
 into his long Inverness cape, and so was quite hidden, 
 but the other side of the cape bulged out, as if the lodger 
 
242 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 were carrying a bag or parcel in the hand which hung 
 down straight. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth was walking rather quickly, and as he 
 walked he talked aloud, which, as Bunting knew, is not 
 unusual with gentlemen who live much alone. It was 
 clear that he had not yet become aware of the proximity 
 of his landlord. 
 
 Bunting told himself that Ellen was right. Their 
 lodger was certainly a most eccentric, peculiar person. 
 Strange, was it not, that that odd, luny-like gentleman 
 should have made all the difference to his, Bunting's, 
 and Mrs. Bunting's happiness and comfort in life? 
 
 Again glancing across at Mr. Sleuth, he reminded 
 himself, not for the first time, of this perfect lodger's 
 one fault — his odd dislike to meat, and to what Bunting 
 vaguely called to himself, sensible food. 
 
 But there, you can't have everything! The more 
 so that the lodger was not one of those cr° " y vegetarians 
 who won't eat eggs and cheese. No. ne was reasonable 
 in this, as in everything else connected with his dealings 
 with the Buntings. 
 
 As we know, Bunting saw far less of the lodger than 
 did his wife. Indeed, he had been upstairs only three 
 or four times since Mr. Sleuth had been with them, and 
 when his landlord had had occasion to wait on him the 
 lodger had remained silent. Indeed, their gentleman had 
 made it very clear that he did not like either the husband 
 or wife to come up to his rooms without being definitely 
 asked to do so. 
 
 Now, surely, would be a good opportunity for a little 
 genial conversation? Bunting felt pleased to see his 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 243 
 
 lodger; it increased his general comfortable sense of 
 latisfaction. 
 
 So it was that the ex-butler, still an active man for 
 Ais years, crossed over the road, and, stepping briskly 
 forward, began trying to overtake Mr. Sleuth. But 
 the more he hurried along, the more the other hastened, 
 and that without ever turning round to see whose steps 
 he could hear echoing behind him on the now freezing 
 pavement. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth's own footsteps were quite inaudible — ■ 
 an odd circumstance, when you came to think of it — ■ 
 as Bunting did think of it later, lying awake by Mrs. 
 Bunting's side in the pitch darkness. What it meant, 
 of course, was that the lodger had rubber soles on his 
 shoes. Now Bunting had never had a pair of rubber- 
 soled shoes sent down to him to clean. He had always 
 supposed the lodger had only one pair of outdoor boots. 
 
 The two men — the pursued and the pursuer — at last 
 turned into the Marylebone Road; they were now within 
 a few hundred yards of home. Plucking up courage, 
 Bunting called out, his voice echoing freshly on the still 
 air: 
 
 " Mr. Sleuth, sir? Mr. Sleuth!" 
 
 The lodger stopped and turned round. 
 
 He had been walking so quickly, and he was in so poor 
 a physical condition, that the sweat was pouring down 
 his face. 
 
 "Ah! So it's you, Mr. Bunting? I heard footsteps 
 behind me, and I hurried on. I wish I'd known that it 
 was you; there are so many queer characters about at 
 night in London." 
 
244 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Not on a night like this, sir. Only honest folk who 
 have business out of doors would be out such a night as 
 this. It is cold, sir!" 
 
 And then into Bunting's slow and honest mind there 
 suddenly crept the query as to what on earth Mr. Sleuth's 
 own business out could be on this bitter night. 
 
 "Cold?" the lodger repeated; he was panting a little, 
 and his words came out sharp and quick through his thin 
 lips. "I can't say that I find it cold, Mr. Bunting. 
 When the snow falls, the air always becomes milder." 
 
 "Yes, sir; but to-night there's such a sharp east wind. 
 Why, it freezes the very marrow in one's bones! Still, 
 there's nothing like walking in cold weather to make one 
 warm, as you seem to have found, sir." 
 
 Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in 
 a rather strange way; he walked at the edge of the pave- 
 ment, leaving the rest of it, on the wall side, to his land- 
 lord. 
 
 "I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over 
 Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man with whom I 
 studied when I was a lad, and then, coming back, I lost 
 my way." 
 
 Now they had come right up to the little gate w T hich 
 opened on the shabby, paved court in front of the house 
 — that gate which now was never locked. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking 
 up the flagged path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," 
 the ex-butler, stepping aside, slipped in front of his lodger, 
 in order to open the front door for him. 
 
 As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's 
 bare left hand brushed lightly against the long Inverness 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 245 
 
 cape the lodger was wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, 
 the stretch of cloth against which his hand lay for a mo- 
 ment was not only damp, damp may-be from stray flakes 
 of snow which had settled upon it, but wet — wet and 
 gluey. 
 
 Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was 
 with the other that he placed the key in the lock of the 
 door. 
 
 The two men passed into the hall together. 
 
 The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with 
 the lighted-up road outside, and as he groped forward, 
 closely followed by the lodger, there came over Bunting 
 a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, an instinctive, 
 assailing knowledge of frightful immediate danger. 
 
 A stuffless voice — the voice of his first wife, the long- 
 dead girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays 
 — uttered into his ear the words, "Take care!" 
 
 And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and 
 grating, though not loud. 
 
 "I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt 
 something dirty, foul, on my coat? It's too long a story 
 to tell you now, but I brushed up against a dead animal, 
 a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put 
 an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill." 
 
 "No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. I scarcely 
 touched you, sir." 
 
 It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled 
 Bunting to utter these lying words. "And now, sir, I'll 
 be saying good-night to you," he said. 
 
 Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that 
 was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him. 
 
246 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 There was a pause, and then — "Good-night," re- 
 turned Mr. Sleuth, in a hollow voice. 
 
 Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, 
 and then, lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the 
 hall. Mr. Sleuth's landlord felt very queer — queer and 
 sick. 
 
 He did not draw his left hand out of his pocket till he 
 heard Mr. Sleuth shut the bedroom door upstairs. Then 
 he held up his left hand and looked at it curiously; it 
 was flecked, streaked with pale reddish blood. 
 
 Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his 
 wife lay asleep. Stealthily he walked across to the wash- 
 hand-stand, and dipped a hand into the water-jug. 
 
 "Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you 
 doing?" came a voice from the bed, and Bunting started 
 guiltily. 
 
 "I'm just washing my hands." 
 
 "Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never 
 heard of such a thing — putting your hand into the water 
 in which I was going to wash my face to-morrow morn- 
 ing!" 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant 
 to throw it away. You don't suppose I would have let 
 you wash in dirty water, do you?" 
 
 She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, 
 Mrs. Bunting lay staring at him in a way that made her 
 husband feel even more uncomfortable than he was 
 already. 
 
 At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the op- 
 pressive silence by telling Ellen about the sovereign the 
 young lady had given him, but that sovereign now seemed 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 247 
 
 to Bunting of no more account than if it had been a far- 
 thing he had picked up in the road outside. 
 
 Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start 
 that it shook the bed. 
 
 "I suppose that you don't know that you've left the 
 light burning in the hall, wasting our good money ?" she 
 observed tartly. 
 
 He got up painfully and opened the door into the pas- 
 sage. It was as she had said; the gas was flaring away, 
 wasting their good money — or, rather, Mr. Sleuth's good 
 money. Since he had come to be their lodger they had 
 not had to touch their rent money. 
 
 Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back 
 to the room, and so to bed. Without speaking again to 
 each other, both husband and wife lay awake till dawn. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with 
 a start; he felt curiously heavy about the limbs, and 
 tired about the eyes. 
 
 Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that 
 it was seven o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got 
 out of bed and pulled the blind a little to one side. It 
 was snowing heavily, and, as is the way when it snows, 
 even in London, everything was strangely, curiously still. 
 
 After he had dressed he went out into the passage. 
 As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper 
 was already lying on the mat. It was probably the 
 sound of its being pushed through the letter-box which 
 had waked him from his unrestful sleep. 
 
 He picked the paper up and went into the sitting- 
 room; then, shutting the door behind him carefully, he 
 
248 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 spread the newspaper wide open on the table, and bent 
 over it. 
 
 As Bunting at last looked up and straightened him- 
 self, an expression of intense relief shone upon his stolid 
 face. The item of news he had felt certain would be 
 printed in big type on the middle sb°.et was not there. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, 
 Bunting lit the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup 
 of tea. 
 
 While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: 
 "Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" 
 Quickly he hurried in response to her call. "Yes," 
 he said. "What is it, my dear? I won't be a minute 
 with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather fool- 
 ishly. 
 
 She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on 
 her face. 
 
 "What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously. 
 
 "I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. 
 "But you was so cross last night that I simply didn't 
 dare tell you about it." 
 
 "Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice. 
 
 " I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You 
 see, it was her birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come 
 into a nice bit of money, and she gave each of us waiters 
 a sovereign." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay 
 back and closed her eyes. 
 
 "What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked lan- 
 guidly. "You didn't say what time Joe was going to 
 fetch her, when we was talking about it yesterday." 
 , 249 
 
250 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner." 
 
 "I wonder how long that old aunt of hers expects us 
 to keep her?" said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. 
 
 All the cheer died out of Bunting's round face. He 
 became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing 
 if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit — especially 
 now that they were doing so well ! 
 
 "Daisy '11 stay here just as long as she can/' he said 
 shortly. "It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! 
 She helps you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever 
 so much. Besides, 'twould be cruel — cruel to take the 
 girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are 
 making friends-like. One would suppose that even you 
 would see the justice o' that!" 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting made no answer. 
 
 Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The 
 water was boiling now, so he made the tea; and then, 
 as he brought the little tray in, his heart softened. Ellen 
 did look really ill — ill and wizened. He wondered if 
 she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. 
 She had never been one to grouse about herself. 
 
 "The lodger and me came in together last night," he 
 observed genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gen- 
 tleman. It wasn't the sort of night one would have 
 chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he 
 must 'a been out a long time if what he said was true." 
 
 "I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth 
 hates the crowded streets," she said slowly. "They 
 gets worse every day — that they do! But go along now; 
 I want to get up." 
 
 He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 251 
 
 the fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably 
 with his newspaper, 
 
 Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this 
 last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. What- 
 ever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as 
 had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And 
 just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No 
 doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled — that was what had 
 happened; though, come to think of it, he had men- 
 tioned brushing up against a dead animal. 
 
 Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one 
 to be always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders 
 and such-like. It made one go dotty — that's what it 
 did. 
 
 And just as he was telling himself that, there came to 
 the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a tele- 
 graph boy. But before he had time to get across the 
 room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through 
 the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl. 
 
 "I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; 
 don't you trouble." 
 
 He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the 
 hall. 
 
 She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the 
 door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. "You 
 needn't wait," she said. "If there's an answer we'll send 
 it out ourselves." Then she tore the envelope open — 
 "Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's only from 
 Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this 
 morning. Then you'll have to go." 
 
 She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" 
 she said. "There it is, Bunting. You just read it." 
 
252 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as ar- 
 ranged. — Chandler." 
 
 "I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, 
 uncomfortably. "I thought Joe's hours was as regular 
 as clockwork — that nothing could make any difference to 
 them. However, there it is. I suppose it'll do all right 
 if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have left off 
 snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just 
 now. I'm pretty tired this morning." 
 
 "You start about twelve," said his wife quickly. 
 "That'll give plenty of time." 
 
 The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting 
 received a letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come 
 back next Monday, a little under a week from now. Mr. 
 Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no sign 
 of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting often stopped 
 to listen, while she was doing her room, there came no 
 sounds at all from overhead. 
 
 Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his 
 wife felt more cheerful than they had done for a long 
 time. They had quite a pleasant little chat when Mrs. 
 Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going down 
 to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast. 
 
 "Daisy will be surprised to see you — not to say dis- 
 appointed!" she observed, and she could not help laugh- 
 ing a little to herself at the thought. 
 
 And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made 
 him stay on a little longer. "There's no such great 
 hurry as that," she said good-temperedly. "It'll do 
 quite well if you're there by half-past twelve. I'll get 
 dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't help with that, 
 I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 253 
 
 But at last there came the moment when Bunting had 
 to start, and his wife went with him to the front door. 
 
 It was still snowing, less heavily, but still snowing. 
 There were very few people coming and going, and only 
 just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously along 
 through the slush. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came 
 a ring and a knock at the door — a now very familiar 
 ring and knock. "Joe thinks Daisy's home again by 
 now!" she said, smiling to herself. 
 
 Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's 
 voice. "Don't be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" 
 But though not exactly scared, she did give a gasp of 
 surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to represent a 
 public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfec- 
 tion, with his hair combed down raggedly over his fore- 
 head, his seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and 
 greenish-black pot hat. 
 
 "I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. 
 "But I thought I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy 
 was safe home again. You got my telegram all right? 
 I couldn't send no other kind of message." 
 
 "She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone 
 long after her." Then, struck by a look in his eyes, 
 "Joe, what's the matter?" she asked quickly. 
 
 There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face 
 grew drawn, while what little colour there was in it re- 
 ceded, leaving it very pale. 
 
 "Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no busi- 
 ness to say anything about it — but I will tell you\" 
 
254 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room 
 carefully behind him. "There's been another of 'em!" 
 he whispered. "But this time no one is to know any- 
 thing about it — not for the present, I mean," he cor- 
 rected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got 
 a clue — and a good clue, too, this time." 
 
 "But where — and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 "Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it 
 dark for the present" — he still spoke in that stifled, 
 hoarse whisper. "The poor soul was found dead on a 
 bench on Primrose Hill. And just by chance 'twas 
 one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his 
 way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd 
 be able to get an ambulance quick, and he made a very 
 clever, secret job of it. I 'spect he'll get promotion for 
 that!" 
 
 "What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with 
 dry lips. "You said there was a clue?" 
 
 "W T ell, I don't rightly understand about the clue 
 myself. All I knows is it's got something to do with a 
 public-house, 'The Hammer and Tongs,' which isn't 
 far off there. They feels sure The Avenger was in the 
 bar just on closing-time." 
 
 And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better 
 now. It was natural the police should suspect a public- 
 house loafer. "Then that's why you wasn't able to go 
 and fetch Daisy, I suppose?" 
 
 He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll 
 all be in the last editions of the evening newspapers — 
 it can't be kep' out. There'd be too much of a row if 
 'twas!" 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 255 
 
 "Are you going off to that public-house now?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job — to try and worm 
 something out of the barmaid." 
 
 "Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. 
 Bunting nervously. "Why, whatever for?" 
 
 He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas 
 a gentleman," he whispered. 
 
 "A gentleman?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared ex- 
 pression. "Whatever makes them think such a silly 
 thing as that?" 
 
 "Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking 
 gent, with a leather bag in his hand, went into the bar 
 and asked for a glass of milk. And what d'you think 
 he did? Paid for it with a sovereign! He wouldn't 
 take no change — just made the girl a present of it! That's 
 why the young woman what served him seems quite un- 
 willing to give him away. She won't tell now what he 
 was like. She doesn't know what he's wanted for, and 
 we don't want her to know just yet. That's one reason 
 why nothing's being said public about it. But there! 
 I really must be going now. My time '11 be up at three 
 o'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and 
 asking you for a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," 
 but there was no welcome in her tired voice. 
 
 She let him go alone to the door, and then she went 
 down to her kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's 
 breakfast. 
 
 The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any 
 
256 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 minute Bunting and Daisy might be home, and they'd 
 want something, too. Margaret always had break- 
 fast, even when "the family" were away, unnaturally 
 early. 
 
 As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty 
 her mind of all thought. But it is very difficult to do 
 that when one is in a state of torturing uncertainty. She 
 had not dared to ask Chandler what they supposed that 
 man who had gone into the public-house was really 
 like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that 
 inquisitive young chap had never met face to face. 
 
 At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang — a quiet little tinkle. 
 But when she went up with his breakfast the lodger was 
 not in his sitting-room. 
 
 Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing put the cloth on the table, and then she heard the 
 sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs, and her 
 quick ears detected the slight whirring sound which showed 
 that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth had already 
 lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out some 
 elaborate experiment this afternoon. 
 
 "Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, 
 very quiet and still London is when under snow, Mrs. 
 Bunting. I have never known it quite as quiet as this 
 morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A very pleasant 
 change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in 
 the Marylebone Road." 
 
 "Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day — 
 too quiet to my thinking. 'Tain't natural-like." 
 
 The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in 
 the still air. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 257 
 
 "Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, 
 drawing a quick, hissing breath. "Perhaps you will 
 oblige me by going to the window and telling me who 
 it is, Mrs. Bunting?" 
 
 And his landlady obeyed him. 
 
 "It's only Bunting, sir — Bunting and his daughter." 
 "Oh! Is that all?" 
 
 Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a 
 little. She had never been quite so near to the lodger 
 before, save on that first day when she had been show- 
 ing him her rooms. 
 
 Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. 
 And, as if aware that someone was standing there, Daisy 
 turned her bright face up towards the window and smiled 
 at her stepmother, and at the lodger, whose face she 
 could only dimly discern. 
 
 "A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth 
 thoughtfully. And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, 
 and this took Mrs. Bunting very much aback. 
 
 "Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too 
 little read nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a 
 beautiful feeling for nature, for youth, for innocence." 
 
 "Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. 
 "Your breakfast will be getting cold, sir, if you don't 
 have it now." 
 
 He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down 
 as a child rebuked might have done. 
 And then his landlady left him. 
 
 "Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went 
 off quite all right. And Daisy's a lucky girl — that she 
 is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her five shillings." 
 
258 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought 
 she ought to do. 
 
 "I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she 
 said a little disconsolately. "The very last words he 
 said to me last night was that he'd be there at ten o'clock. 
 I got quite fidgety as the time went on and he didn't 
 come." 
 
 "He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly. 
 
 "Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on 
 earth didn't he go and fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come 
 here?" 
 
 "He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. 
 "You run along, child, downstairs. Now that you are 
 here you can make yourself useful." 
 
 And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what 
 it was her stepmother didn't want her to hear. 
 
 "I've something to tell you, Bunting." 
 
 "Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?" 
 
 "There's been another o' those murders. But the 
 police don't want anyone to know about it — not yet. 
 That's why Joe couldn't go over and fetch Daisy. They're 
 all on duty again." 
 
 Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the 
 edge of the mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his 
 wife was far too much concerned with her own feelings 
 and sensations to notice it. 
 
 There was a long silence between them. Then he 
 spoke, making a great effort to appear unconcerned. 
 
 "And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to 
 the other one? " 
 
 She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 259 
 
 But hush!" she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't 
 let's talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I 
 promised Chandler I'd be mum." 
 And he acquiesced. 
 
 "You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and 
 clear away the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting 
 for an answer, she hurried upstairs. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon 
 sole untouched. "I don't feel well to-day," he said 
 fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? I should be much 
 obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw 
 in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public 
 prints, but I should like to do so now." 
 
 She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little 
 breathlessly, "the lodger would like you just to lend him 
 the Sun." 
 
 Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," 
 he observed. "You can tell him that I don't want it 
 back again." 
 
 On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. 
 Occupying a third of the space was an irregular drawing, 
 and under it was written, in rather large characters : 
 
 "We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic 
 reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which 
 was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his 
 double murder ten days ago." 
 
 She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was 
 empty. 
 
 "Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. 
 Sleuth's muffled voice from the upper landing. 
 
260 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the 
 paper back again, sir. He says he's read it." And 
 then she hurried out of the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of 
 them sat there, listening and waiting — Bunting and his 
 wife hardly knew for what; Daisy for the knock which 
 would herald Joe Chandler. 
 
 And about four there came the now familiar sound. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she 
 opened the front door she whispered, "We haven't said 
 anything to Daisy yet. Young girls can't keep secrets." 
 
 Chandler nodded comprehendingly. He now looked 
 the low character he had assumed to the life, for he was 
 blue with cold, disheartened, and tired out. 
 
 Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amuse- 
 ment, of welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was 
 disguised. 
 
 "I never !" she exclaimed. "What a difference it do 
 make, to be sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr. 
 Chandler." 
 
 And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her 
 father so much that he quite cheered up. Bunting had 
 been very dull and quiet all that afternoon. 
 
 "It won't take me ten minutes to make myself re- 
 spectable again," said the young man rather ruefully. 
 
 His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, 
 both came to the conclusion that he had been unsuccess- 
 ful, — that he had failed, that is, in getting any informa- 
 261 
 
262 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 tion worth having. And though, in a sense, they all had 
 a pleasant tea together, there was an air of constraint, 
 even of discomfort, over the little party. 
 
 Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions 
 that were trembling on his lips; he would have felt it 
 hard any time during the last month to refrain from 
 knowing anything Joe could tell him, but now it seemed 
 almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of half-sus- 
 pense. There was one important fact he longed to know, 
 and at last came his opportunity of doing so, for Joe 
 Chandler rose to leave, and this time it was Bunting who 
 followed him out into the hall. 
 
 " Where did it happen?" he whispered. u Just tell me 
 that, Joe?" 
 
 "Primrose Hill," said the other briefly. "You'll 
 know all about it in a minute or two, for it'll be all in the 
 last editions of the evening papers. That's what's been 
 arranged." 
 
 "No arrest, I suppose?" 
 
 Chandler shook his head despondently. "No," he 
 said, "I'm inclined to think the Yard was on a wrong 
 tack altogether this time. But one can only do one's 
 best. I don't know if Mrs. Bunting told you I'd got 
 to question a barmaid about a man who was in her place 
 just before closing-time. Well, she's said all she knew, 
 and it's as clear as daylight to me that the eccentric old 
 gent she talks about was only a harmless luny. He 
 gave her a sovereign just because she told him she was 
 a teetotaller!" He laughed ruefully. 
 
 Even Bunting was diverted at the notion. "Well, 
 that's a queer thing for a barmaid to be!" he exclaimed. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 263 
 
 "She's niece to the people what keeps the public," 
 explained Chandler; and then he went out of the front 
 door with a cheerful "So long!" 
 
 When Bunting went back into the sitting-room Daisy 
 had disappeared. She had gone downstairs with the 
 tray. "Where's my girl?" he said irritably. 
 
 " She's just taken the tray downstairs. ' ' 
 
 He went out to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called 
 out sharply, "Daisy! Daisy, child! Are you down 
 there?" 
 
 "Yes, father," came her eager, happy voice. 
 
 "Better come up out of that cold kitchen." 
 
 He turned and came back to his wife. "Ellen, is the 
 lodger in? I haven't heard him moving about. Now 
 mind what I says, please! I don't want Daisy to be 
 mixed up with him." 
 
 "Mr. Sleuth don't seem very well to-day," answered 
 Mrs. Bunting quietly. "'Tain't likely I should let 
 Daisy have anything to do with him. Why, she's never 
 even seen him. 'Tain't likely I should allow her to 
 begin waiting on him now." 
 
 But though she was surprised and a little irritated by 
 the tone in which Bunting had spoken, no glimmer of 
 the truth illumined her mind. So accustomed had she 
 become to bearing alone the burden of her awful secret, 
 that it would have required far more than a cross word 
 or two, far more than the fact that Bunting looked ill 
 and tired, for her to have come to suspect that her 
 secret was now shared by another, and that other her 
 husband. 
 
 Again and again the poor soul had agonised and trem- 
 
264 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 bled at the thought of her house being invaded by the 
 police, but that was only because she had always credited 
 the police with supernatural powers of detection. That 
 they should come to know the awful fact she kept hidden 
 in her breast would have seemed to her, on the whole, a 
 natural thing, but that Bunting should even dimly sus- 
 pect it appeared beyond the range of possibility. 
 
 And yet even Daisy noticed a change in her father. 
 He sat cowering over the fire — saying nothing, doing 
 nothing. 
 
 "Why, father, ain't you well?" the girl asked more 
 than once. 
 
 And, looking up, he would answer, "Yes, I'm well 
 enough, my girl, but I feels cold. It's awful cold. I 
 never did feel anything like the cold we've got just now." 
 
 At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again 
 outside . 
 
 "The Avenger again!" "Another horrible crime!" 
 "Extra speshul edition!" — such were the shouts, the 
 exultant yells, hurled through the clear, cold air. They 
 fell, like bombs, into the quiet room. 
 
 Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy's 
 cheeks grew pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled. 
 
 "Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D'you hear that?" she 
 exclaimed childishly, and even clapped her hands. "I 
 do wish Mr. Chandler had been here. He would 'a been 
 startled!" 
 
 "Don't, Daisy!" and Bunting frowned. 
 Then, getting up, he stretched himself. "It's fair 
 getting on my mind," he said, "these horrible things 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 265 
 
 happening. I'd like to get right away from London, 
 just as far as I could — that I would!" 
 
 "Up to John-o'-Groat's? " said Daisy, laughing. And 
 then, "Why, father, ain't you going out to get a paper?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I must." 
 
 Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a mo- 
 ment in the hall, he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then 
 he opened the front door, and walked down the flagged 
 path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped out on the 
 pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper- 
 boys now stood. 
 
 The boy nearest to him only had the Sun — a late 
 edition of the paper he had already read. It annoyed 
 Bunting to give a penny for a ha'penny rag of which he 
 already knew the main contents. But there was noth- 
 ing else to do. 
 
 Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the news- 
 paper. It was bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why 
 his hand shook as he looked down at the big headlines. 
 For Bunting had been very unfair to the enterprise of 
 the editor of his favourite evening paper. This special 
 edition was full of new matter — new matter concerning 
 The Avenger. 
 
 First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief 
 statement that The Avenger had now committed his 
 ninth crime, and that he had chosen quite a new locality, 
 namely, the lonely stretch of rising ground known to 
 Londoners as Primrose Hill. 
 
 "The police," so Bunting read, "are very reserved as to the cir- 
 cumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger's 
 latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess 
 
266 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned 
 with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to repro- 
 duce an outline to-day. (See over page.) " 
 
 And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the 
 irregular outline he had already seen in the early edition 
 of the Sun, that purporting to be a facsimile of the im- 
 print left by The Avenger's rubber sole. 
 
 He stared down at the rough outline which took up 
 so much of the space which should have been devoted 
 to reading matter with a queer, sinking feeling of ter- 
 rified alarm. Again and again criminals had been 
 tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at 
 or near the scenes of their misdoings. 
 
 Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house 
 of a menial kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. 
 He had already visualised early this very afternoon the 
 little row with which he dealt each morning — first came 
 his wife's strong, serviceable boots, then his own two 
 pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and next to his 
 own Mr. Sleuth's strong, hardly worn, and expensive 
 buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high- 
 heeled pair of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, 
 bought by Daisy for her trip to London, had ended the 
 row. The girl had worn these thin shoes persistently, 
 in defiance of Ellen's reproof and advice, and he, Bun- 
 ting, had only once had to clean her more sensible 
 country pair, and that only because the others had be- 
 come wet through the day he and she had accompanied 
 young Chandler to Scotland Yard. 
 
 Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the 
 thought of going in again, of hearing his wife's sarcastic 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 267 
 
 comments, of parrying Daisy's eager questions, had 
 become intolerable. So he walked slowly, trying to 
 put off the evil moment when he would have to tell them 
 what was in his paper. 
 
 The lamp under which he had stood reading was not 
 exactly opposite the house. It was rather to the right 
 of it. And when, having crossed over the roadway, he 
 walked along the pavement towards his own gate, he 
 heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side 
 of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from 
 the pavement. 
 
 Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would 
 have rushed forward to drive out whoever was there. 
 He and his wife had often had trouble, before the cold 
 weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter there. 
 But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick 
 with suspense and fear. 
 
 Was it possible that their place was being watched — 
 already? He thought it only too likely. Bunting, like 
 Mrs. Bunting, credited the police with almost super- 
 natural powers, especially since he had paid that visit 
 to Scotland Yard. 
 
 But to Bunting's amazement, and, yes, relief, it was 
 his lodger who suddenly loomed up in the dim light. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, 
 lank form had been quite concealed till he stepped for- 
 ward from behind the low wall on to the flagged path 
 leading to the front door. 
 
 The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, 
 as he walked along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, 
 and the tap-tap of hard nail-studded heels rang out on 
 rhe flag-stones of the narrow path. 
 
268 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly 
 knew what it was his lodger had been doing on the other 
 side of the low wall. Mr. Sleuth had evidently been out 
 to buy himself another pair of new boots, and then he 
 had gone inside the gate and had put them on, placing 
 his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had 
 been wrapped. 
 
 The ex-butler waited — waited quite a long time, not 
 only until Mr. Sleuth had let himself into the house, but 
 till the lodger had had time to get well away, upstairs. 
 
 Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and 
 put his latchkey in the door. He lingered as long over 
 the job of hanging his hat and coat up in the hall as he 
 dared, in fact till his wife called out to him. Then he 
 went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, he 
 said sullenly: "There it is! You can see it all for your- 
 self — not that there's very much to see," and groped his 
 way to the fire. 
 
 His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. "Whatever 
 have you done to yourself?" she exclaimed. "You're 
 ill — that's what it is, Bunting. You got a chill last 
 night!" 
 
 "I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered. "'Twasn't 
 last night, though; 'twas going out this morning, com- 
 ing back in the bus. Margaret keeps that housekeeper's 
 room o' hers like a hothouse — that's what she does. 
 'Twas going out from there into the biting wind, that's 
 what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in 
 such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fel- 
 low, Joe Chandler, can stand the life — being out in all 
 weathers like he is." 
 
 Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to 
 
THE LODGER 269 
 
 get away from what was in the paper, which now lay, 
 neglected, on the table. 
 
 "Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come 
 to no harm," said his wife testily. "But if you felt so 
 bad, whatever was you out so long for, Bunting? I 
 thought you'd gone away somewhere! D'you mean you 
 only went to get the paper?" 
 
 "I just stopped for a second to look at it under the 
 lamp," he muttered apologetically. 
 
 "That was a silly thing to do!" 
 
 "Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly. 
 
 Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't 
 say much," she said disappointedly. "Hardly anything 
 at all! But perhaps Mr. Chandler '11 be in soon again. 
 If so, he'll tell us more about it." 
 
 "A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know any- 
 thing about murders," said her stepmother severely. 
 "Joe won't think any the better of you for your inquisi- 
 tiveness about such things. If I was you, Daisy, I 
 shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in — which 
 I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that 
 young chap to-day." 
 
 "He didn't come in for long — not to-day," said Daisy, 
 her lip trembling. 
 
 "I can tell you one thing that '11 surprise you, my 
 dear" — Mrs. Bunting looked significantly at her step- 
 daughter. She also wanted to get away from that dread 
 2ews — which yet was no news. 
 
 "Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, 
 Ellen?" 
 
 "Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come 
 
270 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 in this morning. He knew all about that affair then, 
 but he particular asked that you shouldn't be told any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 "Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified. 
 
 "Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You 
 just ask your father over there if it isn't true." 
 
 "'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about 
 such happenings," said Bunting heavily. 
 
 "If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pur- 
 suing her advantage, "I shouldn't want to talk about 
 such horrid things when I comes in to have a quiet chat 
 with friends. But the minute he comes in that poor 
 young chap is set upon — mostly, I admit, by your father," 
 she looked at her husband severely. "But you does 
 your share, too, Daisy! You asks him this, you asks 
 him that — he's fair puzzled sometimes. It don't do to 
 to be so inquisitive." 
 
 And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. 
 Bunting's part, when young Chandler did come in again 
 that evening, very little was said of the new Avenger 
 murder. 
 
 Bunting made no reference to it at all, and though 
 Daisy said a word, it was but a word. And Joe Chandler 
 thought he had never spent a pleasanter evening in his 
 life — for it was he and Daisy who talked all the time, 
 their elders remaining for the most part silent. 
 
 Daisy told of all that she had done with Aunt Mar- 
 garet. She described the long, dull hours and the queer 
 jobs her aunt set her to do — the washing up of all the 
 fine drawing-room china in a big basin lined with flannel, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 271 
 
 and how terrified she (Daisy) had been lest there should 
 come even one teeny little chip to any of it. Then she 
 went on to relate some of the funny things Aunt Mar- 
 garet had told her about "the family/' 
 
 There came a really comic tale, which hugely inter- 
 ested and delighted Chandler. This was of how Aunt 
 Margaret's lady had been taken in by an impostor — an 
 impostor who had come up, just as she was stepping out 
 of her carriage, and pretended to have a fit on the door- 
 step. Aunt Margaret's lady, being a soft one, had in- 
 sisted on the man coming into the hall, where he had 
 been given all kinds of restoratives. When the man had 
 at last gone off, it was found that he had "wolfed" young 
 master's best walking-stick, one with a fine tortoise- 
 shell top to it. Thus had Aunt Margaret proved to her 
 lady that the man had been shamming, and her lady had 
 been very angr} — near had a fit herself! 
 
 "There's a lot of that about," said Chandler, laughing. 
 "Incorrigible rogues and vagabonds — that's what those 
 sort of people are!" 
 
 And then he, in his turn, told an elaborate tale of an 
 exceptionally clever swindler whom he himself had brought 
 to book. He was very proud of that job, it had formed 
 a white stone in his career as a detective. And even Mrs. 
 Bunting was quite interested to hear about it. 
 
 Chandler was still sitting there when Mr. Sleuth's 
 bell rang. For awhile no one stirred; then Bunting 
 looked questioningly at his wife. 
 
 "Did you hear that?" he said. "I think, Ellen, that 
 was the lodger's bell." 
 
 She got up, without alacrity, and went upstairs. 
 
272 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "I rang/' said Mr. Sleuth weakly, "to tell you I don't 
 require any supper to-night, Mrs. Bunting. Only a 
 glass of milk, with a lump of sugar in it. That is all I 
 require — nothing more. I feel very, very far from well" 
 ■ — and he had a hunted, plaintive expression on his face. 
 "And then I thought your husband would like his paper 
 back again, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting, looking at him fixedly, with a sad in- 
 tensity of gaze of which she was quite unconscious, 
 answered, "Oh, no, sir! Bunting don't require that 
 paper now. He read it all through." Something im- 
 pelled her to add, ruthlessly, "He's got another paper 
 by now, sir. You may have heard them come shouting 
 outside. Would you like me to bring you up that other 
 paper, sir?" 
 
 And Mr. Sleuth shook his head. "No," he said 
 querulously. "I much regret now having asked for the 
 one paper I did read, for it disturbed me, Mrs. Bunting. 
 There was nothing of any value in it — there never is in 
 any public print. I gave up reading newspapers years 
 ago, and I much regret that I broke through my rule 
 to-day." 
 
 As if to indicate to her that he did not wish for any 
 more conversation, the lodger then did what he had 
 never done before in his landlady's presence. He went 
 over to the fireplace and deliberately turned his back 
 on her. 
 
 She went down and brought up the glass of milk and 
 the lump of sugar he had asked for. 
 
 Now he was in his usual place, sitting at the table, 
 studying the Book. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 273 
 
 When Mrs. Bunting went back to the others they 
 were chatting merrily. She did not notice that the 
 merriment was confined to the two young people. 
 
 "Well?" said Daisy pertly. "How about the lodger, 
 Ellen? Is he all right?" 
 
 "Yes/' she said stiffly. "Of course he is!" 
 
 "He must feel pretty dull sitting up there all by him- 
 self — awful lonely-like, I call it," said the girl. 
 
 But her stepmother remained silent. 
 
 "Whatever does he do with himself all day?" per- 
 sisted Daisy. 
 
 "Just now he's reading the Bible," Mrs. Bunting 
 answered, shortly and dryly. 
 
 "Well, I never! That's a funny thing for a gentle- 
 man to do!" 
 
 And Joe, alone of her three listeners, laughed — a long 
 hearty peal of amusement. 
 
 "There's nothing to laugh at," said Mrs. Bunting 
 sharply. " I should feel ashamed of being caught laugh- 
 ing at anything connected with the Bible." 
 
 And poor Joe became suddenly quite serious. This 
 was the first time that Mrs. Bunting had ever spoken 
 really nastily to him, and he answered very humbly, "I 
 beg pardon. I know I oughtn't to have laughed at any- 
 thing to do with the Bible, but you see, Miss Daisy said 
 it so funny-like, and, by all accounts, your lodger must 
 be a queer card, Mrs. Bunting." 
 
 "He's no queerer than many people I could mention," 
 she said quickly; and with these enigmatic words she 
 got up, and left the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Each hour of the days that followed held for Bunting 
 its full meed of aching fear and suspense. 
 
 The unhappy man was ever debating within himself 
 what course he should pursue, and, according to his mood 
 and to the state of his mind at any particular moment, 
 he would waver between various widely-differing lines 
 of action. 
 
 He told himself again and again, and with fretful 
 unease, that the most awful thing about it all was that 
 he wasn't sure. If only he could have been sure, he 
 might have made up his mind exactly what it was he 
 ought to do. 
 
 But when telling himself this he was deceiving him- 
 self, and he was vaguely conscious of the fact; for, from 
 Bunting's point of view, almost any alternative would 
 have been preferable to that which to some, nay, per- 
 haps to most, householders would have seemed the only 
 thing to do, namely, to go to the police. But Londoners 
 of Bunting's class have an uneasy fear of the law. To his 
 mind it would be ruin for him and for his Ellen to be 
 mixed up publicly in such a terrible affair. No one con- 
 cerned in the business would give them and their future 
 a thought, but it would track them to their dying day, 
 and, above all, it would make it quite impossible for them 
 ever to get again into a good joint situation. It was 
 274 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 275 
 
 that for which Bunting, in his secret soul, now longed 
 with all his heart. 
 
 No, some other way than going to the police must be 
 found — and he racked his slow brain to find it. 
 
 The worst of it was that every hour that went by 
 made his future course more difficult and more delicate, 
 and increased the awful weight on his conscience. 
 
 If only he really knew! If only he could feel quite 
 sure! And then he would tell himself that, after all, 
 he had very little to go upon; only suspicion — suspicion, 
 and a secret, horrible certainty that his suspicion was 
 justified. 
 
 And so at last Bunting began to long for a solution 
 which he knew to be indefensible from every point of 
 view; he began to hope, that is, in the depths of his 
 heart, that the lodger would again go out one evening 
 on his horrible business and be caught — red-handed. 
 
 But far from going out on any business, horrible or 
 other, Mr. Sleuth now never went out at all. He kept 
 upstairs, and often spent quite a considerable part of his 
 day in bed. He still felt, so he assured Mrs. Bunting, 
 very far from well. He had never thrown off the chill 
 he had caught on that bitter night he and his landlord 
 had met on their several ways home. 
 
 Joe Chandler, too, had become a terrible complication 
 to Daisy's father. The detective spent every waking 
 hour that he was not on duty with the Buntings; and 
 Bunting, who at one time had liked him so well and so 
 cordially, now became mortally afraid of him. 
 
 But though the young man talked of little else than 
 The Avenger, and though on one evening he described 
 
276 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 at immense length the eccentric-looking gent who had 
 given the barmaid a sovereign, picturing Mr. Sleuth with 
 such awful accuracy that both Bunting and Mrs. Bunt- 
 ing secretly and separately turned sick when they lis- 
 tened to him, he never showed the slightest interest in 
 their lodger. 
 
 At last there came a morning when Bunting and 
 Chandler held a strange conversation about The Avenger. 
 The young fellow had come in earlier than usual, and 
 just as he arrived Mrs. Bunting and Daisy were starting 
 out to do some shopping. The girl would fain have 
 stopped behind, but her stepmother had given her a 
 very peculiar, disagreeable look, daring her, so to speak, 
 to be so forward, and Daisy had gone on with a flushed, 
 angry look on her pretty face. 
 
 And then, as young Chandler stepped through into 
 the sitting-room, it suddenly struck Bunting that the 
 young man looked unlike himself — indeed, to the ex- 
 butler's apprehension there was something almost threat- 
 ening in Chandler's attitude. 
 
 "I want a word with you, Mr. Bunting," he began 
 abruptly, falteringly. "And I'm glad to have the chance 
 now that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Daisy are out." 
 
 Bunting braced himself to hear the awful words — the 
 accusation of having sheltered a murderer, the monster 
 whom all the world was seeking, under his roof. And 
 then he remembered a phrase, a horrible legal phrase — 
 "Accessory after the fact." Yes, he had been that, there 
 wasn't any doubt about it ! 
 
 "Yes?" he said. "What is it, Joe?" and then the 
 unfortunate man sat down in his chair. "Yes?" he said 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 277 
 
 again uncertainly; for young Chandler had now ad- 
 vanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting fixedly 
 — the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, 
 Joe! Don't keep me in suspense." 
 
 And then a slight smile broke over the young man's 
 face. "I don't think what I've got to say can take you 
 by surprise, Mr. Bunting." 
 
 And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might 
 mean anything — yes or no, as the case might be. 
 
 The two men looked at one another for what seemed 
 a very, very long time to the elder of them. And then, 
 making a great effort, Joe Chandler brought out the 
 words, "Well, I suppose you know what it is I want to 
 talk about. I'm sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look 
 or two she's lately cast on me. It's your daughter — 
 it's Miss Daisy." 
 
 And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, 'twixt a sob and 
 a laugh. "My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is 
 that all you wants to talk about? Why, you fair fright- 
 ened me — that you did!" 
 
 And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room 
 swam round as he stared across it at his daughter's lover, 
 that lover who was also the embodiment of that now 
 awful thing to him, the law. He smiled, rather foolishly, 
 at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp wave of irrita- 
 tion, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. 
 Daisy's father was an old stupid — that's what he was. 
 
 And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased 
 to go round. "As far as I'm concerned," he said, with 
 a good deal of solemnity, even a little dignity, "you have 
 my blessing, Joe. You're a very likely young chap, and 
 I had a true respect for your father." 
 
278 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. 
 Bunting. But how about her — her herself? " 
 
 Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that 
 Daisy hadn't given herself away, as Ellen was always 
 hinting the girl was doing. 
 
 "I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll 
 have to ask her yourself — that's not a job any other 
 man can do for you, my lad." 
 
 "I never gets a chance. I never sees her, not by 
 our two selves," said Chandler, with some heat. "You 
 don't seem to understand, Mr. Bunting, that I never do 
 see Miss Daisy alone," he repeated. "I hear now that 
 she's going away Monday, and I've only once had the 
 chance of a walk with her. Mrs. Bunting's very par- 
 ticular, not to say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bun- 
 ting " 
 
 "That's a fault on the right side, that is — with a 
 young girl," said Bunting thoughtfully. 
 
 And Chandler nodded. He quite agreed that as re- 
 garded other young chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be 
 too particular. 
 
 "She's been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has," 
 went on Bunting, with some pride. "That Old Aunt 
 of hers hardly lets her out of her sight." 
 
 "I was coming to the old aunt," said Chandler heavily. 
 "Mrs. Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going 
 to stay with that old woman the whole of her natural 
 life — now is that right? That's what I wants to ask 
 you, Mr. Bunting, — is that right?" 
 
 "I'll say a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting 
 abstractedly. 
 
 His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 279 
 
 nice young chap, to his now constant, anxious preoccu- 
 pation. "You come along to-morrow," he said, "and 
 I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy. It's only right 
 you and she should have a chance of seeing one another 
 without old folk being by ; else how's the girl to tell 
 whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, 
 
 you hardly knows her, Joe " He looked at the 
 
 young man consideringly. 
 
 Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her 
 quite as well as I wants to know her," he said. "I made 
 up my mind the very first time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting." 
 
 "No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come 
 to think of it, I did so with her mother; aye, and years 
 after, with Ellen, too. But I hope you'll never want no 
 second, Chandler." 
 
 "God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. 
 And then he asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll 
 be out long now, Mr. Bunting?" 
 
 And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. 
 "Sit down, sit down, do!" he said hastily. "I don't 
 believe they'll be very long. They've only got a little 
 bit of shopping to do." 
 
 And then, in a changed, in a cringing, nervous tone, 
 he asked, "And how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, 
 I take it? I suppose you're all just waiting for the next 
 time?" 
 
 "Aye — that's about the figure of it." Chandler's 
 voice had also changed; it was now sombre, menacing. 
 "We're fair tired of it — beginning to wonder when it'll 
 end, that we are!" 
 
 "Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of 
 
280 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 what the master's like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he 
 felt he must ask that. 
 
 "Yes/' said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion — a 
 savage, fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that 
 description that was circulated put us wrong. I don't 
 believe it was the man that knocked up against that 
 woman in the fog — no, not one bit I don't. But I 
 wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I 
 think it's a sailor — the foreigner they talks about, that 
 goes away for eight or nine days in between, to Holland 
 maybe, or to France. Then, again, I says to myself 
 that it's a butcher, a man from the Central Market. 
 Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat." 
 
 "Then it don't seem to you possible ?" (Bunting 
 
 got up and walked over to the window.) "You don't 
 take any stock, I suppose, in that idea some of the papers 
 put out, that the man is" — then he hesitated and brought 
 out, with a gasp — "a gentleman?" 
 
 Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said 
 deliberately. "I've made up my mind that's quite a 
 wrong tack, though I knows that some of our fellows 
 — big pots, too — are quite sure that the fellow what 
 gave the girl the sovereign is the man we're looking 
 for. You see, Mr. Bunting, if that's the fact — well, it 
 stands to reason the fellow's an escaped lunatic; and if 
 he's an escaped lunatic he's got a keeper, and they'd be 
 raising a hue and cry after him; now, wouldn't they?" 
 
 "You don't think," went on Bunting, lowering his 
 voice, "that he could be just staying somewhere, lodging- 
 like?" 
 
 ''D'you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, stay- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 ing in some West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things 
 
 almost as funny as that 'ud be have come to pass." He 
 
 smiled as if the notion was a funny one. 
 
 "Yes, something o' that sort," muttered Bunting. 
 
 "Well, if your idea's correct, Mr. Bunting " 
 
 "I never said 'twas my idea," said Bunting, all in a 
 
 hurry. 
 
 "Well, if that idea's correct then, 'twill make our 
 task more difficult than ever. Why, 'twould be looking 
 for a needle in a field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! 
 I don't think it's anything quite so unlikely as that — 
 not myself I don't." He hesitated. "There's some of 
 us" — he lowered his voice — "that hopes he'll betake 
 himself off — The Avenger, I mean — to another big city, 
 to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There'd be plenty of 
 work for him to do there," and Chandler chuckled at his 
 own grim joke. 
 
 And then, to both men's secret relief, for Bunting 
 was now mortally afraid of this discussion concerning 
 The Avenger and his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting's 
 key in the lock. 
 
 Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw 
 that young Chandler was still there. She had feared 
 that when they got home he would be gone, the more 
 so that Ellen, just as if she was doing it on purpose, had 
 .lingered aggravatingly long over each small purchase. 
 
 "Here's Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for 
 a walk," blurted out Bunting. 
 
 "My mother says as how she'd like you to come to 
 tea, over at Richmond," said Chandler awkwardly. "I 
 just come in to see whether we could fix it up, Miss Daisy." 
 
282 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 And Daisy looked imploringly at her stepmother. 
 "D'you mean now — this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting 
 tartly. 
 
 "No, o' course not" — Bunting broke in hastily. "How 
 you do go on, Ellen!" 
 
 "What day did your mother mention would be con- 
 venient to her?" asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the 
 young man satirically. 
 
 Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned 
 any special day — in fact, his mother had shown a sur- 
 prising lack of anxiety to see Daisy at all. But he had 
 talked her round. 
 
 "How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That's 
 Daisy's birthday. 'Twould be a birthday treat for her 
 to go to Richmond, and she's going back to Old Aunt on 
 Monday." 
 
 "I can't go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately. 
 "I'm on duty Saturday." 
 
 "Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. 
 And his wife looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted 
 himself so much in her presence. 
 
 "What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler. 
 
 "Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. 
 And then, as the young man took up his hat, and as her 
 stepmother did not stir, Daisy ventured to go out into 
 the hall with him for a minute. 
 
 Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared 
 the hearing of Mrs. Bunting's whispered remark: "When 
 I was a young woman folk didn't gallivant about on 
 Sunday; those who was courting used to go to church 
 together, decent-like " 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Daisy's eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. 
 Her father gave her what he had always promised she 
 should have on her eighteenth birthday — a watch. It 
 was a pretty little silver watch, which Bunting had 
 bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy — 
 it seemed a long, long time ago now. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extrava- 
 gant present, but she was far too wretched, far too ab- 
 sorbed in her own thoughts, to trouble much about it. 
 Besides, in such matters she had generally had the good 
 sense not to interfere between her husband and his child. 
 
 In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went 
 out to buy himself some more tobacco. He had never 
 smoked so much as in the last four days, excepting, per- 
 haps, the week that had followed on his leaving service. 
 Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite pleasure 
 which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden 
 fruit. 
 
 His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it 
 acted on his nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and 
 helping him to think. But he had been overdoing it, 
 and it was that which now made him feel so "jumpy," 
 so he assured himself, when he found himself starting 
 at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke 
 to him suddenly. 
 
 283 
 
284 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, 
 and Bunting didn't quite like the sensation of knowing 
 that there was only one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth 
 and himself. So he quietly slipped out of the house with- 
 out telling Ellen that he was going out. 
 
 In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual 
 haunts; above all, he had avoided even passing the time 
 of day to his acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, 
 with a great fear, that they would talk to him of a sub- 
 ject which, because it filled his mind to the exclusion of 
 all else, might make him betray the knowledge — no, not 
 knowledge, rather the — the suspicion — that dwelt with- 
 in him. 
 
 But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious, in- 
 stinctive longing for human companionship — companion- 
 ship, that is, other than that of his wife and of his 
 daughter. 
 
 This longing for a change of company finally led him 
 into a small, populous thoroughfare hard by the Edg- 
 ware Road. There were more people there than usual 
 just now, for the housewives of the neighbourhood were 
 doing their Saturday marketing for Sunday. The ex- 
 butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop where he 
 generally bought his tobacco. 
 
 Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, 
 and the two fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's 
 relief and surprise the man made no allusion to the sub- 
 ject of which all the neighbourhood must still be talking. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the 
 counter, and before he had paid for the packet of tobacco 
 he held in his hand, Bunting, through the open door, 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 285 
 
 saw with horrified surprise that Ellen, his wife, was 
 standing, alone, outside a greengrocer's shop just opposite. 
 
 Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the 
 shop and across the road. 
 
 " Ellen !" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and 
 left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. " I thought 
 you was indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! What- 
 ever made you come out for, without first making sure 
 I'd stay in?" 
 
 Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each 
 other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the 
 other knew. 
 
 They turned and scurried down the crowded street. 
 
 "Don't run," he said suddenly; "we shall get there 
 just as quickly if we walk fast. People are noticing you, 
 Ellen. Don't run." 
 
 He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness in- 
 duced by fear and by excitement, not by the quick pace 
 at which they were walking. 
 
 At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting 
 pushed past in front of his wife. 
 
 After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know 
 how he was feeling. 
 
 He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled 
 for a moment with his latchkey. 
 
 Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a 
 wailing voice, "Daisy, my dear! where are you?" 
 
 "Here I am, father. What is it?" 
 
 "She's all right " Bunting turned a grey face to 
 
 his wife. "She's all right, Ellen." 
 
286 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the 
 passage. "It did give me a turn," he said, and then, 
 warningly, "Don't frighten the girl, Ellen." 
 
 Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting- 
 room, admiring herself in the glass. 
 
 "Oh, father/' she exclaimed, without turning round, 
 "I've seen the lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, 
 though, to be sure, he does look a cure. He rang his bell, 
 but I didn't like to go up; and so he came down to ask 
 Ellen for something. We had quite a nice little chat — 
 that we had. I told him it was my birthday, and he asked 
 me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this 
 afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of 
 course, I could see he was 'centric, and then at first he 
 spoke so funnily. 'And who be you?' he says, threat- 
 ening-like. And I says to him, 'I'm Mr. Bunting's 
 daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate girl' — 
 that's what he says, Ellen — 'to 'ave such a nice step- 
 mother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look 
 such a good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit 
 of the Prayer Book. 'Keep innocency/ he says, wagging 
 his head at me. Lor'! It made me feel as if I was with 
 Old Aunt again." 
 
 "I won't have you going out with the lodger — that's 
 flat." 
 
 Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was wip- 
 ing his forehead with one hand, while with the other he 
 mechanically squeezed the little packet of tobacco, for 
 which, as he now remembered, he had forgotten to pay. 
 
 Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let 
 me have a treat on my birthday! I told him that Satur- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 287 
 
 day wasn't a very good day — at least, so I'd heard — for 
 Madame Tussaud's. Then he said we could go early, 
 while the fine folk are still having their dinners/' She 
 turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He 
 particularly said you was to come, too. The lodger has 
 a wonderful fancy for you, Ellen; if I was father, I'd 
 feel quite jealous!" 
 
 Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the 
 door. 
 
 Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehen- 
 sively. Was it possible that, in their agitation, they 
 had left the front door open, and that someone, some 
 merciless myrmidon of the law, had crept in behind them? 
 
 Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw 
 that it was only Mr. Sleuth — Mr. Sleuth dressed for 
 going out; the tall hat he had worn when he had first 
 come to them was in his hand, but he was wearing a coat 
 instead of his Inverness cape. 
 
 "I heard you come in" — he addressed Mrs. Bunting 
 in his high, whistling, hesitating voice — "and so I've 
 come down to ask you if you and Miss Bunting will 
 come to Madame Tussaud's now. I have never seen 
 those famous waxworks, though I've heard of the place 
 all my life." 
 
 As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, 
 a sudden doubt, bringing with it a sense of immeasur- 
 able relief, came to Mr. Sleuth's landlord. 
 
 Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild- 
 mannered gentleman could be the monster of cruelty 
 and cunning that Bunting had now for the terrible space 
 of four days believed him to be! 
 
288 THE LODGER 
 
 He it was who answered, "You're very kind, I'm 
 sure, sir." 
 
 He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting was 
 looking away, staring into vacancy. She still, of course, 
 wore the bonnet and cloak in which she had just been 
 out to do her marketing. Daisy was already putting on 
 her hat and coat. 
 
 "Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned, 
 and it seemed to his landlady that he was looking at her 
 threateningly. "Well?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said dully. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Madame Tussaud's had hitherto held pleasant mem- 
 ories for Mrs. Bunting. In the days when she and Bunt- 
 ing were courting they often spent there part of their 
 afternoon-out. 
 
 The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hop- 
 kins, who was one of the waxworks staff, and this man 
 had sometimes given him passes for "self and lady." 
 But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been inside 
 the place since she had come to live almost next door, 
 as it were, to the big building. 
 
 They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and 
 then, after the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great 
 staircase and into the first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly 
 stopped short. The presence of those curious, still, 
 waxen figures which suggest so strangely death in life, 
 seemed to surprise and affright him. 
 
 Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's hesitation 
 and unease. 
 
 "Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going into 
 the Chamber of Horrors! I've never been in there. 
 Old Aunt made father promise he wouldn't take me the 
 only time I've ever been here. But now that I'm eighteen 
 I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never 
 know." 
 
 289 
 
290 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed 
 for a moment over his worn, gaunt face. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of Hor- 
 rors; that's a good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always 
 wanted to see the Chamber of Horrors." 
 
 They turned into the great room in which the Na- 
 poleonic relics were then kept, and which led into the 
 curious, vault-like chamber where waxen effigies of dead 
 criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to 
 see her husband's old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in 
 charge of the turnstile admitting the public to the Cham- 
 ber of Horrors. 
 
 "Well, you are a stranger," the man observed genially. 
 "I do believe that this is the very first time I've seen 
 you in here, Mrs. Bunting, since you was married!" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my hus- 
 band's daughter, Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, 
 Mr. Hopkins. And this" — she hesitated a moment — "is 
 our lodger, Mr. Sleuth." 
 
 But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, 
 leaving her stepmother's side, joined him. 
 
 Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is none. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into 
 the Chamber of Horrors just yet. But you won't have 
 to wait more than four or five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. 
 It's this way, you see; our boss is in there, showing a 
 party round." He lowered his voice. "It's Sir John 
 Burney — I suppose you know who Sir John Burney 
 is?" 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 291 
 
 "No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that 
 I ever heard of him." 
 
 She felt slightly — oh, very slightly — uneasy about 
 Daisy. She would have liked her stepdaughter to keep 
 well within sight and sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now 
 taking the girl down to the other end of the room. 
 
 "Well, I hope you never will know him — not in any 
 personal sense, Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. 
 "He's the Commissioner of Police — the new one — that's 
 what Sir John Burney is. One of the gentlemen he's 
 showing round our place is the Paris Police boss — whose 
 job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John's. The 
 Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there 
 are several other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, 
 Mrs. Bunting; that's our experience here. 'Oh, take 
 me to the Chamber of Horrors' — that's what they say 
 the minute they gets into this here building!" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It oc- 
 curred to Mr. Hopkins that she was very wan and tired; 
 she used to look better in the old days, when she was 
 still in service, before Bunting married her. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter 
 said just now. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors' 
 — that's exactly what she did say when we got upstairs." 
 
 A group of people, all talking and laughing together, 
 were advancing, from within the wooden barrier, toward 
 the turnstile. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She won- 
 dered which of them was the gentleman with whom Mr. 
 
292 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Hopkins had hoped she would never be brought into 
 personal contact; she thought she could pick him out 
 among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome 
 gentleman, with a military appearance. 
 
 Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young 
 lady. "Monsieur Barberoux is quite right," he was say- 
 ing in a loud, cheerful voice, "our English law is too kind 
 to the criminal, especially to the murderer. If we con- 
 ducted our trials in the French fashion, the place we have 
 just left would be very much fuller than it is to-day. A 
 man of whose guilt we are absolutely assured is oftener 
 than not acquitted, and then the public taunt us with 
 ' another undiscovered crime!'" 
 
 "D'you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes 
 escape scot-free? Take the man who has been com- 
 mitting all these awful murders this last month? I sup- 
 pose there's no doubt he'll be hanged — if he's ever caught, 
 that is!" 
 
 Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting could 
 hear every word that was said. 
 
 The whole party gathered round, listening eagerly. 
 
 "Well, no." He spoke very deliberately. "I doubt 
 if that particular murderer ever will be hanged " 
 
 "You mean that you'll never catch him?" the girl 
 spoke with a touch of airy impertinence in her clear 
 voice. 
 
 "I think we shall end by catching him — because" — 
 he waited a moment, then added in a lower voice — 
 "now don't give me away to a newspaper fellow, Miss 
 Rose — because now I think we do know who the mur- 
 derer in question is " 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 293 
 
 Several of those standing near by uttered expressions 
 of surprise and incredulity. 
 
 "Then why don't you catch him?" cried the girl in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 "I didn't say we knew where he was; I only said we 
 knew who he was, or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that 
 I personally have a very strong suspicion of his identity." 
 
 Sir John's French colleague looked up quickly. "De 
 Leipsic and Liverpool man?" he said interrogatively. 
 
 The other nodded. "Yes, I suppose you've had the 
 case turned up?" 
 
 Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dis- 
 miss the subject from his own mind, and from that of 
 his auditors, he went on: 
 
 "Four murders of the kind were committed eight 
 years ago — two in Leipsic, the others, just afterwards, 
 in Liverpool, — and there were certain peculiarities con- 
 nected with the crimes which made it clear they were 
 committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was 
 caught, fortunately for us, red-handed, just as he was 
 leaving the house of his last victim, for in Liverpool the 
 murder was committed in a house. I myself saw the 
 unhappy man — I say unhappy, for there is no doubt at 
 all that he was mad" — he hesitated, and added in a lower 
 tone — "suffering from an acute form of religious mania. 
 I myself saw him, as I say, at some length. But now 
 comes the really interesting point. I have just been in- 
 formed that a month ago this criminal lunatic, as we 
 must of course regard him, made his escape from the 
 asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole 
 thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and 
 
294 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 we should probably have caught him long ago, were it 
 not that he managed, when on his way out of the place, 
 to annex a considerable sum of money in gold, with which 
 the wages of the asylum staff were about to be paid. It 
 is owing to that fact that his escape was, very wrongly, 
 
 concealed " 
 
 He stopped abruptly, as if sorry he had said so much, 
 and a moment later the party were walking in Indian 
 file through the turnstile, Sir John Burney leading the 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. She felt — 
 so she expressed it to her husband later — as if she had 
 been turned to stone. 
 
 Even had she wished to do so, she had neither the 
 time nor the power to warn her lodger of his danger, 
 for Daisy and her companion were now coming down the 
 room, bearing straight for the Commissioner of Police. 
 
 In another moment Mrs. Bunting's lodger and Sir 
 John Burney were face to face. 
 
 Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side; there came a terrible 
 change over his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, 
 livid with rage and terror. 
 
 But, to Mrs. Bunting's relief — yes, to her inexpress- 
 ible relief — Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. 
 They passed Mr. Sleuth and the girl by his side, unaware, 
 or so it seemed to her, that there was anyone else in the 
 room but themselves. 
 
 "Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting," said the turnstile-keeper; 
 "you and your friends will have the place all to your- 
 selves for a bit." From an official he had become a man, 
 and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that gallantly ad- 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 295 
 
 dressed pretty Daisy Bunting: "It seems strange that a 
 young lady like you should want to go in and see all 
 those 'orrible frights, " he said jestingly. . . . 
 
 "Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here 
 for a moment?" 
 
 The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. 
 Sleuth's lips. 
 
 His landlady took a doubtful step towards him. 
 
 "A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting." The lodger's 
 face was still distorted with fear and passion. a Do 
 not think to escape the consequences of your hideous 
 treachery. I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, and you be- 
 trayed me! But I am protected by a higher power, for 
 I still have much to do." Then, his voice sinking to a 
 whisper, he hissed out, "Your end will be bitter as worm- 
 wood and sharp as a two-edged sword. Your feet shall 
 go down to death, and your steps take hold on hell." 
 
 Even while Mr. Sleuth was muttering these strange, 
 dreadful words, he was looking round, glancing this way 
 and that, seeking a way of escape. . 
 
 At last his eyes became fixed on a small placard placed 
 above a curtain. "Emergency Exit" was written there. 
 Mrs. Bunting thought he was going to make a dash for 
 the place; but Mr. Sleuth did something very different. 
 Leaving his landlady's side, he walked over to the turn- 
 stile. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and then 
 touched the man on the arm. "I feel ill," he said, speak- 
 ing very rapidly; " very ill indeed ! It is the atmosphere 
 of this place. I want you to let me out by the quickest 
 way. It would be a pity for me to faint here — especially 
 with ladies about." 
 
296 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 His left hand shot out and placed what he had been 
 fumbling for in his pocket on the other's bare palm. 
 "1 see there's an emergency exit over there. Would it 
 be possible for me to get out that way?" 
 
 "Well, yes, sir; I think so." 
 
 The man hesitated; he felt a- slight, a very slight, 
 feeling of misgiving. He looked at Daisy, flushed and 
 smiling, happy and unconcerned, and then at Mrs. 
 Bunting. She was very pale; but surely her lodger's 
 sudden seizure was enough to make her feel worried. 
 Hopkins felt the half-sovereign pleasantly tickling his 
 palm. The Paris Prefect of Police had given him only 
 half-a-crown — mean, shabby foreigner! 
 
 "Yes, sir; I can let you out that way," he said at last, 
 "and p'raps when you're standing out in the air, on the 
 iron balcony, you'll feel better. But then, you know, 
 sir, you'll have to come round to the front if you wants 
 to come in again, for those emergency doors only open 
 outward." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mr. Sleuth hurriedly. "I quite 
 understand! If I feel better I'll come in by the front 
 way, and pay another shilling — that's only fair." 
 
 "You needn't do that if you'll just explain what hap- 
 pened here." 
 
 The man went and pulled the curtain aside, and put 
 his shoulder against the door. It burst open, and the 
 light, for a moment, blinded Mr. Sleuth. 
 
 He passed his hand over his eyes. "Thank you," he 
 muttered, "thank you. I shall get all right out there." 
 
 An iron stairway led down into a small stable yard, 
 of which the door opened into a side street. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 297 
 
 Mr. Sleuth looked round once more; he really did 
 feel very ill — ill and dazed. How pleasant it would be 
 to take a flying leap over the balcony railing and find 
 rest, eternal rest, below. 
 
 But no — he thrust the thought, the temptation, from 
 him. Again a convulsive look of rage came over his 
 face. He had remembered his landlady. How could 
 the woman whom he had treated so generously have 
 betrayed him to his arch-enemy? — to the official, that is, 
 who had entered into a conspiracy years ago to have 
 him confined — him, an absolutely sane man with a great 
 avenging work to do in the world — in a lunatic asylum. 
 
 He stepped out into the open air, and the curtain, 
 falling-to behind him, blotted out the tall, thin figure from 
 the little group of people who had watched him disappear. 
 
 Even Daisy felt a little scared. "He did look bad, 
 didn't he, now?" she turned appealingly to Mr. Hopkins. 
 
 "Yes, that he did, poor gentleman — your lodger, too?" 
 he looked sympathetically at Mrs. Bunting. 
 
 She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Yes," she 
 repeated dully, "my lodger." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 In vain Mr. Hopkins invited Mrs. Bunting and her 
 pretty stepdaughter to step through into the Chamber 
 of Horrors. "I think we ought to go straight home," 
 said Mr. Sleuth's landlady decidedly. And Daisy 
 meekly assented. Somehow the girl felt confused, a 
 little scared by the lodger's sudden disappearance. Per- 
 haps this unwonted feeling of hers was induced by the 
 look of stunned surprise and, yes, pain, on her step- 
 mother's face. 
 
 Slowly they made their way out of the building, and 
 when they got home it was Daisy who described the 
 strange way Mr. Sleuth had been taken. 
 
 "I don't suppose he'll be long before he comes home," 
 said Bunting heavily, and he cast an anxious, furtive 
 look at his wife. She looked as if stricken in a vital part; 
 he saw from her face that there was something wrong — ■ 
 very wrong indeed. 
 
 The hours dragged on. All three felt moody and ill 
 at ease. Daisy knew there was no chance that young 
 Chandler would come in to-day. 
 
 About six o'clock Mrs. Bunting went upstairs. She 
 lit the gas in Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room and looked about 
 her with a fearful glance. Somehow everything seemed 
 to speak to her of the lodger. There lay her Bible and 
 his Concordance, side by side on the table, exactly as he 
 298 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 299 
 
 had left them when he had come downstairs and sug- 
 gested that ill-starred expedition to his landlord's daughter. 
 
 She took a few steps forward, listening the while 
 anxiously for the familiar sound of the click in the door 
 which would tell her that the lodger had come back, and 
 then she went over to the window and looked out. 
 
 What a cold night for a man to be wandering about, 
 homeless, friendless, and, as she suspected with a pang, 
 with but very little money on him! 
 
 Turning abruptly, she went into the lodger's bedroom 
 and opened the drawer of the looking-glass. 
 
 Yes, there lay the much-diminished heap of sover- 
 eigns. If only he had taken his money out with himl 
 She wondered painfully whether he had enough on his 
 person to secure a good night's lodging, and then sud- 
 denly she remembered that which brought relief to her 
 mind. The lodger had given something to that Hop- 
 kins fellow — either a sovereign or half a sovereign, she 
 wasn't sure which. 
 
 The memory of Mr. Sleuth's cruel words to her, of his 
 threat, did not disturb her overmuch. It had been a 
 mistake — all a mistake. Far from betraying Mr. Sleuth, 
 she had sheltered him — kept his awful secret as she could 
 not have kept it had she known, or even dimly suspected, 
 the horrible fact with which Sir John Burney's words had 
 made her acquainted; namely, that Mr. Sleuth was vic- 
 tim of no temporary aberration, but that he was, and had 
 been for years, a madman, a homicidal maniac. 
 
 In her ears there still rang the Frenchman's half care- 
 less yet confident question, "De Leipsic and Liverpool 
 man?" 
 
3.00 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 Following a sudden impulse, she went back into the 
 sitting-room, and taking a black-headed pin out of her 
 bodice stuck it amid the leaves of the Bible. Then she 
 opened the Book, and looked at the page the pin had 
 marked : — 
 
 "My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken. 
 . . . There is none to stretch forth my tent any more 
 and to set up my curtains." 
 
 At last, leaving the Bible open, Mrs. Bunting went 
 downstairs, and as she opened the door of her sitting- 
 room Daisy came towards her stepmother. 
 
 "I'll go down and start getting the lodger's supper 
 rfeady for you," said the girl good-naturedly. "He's 
 certain to come in when he gets hungry. But he did 
 look upset, didn't he, Ellen? Right down bad — that 
 he did!" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped 
 aside to allow Daisy to go down. 
 
 "Mr. Sleuth won't never come back no more," she 
 said sombrely, and then she felt both glad and angry at 
 the extraordinary change which came over her husband's 
 face. Yet, perversely, that look of relief, of right-down 
 joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, " That's 
 to say, I don't suppose he will." 
 
 And Bunting's face altered again; the old, anxious, 
 depressed look, the look it had worn the last few days, 
 returned. 
 
 "What makes you think he mayn't come back?" he 
 muttered. 
 
 "Too long to tell you now," she said. "Wait till the 
 child's gone to bed." 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 301 
 
 And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity. 
 
 And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back 
 room where she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. 
 Bunting beckoned to her husband to follow her upstairs. 
 
 Before doing so he went down the passage and put the 
 chain on the door. And about this they had a few sharp 
 whispered words. 
 
 "You're never going to shut him out?" she expos- 
 tulated angrily, beneath her breath. 
 
 "I'm not going to leave Daisy down here with that 
 man perhaps walking in any minute." 
 
 " Mr. Sleuth won't hurt Daisy, bless you ! Much more 
 likely to hurt me," and she gave a half sob. 
 
 Bunting stared at her. "What do you mean?" he 
 said roughly. "Come upstairs and tell me what you 
 mean." 
 
 And then, in what had been the lodger's sitting-room, 
 Mrs. Bunting told her husband exactly what it was that 
 had happened. 
 
 He listened in heavy silence. 
 
 "So you see," she said at last, "you see, Bunting, that 
 'twas me that was right after all. The lodger was never 
 responsible for his actions. I never thought he was, for 
 my part." 
 
 And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly. "Depends 
 
 on what you call responsible " he began argumenta- 
 
 tively. 
 
 But she would have none of that. "I heard the gen- 
 tleman say myself that he was a lunatic," she said fiercely. 
 And then, dropping her voice, "A religious maniac — 
 that's what he called him." 
 
302 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 "Well, he never seemed so to me," said Bunting 
 stoutly. "He simply seemed to me 'centric — that's 
 all he did. Not a bit madder than many I could tell 
 you of." He was walking round the room restlessly, but 
 he stopped short at last. "And what d'you think we 
 ought to do now?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently. "I don't 
 think we ought to do nothing," she said. "Why should 
 we?" 
 
 And then again he began walking round the room in 
 an aimless fashion that irritated her. 
 
 "If only I could put out a bit of supper for him some- 
 where where he would get it! And his money, too? I 
 hate to feel it's in there." 
 
 "Don't you make any mistake — he'll come back for 
 that," said Bunting, with decision. 
 
 But Mrs. Bunting shook her head. She knew better. 
 
 "Now," she said, "you go off up to bed. It's no use 
 us sitting up any longer." 
 
 And Bunting acquiesced. 
 
 She ran down and got him a bedroom candle — there 
 was no gas in the little back bedroom upstairs. And 
 then she watched him go slowly up. 
 
 Suddenly he turned and came down again. "Ellen," 
 he said, in an urgent whisper, "if I was you I'd take 
 the chain off the door, and I'd lock myself in — that's 
 what I'm going to do. Then he can sneak in and take 
 his dirty money away." 
 
 Mrs. Bunting neither nodded nor shook her head. 
 Slowly she went downstairs, and there she carried out 
 half of Bunting's advice. She took, that is, the chain 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 303 
 
 off the front door. But she did not go to bed, neither 
 did she lock herself in. She sat up all night, waiting. 
 
 At half-past seven she made herself a cup of tea, and 
 then she went into her bedroom. 
 
 Daisy opened her eyes. 
 
 "Why, Ellen," she said, "I suppose I was that tired, 
 and slept so sound, that I never heard you come to bed 
 or get up — funny, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Young people don't sleep as light as do old folk,'" 
 Mrs. Bunting said sententiously. 
 
 "Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he's 
 upstairs now?" 
 
 Mrs. Bunting shook her head. "It looks as if 'twould 
 be a fine day for you down at Richmond," she observed 
 in a kindly tone. 
 
 And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile. 
 
 That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young 
 Chandler that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. 
 She and Bunting had thought carefully over what they 
 would say, and so well did they carry out their programme, 
 or, what is more likely, so full was young Chandler of the 
 long happy day he and Daisy had spent together, that he 
 took their news very calmly. 
 
 "Gone away, has he?" he observed casually. "Well, 
 I hope he paid up all right?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Bunting hastily. "No 
 trouble of that sort." 
 
 And Bunting said shamefacedly, "Aye, aye, the lodger 
 was quite an honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried 
 
304 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 about him. He was such a poor, gentle chap — not the 
 sort o' man one likes to think of as wandering about by 
 himself/' 
 
 "You always said he was 'centric/' said Joe thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Yes, he was that," said Bunting slowly. "Regular 
 right-down queer. Leetle touched, you know, under 
 the thatch," and, as he tapped his head significantly, 
 both young people burst out laughing. 
 
 "Would you like a description of him circulated?" 
 asked Joe good-naturedly. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another 
 
 "No, I don't think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. 
 'Twould upset him awfully, you see." 
 
 And Joe acquiesced. "You'd be surprised at the 
 number o' people who disappears and are never heard 
 
 of again " he said cheerfully. And then he got up, 
 
 very reluctantly. 
 
 Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed 
 him out into the passage, and shut the sitting-room door 
 behind her. 
 
 When she came back she walked over to where her 
 father was sitting in his easy chair, and standing behind 
 him she put her arms round his neck. 
 
 Then she bent down her head. "Father," she said, 
 "I've a bit of news for you!" 
 
 "Yes, my dear?" 
 
 "Father, I'm engaged! Aren't you surprised?" 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" said Bunting fondly. 
 Then he turned round and, catching hold of her head, 
 gave her a good, hearty kiss. 
 
THE LODGER 
 
 305 
 
 "What'll Old Aunt say, I wonder?" he whispered. 
 
 "Don't you worry about Old Aunt," exclaimed his 
 wife suddenly. "I'll manage Old Aunt! I'll go down 
 and see her. She and I have always got on pretty con> 
 fortable together, as you knows well, Daisy." 
 
 "Yes," said Daisy a little wonderingly. "I know you 
 have, Ellen." 
 
 Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last, after many 
 days and many nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left 
 off listening for the click of the lock which she at once 
 hoped and feared would herald her lodger's return. 
 
 As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun 
 the "Avenger" murders stopped, but there came a 
 morning in the early spring when a gardener, working 
 in the Regent's Park, found a newspaper in which was 
 wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled 
 shoes, a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though 
 of considerable interest to the police, was not chronicled 
 in any newspaper, but about the same time a pictur- 
 esque little paragraph went the round of the press 
 concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been 
 anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Found- 
 ling Hospital. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word 
 about "Old Aunt," and that lady had received the won- 
 derful news concerning Daisy in a more philosophical 
 spirit than her great-niece had expected her to do. She 
 only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentle- 
 folks leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is 
 
306 
 
 THE LODGER 
 
 pretty sure to follow — a remark which Daisy resented 
 much more than did her Joe. 
 
 Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of 
 an old lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, 
 and whom they make very comfortable. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
Prologue 
 
 "Tell me something about the Lextons, Mary t 
 Where did you pick them up?" asked Lady Flora 
 Desmond of hef hostess, Mrs. Hampton. "As I 
 looked at Mrs. Lexton during dinner, I thought I 
 had never seen a prettier face. When I was a child, 
 your little friend would have been what people then 
 called a professional beauty." 
 
 "She certainly is very pretty, and a regular honey- 
 pot! Look at her now, with Miles Rushworth?" 
 
 The speaker nodded towards the wide-open French 
 window of the high-ceilinged, oval eighteenth-century 
 sitting-room. She and two other women were sitting 
 there together after dinner, on the Saturday evening 
 of what Mrs. Hampton thought promised to be a very 
 successful week-end party. 
 
 The window gave access to a broad stone terrace. 
 Beyond the terrace lay a wide lawn, bathed in bright 
 moonlight, and across the lawn sauntered very slowly 
 two figures, that of a tall man, and that of a slender 
 woman dressed in a light-coloured frock. They were 
 moving away from the beautiful old country-house 
 where they were both staying as guests, making for 
 an avenue of beeches. 
 
 Mary Hampton went on, speaking not unkindly, 
 but with a certain tartness: "He took her out in his 
 motor after tea, so she might have left him alone after 
 dinner." 
 
 "You oughtn't to complain, my dear! You told me 
 this morning that you had asked the Lextons this week- 
 
 i 
 
2 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 end so that they could make friends with your million- 
 aire," observed Joan Rodney. 
 
 She was a sharp-tongued, clever spinster who 
 enjoyed putting her friends right, and telling them 
 home truths. Much was forgiven to Miss Rodney 
 because she was, if sharp-tongued, fundamentally 
 kind-hearted. 
 
 "My millionaire, as you call him, is one of the 
 finest amateur billiard-players in England. I made Jack 
 get hold of the best of the young 'pros.' He could only 
 spare us this evening, and now that all the men, and 
 two of the women, are either playing or watching the 
 play in the billiard-room, Miles is philandering with 
 Ivy Lexton in the garden!" 
 
 "Not philandering, Mary," observed Lady Flora, 
 smiling. "Mr. Rushworth never philanders." 
 
 "Well! You know what I mean. It's my fault, of 
 course. I ought to have known that no party would be 
 big enough to hold Ivy Lexton and another attraction. 
 Last time she was here she snatched such a nice boy 
 from his best girl, and stopped, I'm afraid, a proposal." 
 
 Lady Flora looked sorry. A plain woman herself, 
 she admired, without a touch of envy, physical beauty 
 more than she admired anything else in the world. 
 
 "I don't suppose Mrs. Lexton can help attracting 
 men. It's human nature after all " 
 
 Quoted Joan Rodney, with a sharp edge to her voice : 
 
 "It's human nature but, if so, oh! 
 Isn't human nature low?" 
 
 "Little Ivy isn't exactly low; at least I hope not," 
 observed little Ivy's hostess reflectively. "But I do feel 
 that there's a curiously soulless quality about her. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 3 
 
 Though she's not what people call clever, there's some- 
 thing baffling about Ivy Lexton. I liked her much better 
 when I first knew her.*' 
 
 "She mayn't be what silly people call clever, but 
 she's plenty of what used to be called 'nous,' " said 
 Miss Rodney drily. "She engineered her stroll with 
 Mr. Rush worth very cleverly to-night. Your husband 
 was determined to get him into the billiard-room " 
 
 "She had a good excuse for that, Joan. As I told 
 you yesterday, Jervis Lexton has been looking out for 
 something to do for a long while." 
 
 Mrs. Hampton turned to her other friend. "It 
 suddenly occurred to me, Flora, that Miles Rushworth, 
 who must have many jobs in his gift, might find Jervis 
 Lexton something to do. Ivy knows that I asked them 
 both for this week-end on purpose that they might 
 meet him. It isn't easy to get hold of him for this 
 kind of party.'' 
 
 "Have you known the Lextons long, Mary?" asked 
 Lady Flora. 
 
 She felt genuinely interested in Mrs. Jervis Lexton. 
 The quiet, old-fashioned, some would have said very 
 limited, middle-aged widow, and lovely, restless, self- 
 absorbed, and very modern Ivy Lexton, had "made 
 friends." 
 
 "I have known Jervis ever since he was born. His 
 father was a friend of my father's. But I had not seen 
 him for years till I ran across him, in town, about three 
 months ago. The last time I had seen him was early in 
 the war, when his father had just died, and he had 
 been given a fortnight's leave. He's what Jack calls 
 quite a good sort; but it's bad for a young man to 
 become his own master at twenty. He seems to have 
 
4 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 married this lovely little thing when he was twenty- 
 two. That's six years ago." 
 
 "They seem to get on very well/' observed Lady 
 Flora. 
 
 "I think they do, though I'm afraid they've muddled 
 away most of his money in having what Ivy considers 
 a good time. He must have come into a fair fortune, 
 for his father had sold their place just before the war." 
 
 "What fools young people seem to be to-day — I 
 mean compared to the old days !" exclaimed Joan Rod' 
 ney harshly. 
 
 She went on: "John Oram — you know, Mary, the 
 big solicitor — once told me that of ten men who sell 
 their land at any given time, only two have anything of 
 the purchase-price left at the end of ten years." 
 
 "Jervis Lexton won't be one of those two men," 
 said his hostess regretfully. "Ivy told me to-day that 
 they're fearfully hard up." 
 
 "People often say that when it is laughably untrue! 
 It's the fashion to pretend one's poor. Mrs. Lexton 
 dresses beautifully. She must spend a great deal of 
 money on her clothes," interjected Joan Rodney. 
 
 "I'm afraid there was no pretence about what Ivy 
 told me this morning. She looked really worried, poor 
 little thing ! I do hope she will get something good for 
 Jervis out of Miles Rushworth." 
 
 "She makes most of her frocks herself ; it's so easy 
 nowadays," said Lady Flora. And then she added: 
 "She was telling me to-day about her girlhood. Her 
 father failed in business, through no fault of his own, 
 and for a little while she was on the stage " 
 
 "Only a walking-on part in a musical comedy," 
 observed Joan Rodney, "if what her husband, who 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 5 
 
 strikes me as an honest young fellow, told me is true. 
 However, I'm surprised, even so, that she didn't do 
 better for herself in what I have heard described as the 
 straight road to the peeresses' gallery, to say nothing of 
 'another place/ " 
 
 "Joan! Joan!" cried Mrs. Hampton deprecatingly. 
 
 Miss Rodney got up and came across to where her 
 hostess sat under a heavily-shaded lamp. 
 
 She put her left elbow on the marble mantelpiece, 
 and looking down into the other's now upturned face, 
 "I* don't like your little friend," she said deliberately. 
 "I've been studying her closely ever since she arrived 
 on Thursday afternoon, though she didn't seem aware 
 of my existence till after lunch to-day. When I was 
 in America last year, they'd invented a name for that 
 sort of young woman. She's out, all the time, for what 
 she can get. 'A gold-digger' — that's the slang Amer- 
 ican term for that kind of young person, Mary. I 
 know what I'm talking about." 
 
 "How can you possibly know?" 
 
 "By instinct, my dear! If I were you I should give 
 pretty Mrs. Lexton a very wide berth." 
 
 And then, rather to the relief of the other two, she 
 exclaimed, "Having done what's always foolish — that 
 is, said exactly what I think — I'm off to watch the 
 champion billiard-player." 
 
 After she had left the room, Mrs. Hampton said 
 slowly, "It's sad to hear a good woman, for Joan is 
 really a good woman, say such cruel, unkind things." 
 
 "It's odd, too, for no one can show more real under- 
 standing sympathy when one's in trouble," answered 
 Lady Flora in a low voice. She was remembering a time 
 of frightful sorrow in her own life, when Joan Rodney 
 
6 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 had been one of the few friends whose presence had 
 not jarred on her. 
 
 "Ah, well! She's devoted to you. Also, you're an 
 angel, Flora, so there's no great merit in being kind to 
 you. What Joan Rodney can't forgive in another wo- 
 man is youth, happiness " 
 
 "And, I suppose, beauty," interjected Lady Flora. 
 "Yet to me there is something so disarming, so pa- 
 thetic, about Mrs. Lexton." 
 
 "Then Joan has such a poor opinion of human 
 nature," went on Mrs. Hampton in a vexed tone. "You 
 heard with what delight she quoted that horrid little 
 bit of doggerel. Still, quite between ourselves, Flora, 
 I must admit that, in a sense, she is more right than she 
 knows about Ivy Lexton." 
 
 Lady Flora looked dismayed. "In what way, Mary?" 
 
 "Ivy is very fond of money, or rather of spending it. 
 In fact she is idiotically extravagant. She is dancing 
 mad, and belongs to the two most expensive night clubs 
 in town. It's her fault that they've frittered away a lot 
 of Jervis Lexton's capital. Also, there's a side to her, 
 for all her pretty manners, that isn't pretty at all." 
 
 "How d'you mean?" and the other looked puzzled. 
 
 Mrs. Hampton hesitated. Then she smiled a little 
 ruefully. "My maid told me that when Ivy arrived she 
 was quite rude to Annie — you know, my nice old 
 housemaid? — because there was no bottle of scent on 
 her dressing-table! There was one, it seems, last time 
 she was here. It had been left by some visitor — I don't 
 undertake to provide such luxuries." 
 
 "That doesn't sound very nice, certainly," Lady 
 Flora looked naively surprised. 
 
 "Then, if I'm to be really honest, my dear, there's 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 7 
 
 no doubt that one reason why Joan Rodney has taken 
 such a ferocious dislike to Ivy Lexton is owing to the 
 fact that I stupidly told Ivy this morning of Joan's 
 marvellous bit of luck — I mean of that big legacy 
 from the American cousin. Pm afraid that's why Ivy, 
 who behaved all yesterday as if Joan hardly existed, 
 began at once to make up to her ! But pretty ways are 
 very much lost on our Joan." 
 
 She began to laugh. She really couldn't help it, 
 remembering the way her friend had received the 
 younger woman's overtures of friendship. 
 
 Lady Flora looked disturbed, for she was one of 
 those rare human beings to whom it is a pain to think 
 ill of anybody. 
 
 "After all, Joan's money is of no good to anyone but 
 nerself, Mary? I don't see why you should suppose 
 poor little Mrs. Lexton made up to her because of that 
 legacy." 
 
 The other looked at her fixedly. 
 
 "Ivy Lexton has a good deal in common with the 
 heroine of Jack's favourite drawing-room story." 
 
 "What story?" asked Lady Flora. Her host's rather 
 sly sense of humour had never appealed to her, though 
 they were quite good friends. 
 
 "The story of the lady who said to her husband, 
 'Oh, do let's go and see them; they're so rich!' to be 
 met with the answer, 'My dear, I would if it was 
 catching !' " 
 
 Lady Flora looked a little puzzled. "He was quite 
 right. Money is not catching, though I suppose most 
 people wish it were." 
 
 "A great many people are convinced that it is, 
 Flora, and our little Ivy is among them. I'm sure she 
 
8 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 feels that if she rubs herself up against it close enough, 
 a little will certainly come off. And I'm not sure, in her 
 case, that she's not right !" 
 
 But Lady Flora could be obstinate in her mild way. 
 
 "I like Mrs. Lexton," she said gently. "I'm going 
 to call on her when we're all in town again. She's 
 promised to take me to a nice quiet night club. I've 
 always longed to see one. I want my sister-in-law, I 
 mean Jenny, to know her. Jenny loves young people. 
 She gives amusing little dances " 
 
 "I think you'll make a mistake if you introduce Ivy 
 to the Duchess." 
 
 "I don't see why, my dear? After all, Mary, your 
 little friend has been very sweet to me, and that though 
 she knows I'm really poor." 
 
 The other woman gave a quick look at her friend. 
 Sometimes she thought Flora Desmond too good, too 
 simple, even for human nature's daily food. 
 
Chapter One 
 
 The July sun shone slantwise into the ugly, almost 
 sordid-looking bedroom where Ivy Lexton, still only 
 half dressed, had just begun making up her lovely face 
 in front of a tarnished, dust-powdered toilet-glass. 
 
 It was nine o'clock in the morning; an hour ago 
 she had had her cup of tea and — mindful of her figure 
 — the hard biscuit which was the only thing she allowed 
 herself by way of breakfast. Her husband, hopelessly 
 idle, easy-natured, well-bred Jervis Lexton, was still 
 fast asleep in the little back bedroom his wife called 
 his dressing-room, but which was their box-room and 
 general "glory-hole." 
 
 Everything that had been of any real value there had 
 gradually disappeared in the last few weeks, for Ivy 
 and Jervis Lexton, to use their own rueful expression, 
 were indeed stony-broke. 
 
 Yet they had started their married life, six years 
 before, with a capital of sixty-eight thousand pounds. 
 Now they were almost penniless. Indeed, what Ivy 
 called to herself with greater truth than was usual 
 ''her little all," that is, a pound note, and twelve shillings 
 and sixpence in silver, lay on the stained, discoloured 
 mahogany dressing-table before which she was now 
 standing. 
 
 How amazed would her still large circle of friends 
 and acquaintances have been had they learnt how 
 desperate and how hopeless was her own ana her 
 husband's financial position. Yesterday she had even 
 tried to sell two charming frocks brought back for her 
 
 9 
 
10 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 by a good-natured friend from Paris. But she had only 
 been offered a few shillings for the two, so she had 
 brought them home again. 
 
 And now, as her eyes fell on the pound note and 
 tiny heap of silver, they filled with angry tears. How 
 she loathed these sordid, hateful lodgings! What a 
 terrible, even a terrifying thing, it was to have fallen so 
 low as to have to live here, in two shabby, ill-kept bed- 
 rooms, where there wasn't even a hanging cupboard 
 for her pretty clothes, and where the drawers of the 
 painted deal chest of drawers would .neither shut nor 
 open. 
 
 The Lextons had come there for two reasons. One, a 
 stupid reason, because their landlady was the widow of 
 a man who had been employed as a lad in the stables of 
 Jervis Lexton's father. A better reason was that, owing 
 to there being no bathroom in the house, the rooms 
 were amazingly, fantastically cheap. The Lextons had 
 already been camping here, as Ivy's husband put it, 
 for some months, but they rarely gave any of their 
 friends their address. Jervis still belonged to a famous 
 club to which some of his rich men acquaintances 
 would have given much to belong; and Ivy had a 
 guinea subscription to a small bridge club from which 
 her letters were forwarded each day. 
 
 There came a knock at the bedroom door. It was a 
 funny, fumbling knock, and she knew it for that of the 
 landlady's little boy. 
 
 Flinging a pale pink lace-trimmed wrapper round 
 her, "Come in," she called out sharply. 
 
 The child came in, holding in his grubby hand two 
 letters. 
 
 She took them from him, and quickly glanced at the 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 ii 
 
 envelopes. The one, inscribed in a firm masculine hand- 
 writing to her present, Pimlico, address, she put down 
 on the dressing-table unopened. She knew, or thought 
 she knew, so well what it contained. 
 
 There had been a time, not so very long ago, when 
 Ivy Lexton's beautiful eyes would have shone at the 
 sight of that handwriting. A time when she would have 
 torn that envelope open at once, so that her senses 
 could absorb with delight the ardent protestations of 
 love written on the large plain sheet of paper that 
 envelope contained. 
 
 But she no longer felt "like that" towards her daily 
 correspondent, Roger Gretorex. Also she was going to 
 see him this morning in the hope, nay, the certainty, 
 that he would help to tide over this horrid moment of 
 difficulty, by giving her whatever money he could put 
 his hands on. 
 
 Gretorex was of a very different stamp from the 
 men who had up to now fallen in love with her. He 
 worshipped her with all his heart and soul, while yet 
 conscious that he was now doing what, before he had 
 been tempted, he would have unhesitatingly condemned 
 in another man. As to that, and other matters of less 
 moment, he was what Ivy Lexton felt to be ludicrously 
 old-fashioned, and she had soon become weary of him, 
 and satiated with the jealous devotion he lavished on 
 her. 
 
 Also, Roger Gretorex was poor; not poor as Ivy's 
 husband had become, largely through his own fault 
 and hers, but through that of his father, a great Sus- 
 sex squire, who had gambled and muddled away 
 his only son's inheritance. That was why Gretorex 
 was a doctor, and not what the woman he loved 
 
12 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 would have liked him to be, an idle young man of 
 means. 
 
 The other envelope was addressed in a woman's 
 flowing hand, and it had been sent on from Ivy's bridge 
 club. 
 
 The writer of the many sheets this thick, cream- 
 laid envelope contained was named Rose Arundell. 
 She was a well-to-do, generous, rather foolish young 
 widow, who had taken a great fancy to lovely Mrs. 
 Jervis Lexton. Mrs. Arundell had been, nay, was, a 
 most useful friend, and a look of dismay shadowed 
 Ivy Lexton's face as she read on and on, till she 
 reached the end of the long letter. 
 
 W ednesday afternoon. 
 
 Ivy, darling, I have the most astounding news to tell you ! 
 
 I'll begin at the beginning. Besides, I can't help thinking 
 — for I know you're rather worried just now, poor dear — 
 that it may be of help to you. D'you remember my telling 
 you last time we met at that tiresome fete where we couldn't 
 see each other for a moment alone, that I'd had a wonderful 
 adventure? That I'd been to a fortune-teller? Her name is 
 Mrs. Thrawn. She lives at No. i Ranelagh Reach on the 
 Embankment. Her fee is a pound — and I feel inclined to 
 send her a thousand pounds when I think of what she has 
 done for me ! 
 
 I don't mind telling you now that I was on the point of 
 taking that silly boy, Ronny. No one knows but myself how 
 horribly lonely I've been. Well, I thought I'd go and see this 
 Mrs Thrawn and hear what she'd got to say ; for, after all, 
 I didn't love Ronny, and I always had a dreadful suspicion 
 it was my money he liked, rather than me. 
 
 Well, my dear, I went off trembling. But I can't tell you 
 how wonderful she was ! She described Ronny and warned 
 me against him. Then she said that an extraordinary change 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 13 
 
 was coming over my life, and that if I would only be patient 
 and wait, everything I had most longed for would come to 
 pass. She was most awfully kind — really kind. She said 
 that if I was sensible and did what she said — I mean refuse 
 Ronny — I should take a long journey very soon to a place 
 that she, Mrs. Thrawn, knew well and loved; and that I 
 should be very, very happy there. That place was India, as 
 I knew, for the woman who first told me about Mrs. Thrawn 
 said she was the widow of a missionary! 
 
 And then, oh, Ivy, what do you think happened? I 
 wonder if you remember all I told you about the soldier who 
 was my first love? The man whom my mother would not 
 let me marry and who did so splendidly in the war? He's 
 home on leave from India, where he has a splendid appoint- 
 ment. We ran across one another in the street, and I asked 
 him to come and see me. You can guess the rest ! 
 
 His leave is up by the end of next week. We shall be 
 married very quietly on Thursday, and sail for India on 
 Friday. 
 
 I'm in a whirl, as you can imagine. I'd love to have you 
 at my wedding, darling, for you really are my dearest friend. 
 But he doesn't want anyone there who didn't know us both 
 in the old days, before the war. He hasn't a bean, but, thank 
 God, I've plenty for us both ! 
 
 Your devoted 
 
 Rose. 
 
 Ivy Lexton put the long letter she had just read 
 down on the dressing-table. Then she took up the 
 other, still unopened, envelope, and stuffed it into her 
 bag. After all she could read the letter it contained in 
 the omnibus, on her way to see Roger Gretorex. He 
 had taken over for a friend a slum practice in West- 
 minster, and he lived in what Ivy called a horrid little 
 street named Ferry Place. 
 
14 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 She turned again towards the looking-glass, and 
 began once more making up her face at the point where 
 she had been interrupted. She was so used to the proc- 
 ess that she worked quickly, mechanically, though tak- 
 ing a great deal of intelligent care, far more care than 
 did most of her young married women friends. 
 
 With regard to everything that concerned herself, 
 Ivy Lexton was quick, uncannily shrewd, and instinct- 
 ively clever. She knew how to exploit to the very best 
 advantage her exceptional physical beauty, her natural 
 charm of manner, and, above all, her extraordinary 
 allure for men. 
 
 And yet, so unsuspicious is human nature in that 
 stratum of the financially, easy, agreeably self-absorbed, 
 and pleasure-loving world in which Ivy played a not 
 unimportant part, that all the men, and many of the 
 women, who came across her in that world, would have 
 told you that Ivy Lexton was "a dear little thing," "a 
 regular sport," "a good plucked one," and "a splendid 
 wife to that rotter Lexton." 
 
 When she had finished what was always to her an 
 interesting and pleasant task, she stood still, and did 
 nothing, for a moment. She longed to get away from 
 this hateful room and this horrible house, yet Roger 
 Gretorex would not be free of his poorer patients for 
 quite a long while. This was the more tiresome as she 
 always went into his tiny mid- Victorian house by the 
 back way, through the surgery, which gave into a blind 
 alley. 
 
 Suddenly her eyes fell on "her little all." Why 
 shouldn't she take that pound note, and call on Rose 
 Arundell's wonderful fortune-teller on her way to 
 Ferry Place? After all, she, too, might have an un- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 15 
 
 expected bit of luck waiting for her round the 
 corner. 
 
 She slipped on a cool pale-pink cotton frock given 
 her by that same generous friend who was now, to her 
 regret, going out of her life. Then she jammed a little 
 brown straw hat on her fair, naturally wavy, shingled 
 head, and, tiptoeing down the carpetless stairs, she 
 hurried through the dirty hall into the sunshiny street. 
 
 Ranelagh Reach consisted of a row of six early nine- 
 teenth-century houses on that part of the Embankment 
 which forms a link between Westminster and Chelsea. 
 Two of the houses had evidently been taken over lately 
 by well-to-do people, for they had been repainted, 
 and their window-boxes were now filled with ivy-leaved 
 geraniums. The four other houses were shabby-looking 
 and dilapidated, and it was in one of these that there 
 dwelt the woman who had taken as her professional 
 name that of Janet Thrawn. The blinds of No. 1 were 
 down, the brown paint on the front door had peeled, 
 and the steps had evidently not been "done" for days. 
 Everything looked so poverty-stricken that Ivy felt sur- 
 prised when a very neat and capable-looking maid 
 opened the door in answer to her pull at the old- 
 fashioned bell. She had expected to see a slatternly 
 little girl. 
 
 "I've come to see Mrs. Thrawn; Mrs. Arundell sent 
 me." 
 
 "I'm not sure that Mrs. Thrawn can see you, miss, 
 unless you've made an appointment. But please come 
 in, while I go and see." 
 
 The inside of the little house was in its way as much 
 of a surprise as the maid; it was very different from 
 
1 6 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 what the outside would have led the visitor to expect. 
 There was a fine Persian rug on the floor of the narrow 
 hall, and plenty of light came in from a window half- 
 way up the staircase. Affixed to the red walls were 
 plaster casts of hands, forming a curious, uncanny kind 
 of decoration. 
 
 After the maid had gone upstairs Ivy Lexton felt a 
 sudden impulse "to cut and run." A pound note meant 
 a great deal to her just now. But as she was turning 
 towards the front door, the woman' came down the 
 steep stairs of the old house. 
 
 "Mrs. Thrawn will see you," she said. Then she 
 turned and preceded the visitor up the staircase. 
 
 As they reached the landing the maid murmured : 
 
 "Mrs. Thrawn won't be a moment." 
 
 Ivy Lexton looked round her nervously. There were 
 evidently two rooms on this floor — the front room, of 
 which the blinds were down, and a back room, of 
 which the door was masked by a heavy embroidered 
 green silk curtain. On the patch of wall which formed 
 the third side of the landing was a dark oil painting, 
 bearing on its tarnished gold frame the inscription in 
 black letters, "The Witch." The subject was that of a 
 white-haired woman being burnt alive, while an evil- 
 looking crowd gloated over the hideous sight. 
 
 There came the tinkle of a bell. 
 
 "Mrs. Thrawn will see you now," said the woman 
 shortly, drawing back the curtain to show a door 
 already ajar. 
 
 "Come in !" called a full, resonant voice. 
 
 Feeling excited and curious, for this was the first 
 time she had ever been to a fortune-teller, Ivy brushed 
 past the maid. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Then she felt a pang of disappointment. The room 
 before her was so very ordinary — just an old-fashioned 
 back drawing-room, containing one or two good pieces 
 of furniture, while on the chimney-piece stood a row 
 of silver-gilt Indian ornaments. 
 
 Even the soothsayer, the obvious owner of this room, 
 impressed her client as being almost commonplace. At 
 any rate there was nothing mysterious or romantic 
 about her appearance. She was a tall, powerful-looking 
 woman, nearer sixty than fifty. Her grey hair was cut 
 short, and she was clad in an old-fashioned tea-gown, 
 of bright blue cashmere, which fell from her neck to 
 her feet in heavy folds. 
 
 The most remarkable feature of Mrs. Thrawn's face 
 was her eyes. They were light hazel, luminous, com- 
 pelling eyes, and as Ivy Lexton advanced rather timidly 
 towards her they became dilated, as if with a sudden 
 shock of gripping, overwhelming surprise. 
 
 Yet nothing could have appeared at once more 
 simple and more attractive than this lovely girl who 
 wanted to take a peep into the future. Ivy Lexton 
 looked almost a child in her flesh-coloured cotton frock 
 and the simple pull-on brown hat which framed her 
 exquisite little face. 
 
 Making a determined effort over herself, Mrs. 
 Thrawn withdrew her astonished and, indeed, 
 affrighted, glance from her visitor, and said coldly, "I 
 cannot give you long this morning, for I have an ap- 
 pointment" — she looked at her wrist-watch — "in 
 twenty minutes. I suppose you know my fee is a pound, 
 paid in advance?" 
 
 Ivy felt a touch of resentment. Only twenty minutes 
 for a whole pound ? Yet she was beginning to feel the 
 
i8 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 compelling power of the woman, and so, slowly, she 
 took the one-pound note that remained to her out of 
 her bag. 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn slipped the note into one of the patch 
 pockets of her gown, and motioned her visitor to a low 
 stool, while she sat down, herself, in a big arm-chair 
 opposite. For a moment Ivy felt as she had felt when 
 as a little girl she was going to be scolded. 
 
 "We will begin with your hands. No! Not like 
 that. Your left hand first, please, and the back to start 
 with." 
 
 As she took Ivy's hand in her cool firm grasp Mrs. 
 Thrawn said quietly, "I need not tell you that you have 
 amazing powers of — well, keeping your own counsel, 
 when it suits you to do so." 
 
 Then she turned the hand she held over, and taking 
 a small lens out of the pocket where now lay Ivy's one- 
 pound note, she closely scrutinised the lines criss- 
 crossing the rosy palm. 
 
 "You've the most extraordinary fate-line that I've 
 ever seen — and that's saying a very great deal," she 
 observed. 
 
 "What I want to know," began Ivy eagerly, "is " 
 
 "Whether there is going to be any change for the 
 
 better in your life ?" 
 
 The fortune-teller waited a moment, and, lifting her 
 
 head, she gave her client a long measuring look. 
 
 "Yes, there is going to be a great change in your life. 
 
 But as to whether it will be for the better or for the 
 
 worse ?" 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn hesitated for what seemed to the other 
 a long time. But at last she exclaimed, "From your 
 point of view I should say 'for the better,' for I 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 19 
 
 see money, a great deal of money, coming your 
 way." 
 
 Ivy turned crimson, so great were her surprise and 
 joy. 
 
 "Will it be soon ?" she asked eagerly. 
 "Very soon — in a few hours from now." 
 "Are you sure?" 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn lifted her great head, and again she 
 looked at her visitor fixedly. 
 
 "May I speak plainly? Will you try not to be 
 offended at what I'm going to say?" 
 
 "Nothing you say could offend me," cried Ivy in her 
 prettiest manner. "You don't know how happy you've 
 made me!" 
 
 "I do know. But, though I don't suppose you will 
 
 ever believe it, money is not everything, Mrs. " 
 
 " — Lexton." 
 
 2?he name slipped out. After all, why shouldn't she 
 tell Mrs. Thrawn her name? Yet she was sorry she 
 had done so a few moments later, for the fortune- 
 teller, leaning forward, exclaimed harshly: 
 
 "Now for the powder after the jam! I sense that you 
 are engaged in an illicit love affair fraught to you, and 
 to others also, with frightful danger." 
 
 Once more Ivy's face crimsoned under her clever 
 make-up, but this time with fear and dismay. Her eyes 
 fell before the other woman's hard scrutiny. 
 
 "Wrong is, of course, a matter of conscience, and I 
 know you think you have nothing to be ashamed of. 
 But you are leading a fine soul astray, and evil influ- 
 ences are gathering round you." 
 
 "I know that I've done wrong," faltered Ivy, 
 
20 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 frightened and perplexed by Mrs. Thrawn's manner, 
 rather than by her warning. 
 
 The other said sharply, "You know nothing of the 
 sort! You've not got what I call a conscience, Mrs. 
 Lexton. But a conscience nowadays is a very old- 
 fashioned attribute. Many a young woman would 
 hardly know what to do with one if she had it!" 
 
 Ivy did not know what to answer, and felt sorry 
 indeed that she had let this censorious, disagreeable 
 person know her name. 
 
 "For your own sake," went on Mrs. Thrawn 
 earnestly, "break with this man who loves you. For 
 one thing, 'it's well to be off with the old love before 
 you are on with the new.' " 
 
 "Then there is going to be another man in my life?" 
 Ivy asked eagerly. 
 
 "I see a stranger coming into your life within a few 
 hours from now. Whether his valuable friendship for 
 you endures will entirely depend on yourself." . 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn got up from her chair. 
 
 "As we haven't much time, I will now look into the 
 crystal." 
 
 She drew down the blind of the one window in the 
 room, and, going across to the writing-table, she took 
 off it a heavy, round glass ball which looked like, and 
 might indeed have been sold for, a paper-weight. Then, 
 moving forward a small, low table, she put it between 
 herself and her visitor. 
 
 "Don't speak," she said quickly. "Try to empty your 
 mind of all thought." 
 
 Bending her head, she gazed into the crystal, and 
 what seemed to Ivy Lexton a long time went by. 
 
 In reality, it might have been as long as two minutes 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 21 
 
 before Mrs. Thrawn began speaking again, this time 
 in a quick, muffled voice. 
 
 "I see you both now, you and the dark young man 
 on whom you will bring unutterable misery and shame, 
 and who will bring you distress and disappointment,, 
 if you do not break with him now, to-day. The safe 
 way is still open to you, Mrs. Lexton, but soon it will 
 be closed, and you will find yourself in a prison of your 
 own making, and trapped — trapped like a rat in a sink- 
 ing ship." 
 
 Again there was a long, tense silence, and again Ivy 
 began to feel vaguely frightened. 
 
 The prediction of shame and misery to another 
 meant very little, if indeed anything, to her. But dis- 
 tress and disappointment to herself ? Ah ! that was 
 another thing altogether. Ivy very much disliked meet- 
 ing with even trifling disappointments. 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn looked up. All the brilliance had gone 
 out of her curious, luminous eyes. 
 
 "I fear you will not follow the better way," she said 
 slowly. "Indeed, I sense that you are making up your 
 mind not to follow it, unless the doing so falls in with 
 your other plans. I see this dark young man's destiny 
 closely intertwined with your life. He will bear the 
 scars you are about to inflict on him to his grave, and 
 that whether he lives but a few months, or a long life- 
 time. You do not what you call love him any more. 
 But he loves you as you have never yet been loved, and 
 never will be." 
 
 Her voice softened and became low and pitiful, for 
 the girl who was now gazing at her with a surprised, 
 frightened expression on her exquisite face looked too 
 young to be what the soothsayer believed her to be, 
 
22 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 that is, already doomed, unless she altered her whole 
 way of life, to suffer terrible things. 
 
 "As woman to woman, let me give you a word of 
 advice, Mrs. Lexton. For your own sake try to follow 
 it." 
 
 "I will !" cried Ivy sincerely. 
 
 "Do not be afraid of poverty " And then, as she 
 
 saw the other's instinctive recoil, "Poverty does not 
 touch the likes of you with its cold finger," and Mrs. 
 Thrawn gave an eerie laugh. "If you are wise, if you 
 do what is still open to you to do, you will have ups 
 and downs, but the ups will predominate, and there 
 will always be some man, even when you become what 
 I should call an old woman, who will be proud, yes, 
 proud, to be your banker." 
 
 "Do you see something nice coming for me soon in 
 that glass ball ?" asked Ivy nervously. 
 
 She longed, secretly, to be told something more of 
 the new man who was coming into her life. 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn bent ever the cloudy crystal. Then she 
 muttered : 
 
 "The pictures are forming. They are coming thick 
 and fast. And — but no, I will not tell you what I see, 
 for what I am seeing may not concern you at all. It 
 may concern the future of the woman who is now on, 
 my doorstep " 
 
 And, as she said the word "doorstep," the old- 
 fashioned house-bell pealed through the house. 
 
 Mrs. Thrawn rose and put her crystal back on the 
 writing-table. Then she pulled up the blind. 
 
 "We've only a few moments left. But I'm going, for 
 my own satisfaction," she interjected in a singular tone, 
 "to tell your fortune by the cards." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 23 
 
 As she spoke she took a pack of cards out of the 
 drawer of her writing-table, and sank down again into 
 her chair. 
 
 "Now cut." 
 
 After Ivy had obeyed, the soothsayer rapidly dealt 
 out the cards. Then she put down her finger on the 
 queen of hearts. 
 
 "This card stands for you," she dragged her finger 
 along. "And here is the king of diamonds, the man 
 who is coming into your life, and who will give you 
 
 money, much money. Even so " she shook her 
 
 head, "you will never be able to count on him as you 
 can count on the man who is still bound to you, and 
 whom I bid you cast out of your life at once — at 
 once." 
 
 She swept the cards together and rose from her 
 chair. 
 
 "I saw trouble in your hand; I saw trouble in the 
 crystal; I saw great trouble in the cards. Yet, Mrs. 
 Lexton, you are not a woman who troubles trouble 
 before trouble troubles you. Even so, unless you follow 
 my advice about your present lover, I see misfortune 
 galloping towards you like a riderless horse." 
 
 "But you do still believe that I'm going to get a lot 
 of money?" Ivy asked pleadingly. "Did the cards tell 
 you that also?" 
 
 "Yes, the cards told me that also." 
 
 From outside the door came the sound of footsteps. 
 
 "One last word — one last warning. When you came 
 into this room you were not alone, Mrs. Lexton." 
 
 Ivy stared at her. What could Mrs. Thrawn mean? 
 Of course she had been alone ! 
 
 "You were accompanied, surrounded, by a huge 
 
^4 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 mob of men and women, invisible to you, but visible to 
 me. Are you an actress ?" 
 
 "I was an actress, for a little while, before I mar- 
 ried," said Ivy, smiling. "And I'd love to go back on the 
 stage, but only as a leading lady, of course." 
 
 ''Given certain eventualities, you will become of 
 great moment, of absorbing interest, to hundreds of 
 thousands of people. Men and women will fight over 
 you — the newspapers will record your every move- 
 ment." 
 
 Ivy smiled self-consciously. This last unexpected 
 prediction gave her a thrill of pleasurable excitement. 
 What could it mean but a triumphant return to the 
 stage, of which she had been hitherto only a humble 
 and transient ornament? 
 
 "There is a woman already in your life — I see her 
 now standing behind you. She is a grey-haired, worn- 
 looking old woman. If you fail to do what I advise you 
 to do, she will play an overwhelming part in your 
 destiny. Indeed it is she who may determine your 
 fate." 
 
 Then she turned, and taking a tiny silver-gilt bell off 
 the mantelpiece she rang it sharply. 
 
 The door opened, and the maid pulled aside the 
 heavy curtain. There was no stranger waiting on the 
 landing. Ivy looked so surprised that the woman 
 smiled. "Mrs. Thrawn doesn't like her clients to cross 
 one another. The lady who has just come in is waiting 
 in the front room." 
 
 As Mrs. Thrawn's late visitor walked quickly down 
 the Embankment towards the place for which she was 
 bound, she felt more really light-hearted than she had 
 felt for, oh ! such a long time. Money coming her way 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 25 
 
 — and a new man in her life? That was all Ivy Lexton 
 really remembered of that curious interview. The warn- 
 ings Mrs. Thrawn had given her she put down to the 
 soothsayer's conventional outlook on life. 
 
 As for the woman's advice concerning Roger 
 Gretorex, she ought to have known, being a fortune- 
 teller, that she, Ivy, had already made up her mind 
 to break with her secret lover. She could not, however, 
 break with him to-day, for two reasons. First, she was 
 going to ask him for a little money, and secondly, 
 he was giving a theatre-party this evening. She, Ivy, 
 her friend Rose Arundell, and Jervis Lexton were to 
 be Gretorex's guests, and he was taking them on, after 
 the play, to supper at the Savoy. That had been settled 
 days ago. 
 
 Rose Arundell? She told herself vexedly that Rose 
 would certainly "chuck." In fact it was plain that Rose 
 had forgotten all about to-night's engagement, or she 
 would have mentioned it in her letter. They would 
 be three instead of four. But perhaps, after all, that 
 didn't really matter, for Jervis was quite fond of Roger. 
 
 There was, however, a fly, albeit a small fly, in the 
 ointment. There was no such person, there never had 
 been, or, it seemed to her, could be, in her life, as a 
 worn-looking, grey-haired woman. This fact made her 
 feel a little doubtful, a little anxious, as to the truth of 
 the fortune-teller's other predictions. 
 
Chapter Two 
 
 "Why, there's Mr. Rushworth! Do go over and ask 
 him to join us for coffee." 
 
 Ivy Lexton was smiling at her husband — a delicious, 
 roguish smile. As he smiled back, he told himself with 
 conscious satisfaction that his little wife was far the 
 prettiest woman here to-night. 
 
 Her sleekly brushed-back auburn hair, white skin, 
 violet eyes, and slender rounded figure were wont to 
 remind those few of her admirers familiar with the art 
 of Romney of a certain portrait of Nelson's Emma, 
 spinning. 
 
 Ivy's husband was pleasantly aware that she was 
 not only the prettiest, but also one of the smartest 
 looking, of the women supping at the Savoy to-night. 
 This was the more commendable, from simple Jervis 
 Lexton's point of view, as they were so hard up — 
 stony-broke, in fact. 
 
 He generally did at once anything Ivy asked him to 
 do, but now he waited for a few moments. 
 
 "D'you mean that chap we met at the Hamptons? 
 / don't see him." 
 
 "Don't be stupid, darling! He's over in that corner, 
 with two dowdy-looking women, looking bored to 
 death. I'm sure he'll be delighted to join us for coffee." 
 
 There had come an edge of irritation in her seductive 
 voice. Ivy had a peculiar and very individual intona- 
 tion, and many a man had found it the most enchanting 
 voice in the world. 
 
 At last Lexton rose, just a thought unwillingly. He 
 26 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 27 
 
 had been enjoying himself to-night, forgetting the 
 money anxieties which had at last become desperately 
 pressing, while listening to his wife's gay chatter con- 
 cerning the well-known people who were also supping 
 at the Savoy this July night. 
 
 The young man liked a party of just three friends 
 much better than the big noisy suppers to which he 
 sometimes escorted his wife. In a way it was funny that 
 their host, a grim-looking young doctor named Roger 
 Gretorex, was their friend, for even Lexton realised 
 that, though he and Gretorex were both country-bred, 
 and belonged to the now vanishing old county gentry 
 class, they had nothing else in common. 
 
 The host had hardly said a word during the whole 
 evening, either at the theatre, or since they had come 
 on here. So taciturn had he been that Lexton supposed 
 the poor chap was glum because the pretty widow, 
 Mrs. Arundell, whom they were to have brought with 
 them to make a fourth, had fallen out. He knew that 
 Ivy suspected that Gretorex liked Mrs. Arundell quite 
 a little bit. If so, the young man was out of luck, for 
 he was the last sort of chap an attractive widow was 
 likely to fancy. 
 
 As he threaded his way between the crowded round 
 tables, there came over Jervis Lexton a queer and 
 very definite feeling of unwillingness to obey his wife. 
 He remembered that he and Ivy had met this man, 
 Miles Rushworth, about three weeks ago at a week- 
 end country house party, and that Ivy had taken quite 
 a fancy to him. But he, Jervis, remembered that he 
 himself had not taken to Rushworth. For one thing, he 
 had thought the man too damn clever and pleased with 
 himself. 
 
28 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Rushworth was, however, an enormously rich man, 
 and Ivy had spent most of the Saturday evening of 
 that long week-end out in the moonlit garden, pacing 
 up and down with him. Late that same night she had 
 told her husband, excitedly, that her new friend had 
 said he thought he could find what Lexton had long 
 been looking for — an easy, well-paid job. 
 
 But Ivy's husband, simple though he might be, had 
 learnt a thing or two since they had joined the ranks of 
 what some call "the new poor." One was that, though 
 his wife could twist most men round her little finger, 
 it didn't follow she could make them do much to help 
 him. This time he had been so far wrong that on the 
 Monday morning this chap Rushworth, after motoring 
 them both back to town, when saying good-bye had 
 muttered something to Ivy as to "setting your husband 
 on his feet again." But this had happened a good three 
 weeks ago, and their new acquaintance had given no 
 further sign of life. 
 
 After Lexton had risen from the little round table, 
 the two he had left sitting there kept silence for what 
 seemed, to the woman, a long time. Then suddenly 
 Gretorex exclaimed, in a low tense voice, "How I hate 
 hearing you call that man 'darling' !" 
 
 Ivy Lexton made no answer to that statement. She 
 was picking up the tiny crumbs left by her fairy bread 
 from the side of her plate, and arranging them in a 
 diamond pattern on the tablecloth. But, though she 
 seemed intent on her babyish task, she was angrily, 
 impatiently aware that her companion was gazing at 
 her with unhappy, frowning eyes. His words had cut 
 across her pleasant thoughts — her joyful relief at 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 29 
 
 having seen Miles Rushworth, at knowing that in a 
 few moments he would be here, with her. 
 
 'T'm sorry I made this plan about to-night," she said 
 at last, scarcely moving her lips. "It was stupid of 
 me." 
 
 "It was more than stupid of me to agree to it," mut- 
 tered Gretorex savagely. "I've never been more 
 wretched in my life than I've been to-night !" 
 
 She told herself, with a touch of contempt, that 
 tvhat he had just said was not only stupid, but utterly 
 untrue. Why should the presence of her good- 
 humoured, easy-going husband make Roger wretched? 
 But she kept her feeling of irritation in check. 
 
 She glanced found at him — it was a pleading, tender 
 glance — and his heart leapt. How wondrous beautiful 
 she was, and — how divinely kind ! 
 
 And then a curious thing happened to Roge^ 
 Gretorex. In that softly illumined, flower-scented, luxu- 
 rious London restaurant, it wa^ as it he saw in a vision 
 the wistful and plain, if intelligent, face of a girl he had 
 known the whole of her short life. Her name was Enid 
 Dent, and she was now twenty-one. Had he not met Ivy 
 Lexton seven months ago, he and Enid Dent would 
 now have been engaged to be married. . . . 
 
 So strong was the half-hallucination that he shut his 
 eyes. When he opened them again the vision was gone, 
 and he was hearing the voice which meant more to 
 him than any other voice would ever mean to him in 
 this world murmur gently, "It hasn't been exactly 
 cheerful for me." 
 
 ^ Impulsively he exclaimed, "You're an angel, and 
 
 I'm a selfish brute, Ivy " 
 
 She smiled, but it was a mirthless smile. 
 
30 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "Not a brute, Roger, only just a little selfish. I was 
 a fool to ask you to ask us to-night " 
 
 For the first time this evening Ivy Lexton had 
 uttered a few true, sincere words. She knew now that 
 it had been a stupid act on her part to bring her hus- 
 band and this strong-natured, not over good-tempered, 
 young man who loved her together this evening. But 
 after all they had to meet now and again ! Poor Jervis 
 quite liked Roger Gretorex. Why couldn't Roger like 
 Jervis, too? 
 
 Ivy was really fond of her husband. He was so 
 kindly, so unsuspicious, on the whole so easy to man- 
 age, and still so absolutely devoted to her. And yet of 
 late she often thought, deep in her heart, what a glori- 
 ous life she might be leading now, if Jervis, less or 
 more devoted, had granted her, two years ago, an ar- 
 ranged divorce. There had been a rich young man who 
 had adored her. But Jervis had angrily refused to fall 
 in with her scheme. It had led, in fact, to their only 
 real quarrel. But "all that" was now forgiven and 
 forgotten. 
 
 She stole a look at the occupants of the other tables 
 and, as she did so, she felt a sharp stab of envy. They 
 all seemed so prosperous, so care-free! Each woman 
 had that peculiar, indefinable appearance which only 
 a happy sense of material security bestows, each man, 
 in his measure, looked like a lord of life. . . . But 
 what was this Roger Gretorex was saying as he bent 
 towards her? "I sometimes wonder if you really know, 
 dearest, how much I love you?" 
 
 The ardent words were whispered low, but she 
 heard them very clearly, and she smiled. Though she 
 was growing very weary of Roger Gretorex, it is al- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 3i 
 
 ways sweet to a woman to feel she is loved as this man 
 loved her. 
 
 Still, she felt relieved when she saw her husband, 
 and the three she had sent him for, threading their way 
 through the narrow lane left between the beflowered 
 tables. 
 
 Miles Rushworth was leading the little company. 
 He was the kind of man who always does lead the way. 
 Though he was now only two or three tables off, Ivy 
 realised that he had not yet seen her, and so she was 
 able to cast on him a long measuring glance. 
 
 Mary Hampton, the woman at whose house they 
 had met, had said that he was a millionaire. The word 
 millionaire fascinated Ivy Lexton. And then all at once 
 she told herself that it was Rushworth, of course it 
 must be, who was the stranger coming into her life. 
 
 Miles Rushworth was tall and well built but, had 
 he not kept himself in good condition, he would have 
 been a stout man. He had a healthy, almost a ruddy, 
 complexion ; brown eyes ; what is called a good nose ; a 
 large, firm mouth ; and perfect teeth. His short-clipped 
 brown hair was already slightly streaked with grey, 
 though he was only thirty-six. 
 
 He was not in, and did not care to be in, what to 
 herself Ivy called "society." Neither was he nearly so 
 much a man of the world as was, for instance, her own 
 rather foolish husband. Yet Miles Rushworth had that 
 undeniable air of authority, that power of making him- 
 self attended to at once, which always spells brains and 
 character, as well as what old-fashioned folk call a 
 good conceit of oneself. 
 
 She glanced also, with quick scrutiny, at Rush- 
 worth's guests. They were probably a mother and 
 
3-2 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 daughter, and, though dowdily dressed, obviously well- 
 bred women. The older lady was wearing a black lace 
 gown of antiquated make ; the lace was caught at her 
 breast with an early-Victorian brooch made of fine 
 diamonds. Hung round her long, thin neck was an 
 emerald necklace. The girl had a pleasant, animated 
 face, and a good figure. Her long hair was still dressed 
 as it had been when she was eighteen — a fact that 
 marked her age as being about seven-or eight-and- 
 twenty. She was wearing an unbecoming pale mauve 
 dress, and there came over Ivy a fear that she might 
 be a widow. Lovely Ivy Lexton shared the elder Mr. 
 Weller's opinion concerning widows. 
 
 The younger lady's only ornament was a string of 
 real pearls. The pearls, though not large, were beauti- 
 fully matched. 
 
 As Miles Rushworth came close up to the table. 
 Ivy Lexton rose from her chair, and her face broke 
 into an enchanting expression of pleasure and welcom- 
 ing surprise. As she held out her hand she exclaimed : 
 "Jervis felt sure it was you! Thank you so much for 
 coming over here. It is most kind of your friends to 
 come too." 
 
 Rushworth took her little hand in his strong grasp. 
 He gazed down into her upturned face with a look 
 which, to her at least, proved she had not been mis- 
 taken, and that, in spite of his broken promise, already 
 she meant something to him. 
 
 He turned round : "May I introduce my friend Mrs. 
 Lexton, Lady Dale?" And then, more lightly, he ex- 
 claimed: "Bella, I want you to know Mrs. Lexton!" 
 
 As she held out her hand, "Bella" smiled and 
 looked, with unenvious admiration, at the lovely young 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 33 
 
 woman before her. This pleased Ivy, for she had an 
 almost morbid desire that all those about her should 
 like her, feel attracted to her, and think well of her, 
 whatever their relation to herself might happen to be. 
 
 A moment later Bella Dale found herself sitting 
 next to a gloomy-looking young man who somehow 
 interested her because he looked clever, as well as 
 gloomy. Jervis Lexton was talking pleasantly, happily, 
 to Lady Dale. As for Miles Rushworth, he had low- 
 ered himself into a chair which he had unceremoniously 
 seized from another table, and which he had put a 
 little apart from the rest of the party, and close to Mrs. 
 Lexton. 
 
 "I have forgotten all you told me, and what I prom- 
 ised you," he said in a low tone. "But I only came back 
 to town this morning, and I've been fearfully busy all 
 the time I've been away." 
 
 He waited a moment, then he asked her what she 
 felt to be a momentous question. "Would your husband 
 take a job away from London?" 
 
 A feeling of acute dismay swept over her. It would 
 be dreadful if this big powerful man — powerful in 
 every sense — were to arrange suddenly that she and 
 Jervis should go to live in some dreary, dull town in the 
 north of England ! So, after a perceptible pause, she 
 answered frankly, "I don't think I should like to leave 
 London, and as for my husband, I'm afraid he'd be 
 like a fish out of water, anywhere else." 
 
 Miles Rushworth looked across to where Jervis 
 Lexton was now sipping slowly a liqueur brandy. 
 "The chap looks a regular slacker," he said to himself 
 contemptuously. 
 
 He considered it a tragic thing that the deliciously 
 
34 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 pretty, sweet-natured, little woman now sittinng so 
 close to him that they nearly touched, should be mar- 
 ried to "that." 
 
 He heard her whisper hesitatingly, "But Jervis must 
 get something to do very soon now, Mr. Rushworth, 
 or I don't know what we shall do. We're so horribly 
 hard up," and her mouth, that most revealing feature, 
 quivered. 
 
 His strong face — the face he believed to be so 
 shrewd, and which was shrewd where "business" was 
 concerned — became filled with warm sympathy. 
 
 "That can't be allowed to go on!" he exclaimed a 
 little awkwardly. 
 
 During their last moonlit walk and talk in the dark, 
 scented garden of the house where they had first met, 
 Ivy Lexton had told him the pathetic story of her life. 
 How, when she and Jervis Lexton had first married, 
 they had been quite well off, but that a dishonest lawyer 
 had somehow muddled away all "poor Jervis's money." 
 
 She had further confesed that now they were really 
 "up against it," hard-driven as they had never been 
 before. 
 
 "An idle man," she had said, speaking in that tremu- 
 lous, husky voice which nearly always touched a listen- 
 er's heart-strings, "can't help spending money. I would 
 give anything to get my husband a job!" 
 
 Miles Rushworth remembered, now, that pathetic cry 
 from the heart, and he felt much ashamed that he had 
 not attended to the matter ere this. But he had not for- 
 gotten this dear little woman, and, had they not met 
 to-night, she would have heard from him within a day 
 or two. 
 
 All at once, by what was a real accident, his fingers 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 35 
 
 touched her bare arm. They lay on her soft flesh for 
 the fraction of a minute, and it was as if she could feel 
 the thrill which ran through him. 
 
 She did not move, she scarcely breathed. Neither 
 could have said how long it was before those hard, 
 cool fingers slid down and grasped her soft hand. He 
 crushed her hand in his strong grasp, then let it go. 
 
 "I suppose you would like Mr. Lexton to start work 
 this autumn?" he said at last. "There isn't much doing 
 during August and September." 
 
 His voice sounded strangely caressing and possessive, 
 even to himself. But he felt sure that Ivy, a "nice" 
 woman, had no suspicion of how much he had been 
 moved by that casual, unexpected touch. 
 
 Miles Rushworth told himself that he must mind 
 his step, for this seductive little creature, God help him, 
 was another man's wife, and he "wasn't that sort." 
 Neither, he would have staked his life on it, was she. 
 
 And yet? Was it he? — sensible, prudent, nay, where 
 women were concerned, over-cautious — Miles Rush- 
 worth, or some tricksy, bold entity outside himself 
 which uttered the words : "By the way, what are you 
 doing next month? If you're doing nothing in particu- 
 lar, I do wish you'd both join my yachting party. Lady 
 Dale and her daughter are coming, together with two 
 or three others." 
 
 A look of real, almost child-like, joy and pleasure 
 flashed into Ivy Lexton's face and, once more, the man 
 sitting so closely by her side felt shaken to the depths. 
 Tenderness was now added to the feeling of passionate 
 attraction of which he was already half uncomfortably, 
 half exultantly, aware. How young she looked, how 
 innocent — now, at this moment, like a happy little girl. 
 
36 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "D'you really mean that?" she cried. "I've always 
 longed to go yachting! But I've never even been in a 
 yacht. Jervis is awfully fond of the sea, too ; he was at 
 Cowes when the war broke out!" 
 
 "Then that settles it," exclaimed Rushworth de- 
 lightedly. "We join the Dark Lady at Southampton 
 on August the 5th! By the way, perhaps I ought to tell 
 you that we're not going on any specially wonderful 
 trip. We're only going to cruise about the coast of 
 France. I'm afraid Lady Dale and her daughter will 
 have to leave us fairly soon — they've promised to stay 
 with some people near Dieppe." 
 
 "It will be heavenly — heavenly!" 
 
 Ivy whispered those five words almost in his ear, 
 for she was exceedingly anxious that Roger Gretorex 
 should hear nothing of this delightful plan. She had 
 promised the young man she would spend a week, 
 during August, alone with him and his mother in the 
 Sussex manor house which was still his own, though all 
 the land up to the paik gates had been sold. 
 
 As she gave a quick surreptitious glance at the host 
 who was her dangerously jealous lover — even jealous, 
 grotesque thought, of her husband, entirely unsus- 
 picious Jervis — a feeling of sharp irritation again 
 swept over Ivy Lexton. 
 
 She told herself angrily that, though Roger Gretorex 
 might belong by birth to grand people (to her surprise 
 he made no effort to keep up with them), he had never 
 been taught to behave as a young man should always 
 behave in pleasant company. Even now, he still had 
 what Ivy called "his thundercloud face," and he was 
 scarcely paying any attention to the girl sitting by 
 him. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 37 
 
 Ivy, not for the first time, realised that she had 
 been a fool indeed to allow herself to become attracted 
 to a man who was so little of her own sort. And yet 
 Gretorex had been such a wonderful wooer! And his 
 ardour had moved and excited her all the more because, 
 at times, he had been as if overwhelmed with what 
 had seemed to her an absurd kind of remorse at the 
 knowledge that the woman he loved was another man's 
 wife. 
 
 Dismissing the distasteful thought of Gretorex from 
 her mind, she turned to Rushworth. 
 
 " Don't say anything to my husband about this de- 
 lightful plan," she murmured. "I shall have to bring 
 him round to the idea. You see, he's so awfully eager 
 to start work at once." 
 
 The lights were now being turned off one by one, so 
 Ivy smiled across at Lady Dale, and rose from the 
 chair which touched that on which Rushworth was still 
 sitting as if lost in a dream. 
 
 As, a few moments later, they all stood together 
 outside in the cool night air — all, that is, but Roger 
 Gretorex who, after having uttered a curt good-night, 
 had gone back to the now fast-emptying restaurant to 
 .pay his bill — Miles Rushworth exclaimed: "We can all 
 squeeze into my car, or, if not, I'll go outside." 
 
 Ivy was delighted. She very much disliked the spend- 
 ing of any unnecessary ready money just now ; and the 
 thought of going home in a crowded omnibus on this 
 fine July night had been unbearable. 
 
 In the end it was Jervis Lexton who sat outside by 
 the chauffeur, while inside the car the other four dis- 
 cussed their coming yachting tour. 
 
 At last the Rolls-Royce drew up before the shabby- 
 
38 
 
 THE STOR\ OF IVY 
 
 looking, stucco- fronted house in Pimlico, and Rush- 
 worth helped Ivy Lexton out of his car with a strong, 
 careful hand. 
 
 "Don't ring," she said hurriedly ; "Jervis has a latch- 
 key. This house belongs to an old servant of the Lexton 
 family; that's why we are living here." 
 
 As Ivy's husband opened the door, Ivy's new friend 
 caught a glimpse of the dirty, gaslit hall, and his heart 
 swelled with mingled disgust and pity. He must get this 
 sweet, dainty little woman out of this horrible place at 
 once — at once. Taking her hand in his, he held it just a 
 thought longer than is perhaps usual even when a man 
 is bidding good-night to an exceptionally pretty woman. 
 
 Long, long after Jervis Lexton was fast asleep in his 
 crowded little back room, Ivy lay awake on the hard, 
 lumpy, small double bed which took up most of the 
 space in the front room. 
 
 She was tired, and with fatigue had come a feeling 
 of depression. Miles Rushworth had said nothing as to 
 their next meeting. He had forgotten her before — he 
 might forget her again. As for Mrs. Thrawn — all that 
 woman had told her might be fudge. The hard, shrewd 
 side of Ivy's nature came uppermost, and whispered 
 that she had probably been very silly to spend a pound 
 on a fortune-teller, and sillier still to believe in her 
 predictions. 
 
 As she lay there, moving restlessly about, for it was 
 a hot night, there came over her a feeling of revolt, 
 almost of despair, at the conditions of her present day- 
 to-day life. She was vividly aware of her own beauty 
 — what beautiful young woman is not? In a certain 
 set, the world of the smart night clubs, she was known 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 39 
 
 as "the lovely Mrs. Lexton." Further, she was popular, 
 well liked by all sorts of people, women as well as men, 
 and dowered by nature with a keen appreciation of all 
 that makes civilsed life decorous, orderly, and attractive. 
 
 Unlike some of her friends, she hated and despised 
 Bohemian ways. She had tasted something of what 
 Bohemia can offer her subjects during the few weeks 
 she had spent in the chorus of a musical comedy. Yet 
 now she was condemned — she sincerely believed 
 through no fault of her own — to lead an existence full 
 of sordid shifts, and of expedients so ignoble that even 
 she sometimes shrank from them, while always on her 
 slender shoulders lay the dead weight of her husband, 
 a completely idle, extravagant, and yes, well she knew 
 it, very stupid young man. 
 
 With angry distress she now asked herself a question 
 of immediate moment. How was she to procure even 
 the very simplest clothes suitable for life on a yacht? 
 For a long time, now, she had had to pay ready money 
 where she had once been welcome to unlimited credit. 
 
 Then in the darkness her face lightened. She had re- 
 membered Roger Gretorex! Poor though he was, he 
 could always find money for her at a pinch. He had 
 done so this very morning, and would of course do so 
 again. 
 
 Then her face shadowed. Though Roger had his uses, 
 he was becoming a tiresome, even a dangerous, compli- 
 cation in her life. Yet had it not been for him, had he 
 not taken them to the Savoy to-night, she might never 
 again have seen the man on whom now all her hopes 
 centred. 
 
 Ivy Lexton had an intimate knowledge of the ugly, 
 sinister sides of human nature. Her own father, a big 
 
40 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 man of business, had failed when she was seventeen, 
 He had killed himself to avoid legal proceedings which 
 would have led to a term of imprisonment. Their large 
 circle of acquaintances (of real friends they had none) 
 were some kind, some cruel, to the feckless, foolish, 
 still pretty widow, and her lovely young daughter. The 
 widow had soon married again, to die within a year. 
 Ivy, after drifting about rudderless for a while, had 
 obtained the "walking-on" part which had introduced 
 her to an idle, pleasure-seeking, rich class of young 
 men. By the time she was twenty she could have mar- 
 ried half a dozen times. Her choice finally fell on Jer- 
 vis Lexton, partly because he was of a superior social 
 world to the other men who made love to her, but far 
 more because at that time he had been undisputed 
 owner of what had seemed to her a large fortune. Yet 
 that fortune had melted like snow, lasting the two of 
 them barely six years. . . . 
 
 Tossing about in her hot bed, Ivy reminded herself 
 with a dawning feeling of hope, almost of security, that 
 dull Lady Flora, who was no gossip, had said, during 
 the week-end they had first met, that Miles Rush- 
 worth's income was over a hundred thousand a year. . . . 
 
 As she was drinking her cup of tea the next morn- 
 ing, there was brought up to her an envelope, marked 
 "Personal," which had come by hand. 
 
 Eagerly tearing it open, at once she saw that, in 
 addition to a letter, it contained a small plain envelope : 
 
 The Albany, 
 
 My dear Mrs. Lexton, Friday morning. 
 
 I have already thought of a job for your 
 husband, but the earliest moment he can begin work would 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 4i 
 
 be the third week in September, say a week after our return 
 from our yachting trip. This being so, I hope you will 
 forgive me for sending you the enclosed cheque for a 
 hundred pounds, which he can pay me back at his conveni- 
 ence after he has begun to draw his salary. 
 
 I shall be so pleased if you and he will lunch with me 
 to-morrow at the Carlton Grill. We can then make our final 
 arrangements as to meeting at Southampton on August 5th. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 Miles Rushworth. 
 
 As Ivy drew out of the smaller envelope an un- 
 crossed cheque made out to "self," and endorsed "Miles 
 Rushworth," tears of joy rose to her eyes. 
 
 She ran into the next room, and excitedly told her 
 husband the good news. But she said that the cheque 
 their generous new friend had sent them "on account" 
 was for fifty pounds. 
 
 Jervis Lexton leapt out of bed. "How splendid !" he 
 exclaimed. And then, seizing her in his arms, he pirou- 
 etted in the tiny space left in the middle of the garret. 
 "You are the cleverest as well as the prettiest little 
 woman in the whole world !" he cried. 
 
Chapter Three 
 
 "Do look at Mrs. Lexton! Isn't she absolutely lovely, 
 Miles ?" 
 
 "Yes, Bella — and as good as she is pretty, I really 
 do believe," was the half -joking answer. 
 
 Look at her? Rushworth had done very little else 
 since Ivy had come out of her state-room this morning. 
 
 The two speakers were standing on the deck of 
 the Dark Lady, and three yards away Ivy Lexton, 
 lying back in a deck-chair, was talking animatedly to 
 one of her fellow-guests, a good-looking young man 
 named Quirk, who after having done well in the war, 
 had been very nearly down and out by 192 1, when he 
 had been found and succoured by Rushworth. He 
 now had his own 'plane, his air-taxi as he called it, 
 and, thanks again to Rushworth, he never lacked good 
 customers. 
 
 It was true that Mrs. Lexton looked lovely to-day. 
 All the lovelier because she was thoroughly enjoying 
 her new role, that of a perfectly turned out yachts- 
 woman. 
 
 But Miles Rushworth had already told himself more 
 than once, in the last hour, that he would be cool, de- 
 tached, impartial, when considering this special guest. 
 
 "I suppose you couldn't say a word to her, just 
 pointing out that she's quite pretty enough to do 
 without lipstick and rouge? I wish you'd tell her they 
 don't look, somehow, the right thing on a yacht." 
 
 Bella Dale smiled and shook her head. "If you want 
 42 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 43 
 
 me to make friends with her, that would be a very 
 poor beginning " 
 
 He said suddenly, "I am afraid Lady Dale doesn't 
 care for Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 The colour deepened in his companion's cheeks, and 
 she looked embarrassed. 
 
 "Mother hasn't had much of a chance of talking to 
 her yet." 
 
 Bella Dale was uncomfortably aware that her mother 
 had taken an instant dislike to Ivy Lexton on the 
 evening they had first met at the Savoy ; and she knew 
 that Lady Dale's feeling had increased, rather than 
 lessened, since the Lextons had joined Miles Rush- 
 worth's yacht, for she had exclaimed to her daughter 
 in the privacy of their state-room : "It's foolish to be 
 too good-natured, Bella. That young woman is a 
 regular little minx!" 
 
 But Bella Dale, at this time of her life, saw every- 
 thing through Miles Rushworth's eyes. She liked what 
 he liked, admired what he admired, and at any rate 
 tried to believe good what he believed good. He had 
 asked her earnestly to make friends with Mrs. Lexton, 
 and he had told her something of the struggle the poor, 
 pretty, little thing had gone through. Also he had let 
 her see how great was his contempt for Ivy's worthless, 
 extravagant, idle husband. . . . 
 
 Rushworth had always had from childhood a 
 passion for the sea. His had been an old-fashioned 
 home, and everything had been done by his parents to 
 promote what they thought was for his happiness from 
 the day he was born ; but not once had he been asked 
 what he wished to do in life. His path had been 
 marked out for him almost, it may be said, before his 
 
44 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 birth. His father would have been surprised as well as 
 dismayed to learn that, both as a child and as a youth, 
 his great wish had been to enter the Navy. During the 
 war he had given to naval charities what would have 
 crippled a lesser fortune than his own. 
 
 His fine yacht was his one personal extravagance, 
 and on the Dark Lady he spent by far the happiest 
 hours of his life. But he had deliberately so arranged 
 the accommodation that it was impossible for him to 
 have a really big party aboard. Eight to ten, including 
 himself, was his limit, and the same people were gen- 
 erally asked by him each year. Lady Dale and her 
 daughter, together with an old-fashioned couple be- 
 longing to a rather older generation than himself, who 
 looked forward the whole year through to this August 
 yachting fortnight, always came. To these he had 
 added this summer the flying man, the latter's bride, 
 and the Lextons. 
 
 Acting as hostess was a middle-aged spinster cousin 
 of his mother's, who, like himself, had a passion for 
 the sea. Charlotte Chattle was a pleasant woman of the 
 world, speaking both French and Italian well, and 
 clever in organising expeditions for those of his 
 guests who cared for land jaunts. But the only people 
 who counted in Rushworth's mind on this summer 
 cruise were Lady Dale and her daughter, and Ivy Lex- 
 ton and Ivy Lexton's husband. 
 
 Ivy's half-presentiment at the Savoy had been per- 
 haps a case of thought transference, for Miles Rush- 
 worth, just about that time, had been thinking seriously 
 of marrying Bella Dale. Indeed, had that meeting with 
 the Lextons not taken place, he would almost certainly 
 have been engaged by now to Bella, and he still so 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 45 
 
 far deceived himself as to wish that the girl he thought 
 he loved, and whom he intended to become Mrs. Miles 
 Rushworth, should make friends with Ivy 
 Lexton. 
 
 Bella Dale had done her best in the last three days 
 to fall in with his wishes, but she found it difficult to 
 get further than a mild acquaintanceship with Miles 
 Rushworth's beautiful guest. She knew nothing of the 
 night club, dancing, racing life, which was all that 
 both the Lextons knew and thought worth living for. 
 And Ivy, on her side, was entirely ignorant of, and 
 would have despised, had she known of them, the 
 manifold social and general interests which filled the 
 life of even so quiet a girl as Bella Dale. Also Bella, 
 who was no fool, realised with some discomfort that 
 Mrs. Lexton had very quickly become aware that 
 Lady Dale did not like or approve of her. 
 
 And Ivy herself? Ivy was counting the hours — to 
 her intense relief they had now become hours instead 
 of days — to the time when Lady Dale and her daughter 
 would leave the yacht at Dieppe. 
 
 During the three weeks that had elapsed since their 
 memorable meeting at the Savoy, Ivy Lexton and 
 Miles Rushworth had been constantly together. It had 
 all been very much above board — indeed, quite as 
 often as not, Jervis Lexton had been of the company 
 when the two lunched or dined, went to the play, or, 
 pleasanter still, motored down to Ranelagh to spend an 
 enchanting evening. 
 
 But Rushworth had a definite philosophy of life. To 
 pursue a woman who, whatever the undercurrents to 
 her life might be, appeared happily married, would 
 have seemed to him a despicable, as well as a cruel and 
 
46 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 unmanly thing to do. Also, he prided himself on being 
 able, when he chose to do so, to resist temptation, and 
 he felt convinced he could handle what might become a 
 delicate situation not only with sense, but even with 
 comfort to himself. This was made the easier to him 
 because he put Ivy Lexton on a pedestal. God alone 
 knew how he idealised her, how completely he believed 
 her soul matched her delicately perfect, ethereal-look- 
 ing body. 
 
 While Ivy was chatting gaily to her companion, she 
 was yet almost painfully aware of the two who stood 
 talking together in so earnest and intimate a way. She 
 was feeling what she had never felt in her life of 
 twenty-six years: that is, bitterly, angrily jealous of a 
 girl whom she thought stupid, dull, and unattractive. 
 
 Miles Rushworth's attitude to herself disconcerted 
 her. She could not, to use her own jargon, get the hang 
 of him. It was so strange, in a sense so disturbing, 
 that he never made love to her. Then, now and again, 
 she would remember Mrs. Thrawn, and Mrs. Thrawn's 
 predictions. 
 
 She had followed the fortune-teller's advice with 
 regard to Roger Gretorex. She had insisted that it 
 would be better for them both neither to see nor to 
 write to each other till she came back to London in 
 September; and he had had perforce to agree to her 
 conditions. 
 
 The yacht made Dieppe the next morning, and at 
 breakfast there rose a discussion as to how the party 
 could spend their time on shore to the best advantage. 
 Rushworth at once observed that he would not be able 
 *o take part in any expedition ashore. He had received 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 47 
 
 important business telegrams, and he had a number of 
 letters to dictate to a stenographer whose services he 
 had already secured. 
 
 Miss Chattle, who knew he would value a quiet 
 working day, suggested a motor expedition to a cele- 
 brated shrine a hundred kilometres inland from Dieppe. 
 She declared that if they started at once they could 
 be back in comfortable time for dinner. 
 
 And then it was that Ivy, as in a lightning flash, 
 made up her mind as to how she would spend to-day. 
 
 "J get so tired motoring, so I'd rather stay behind." 
 She turned to her host, "While you're doing your work, 
 I can take a walk in the town. Though I've been to 
 Paris two or three times, I've never been anywhere 
 else in France." 
 
 "That's a good idea! We might meet at the Hotel 
 Royal about one o'clock, and have lunch together." 
 
 Half an hour later Miss Chattle shepherded the 
 rest of the party into two roomy cars, while Rushworth 
 escorted Lady Dale and her daughter on to the quay, 
 where a carriage was waiting for them. 
 
 Lady Dale went forward to speak to the driver, and 
 Rushworth turned to the girl he still intended should 
 be his wife. 
 
 "If we don't meet again before the end of 
 September, I do want just to say one thing to you, 
 Bella." 
 
 He spoke in so peculiar, and in so very earnest, a 
 tone, that Bella's heart began to beat. 
 
 "What is it you want to say?" she asked, her voice 
 sinking almost to a whisper. 
 
 "I've said it before, and now I want to say it 
 again " 
 
48 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Bella looked at him fixedly. Thank God, she hadn't 
 betrayed herself. But what was this he was saying? 
 
 "I do want you to make real friends with Mrs. 
 Lexton — I mean, of course, after you and Lady Dale 
 are back at Hampton Court, when Jervis Lexton will 
 have begun work in my London office. His wife, poor 
 little soul, hasn't any real friends, from what I can 
 make out." 
 
 "Yet she seems to know a good many people, Miles. 
 When we were looking through those picture papers 
 yesterday, she seemed to know almost everyone who 
 had been snapshotted at Goodwood!" 
 
 "I was thinking of real friends — not of those stupid 
 gadabouts who are here, there, and everywhere," he 
 said with a touch of irritation. 
 
 And then they heard Lady Dale's voice. 
 
 "I think we ought to be off, Bella. It's nearly half- 
 past ten, and you know they lunch early at the chateau." 
 
 Rushworth wrung Bella's hand. "I'm sorry you've 
 had to leave the yacht so soon." 
 
 But his voice had become perceptibly colder. He 
 was disappointed, even a little hurt. He had always 
 thought his friend Bella not only kind, but full of 
 sympathy and understanding. Yet she had spoken of 
 his new friend with a curious lack even of liking, let 
 alone sympathy. 
 
 When Miles Rushworth came back from seeing the 
 Dales off, he found Ivy Lexton sitting on the now 
 deserted deck. There was a pile of newspapers on the 
 little table which had been brought up close to her 
 deck-chair, and she was pretending to read the Paris 
 New York Herald. Convinced that Miles Rushworth 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 49 
 
 intended to be with her the whole of the long sunny 
 morning, she was not only surprised, but also very dis- 
 appointed, when he said cheerfully : 
 
 "Well, lovely lady, I've a hard mornin's work before 
 me, for there's a whole pile of letters and telegrams 
 waiting to be answered. Cook's man has found me an 
 excellent shorthand writer, so I hope to be through 
 in a couple of hours." 
 
 Her face suddenly became overcast, and he felt 
 tempted, for a moment, to throw aside his work. But 
 he resisted the temptation. 
 
 "Would you rather laze about here or take a walk 
 and meet me at the Royal?" 
 
 "I'll go into the town. There are one or two little 
 things I want to buy. What time shall I be at the 
 hotel?" 
 
 He hadn't meant to meet her till one o'clock. But 
 for once the old Adam triumphed. 
 
 "Let me see? It's half-past ten now, let's meet at 
 twelve-thirty. We'll have an early French lunch, and 
 then we'll go for a motor drive, or do anything else that 
 you feel like doing. From what I can make out, the 
 others can't be back till seven, if then." 
 
 Ivy waited till she had seen him disappear into the 
 state-room which was the one retreat on the yacht 
 where Rushworth never asked any of his guests to join 
 him, and about which they all felt a certain curiosity. 
 Then she put down the paper she still held in her hand, 
 and, closing her eyes, she began to think. 
 
 What manner of man was this new friend of hers? 
 He must "like" her surely? "Like" was the ambiguous 
 term Ivy Lexton used to herself when she meant 
 something very different from "liking." Yet he had 
 
50 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 never said to her the sort of thing that the men she 
 met almost always did say, and on the shortest ac- 
 quaintance. Stranger still, he had never asked anything 
 of her in exchange for what had become considerable 
 and frequent benefactions. True, Rushworth's gifts 
 had almost always been useful gifts. He had never, so 
 to speak, "said it with flowers." That had puzzled her a 
 little, made her sometimes wonder as to what his real 
 feelings could be. Never once — she had made a note of 
 it in her own mind — had he mentioned Bella Dale 
 during the three weeks when they had been so much 
 together in London. 
 
 So it had been a disagreeable shock to find Lady 
 Dale and her daughter already established on the yacht, 
 and on the happiest terms of old friendship with every- 
 one on board. Again and again during the week's 
 cruise, Ivy had asked herself anxiously whether Miles 
 Rushworth could really "like" such a dowdy, matter-of- 
 fact girl as was Miss Dale? Yet now and again when 
 she saw them together, talking in an intimate, happy 
 way, and when she heard them alluding to events which 
 had happened long before she knew Rushworth, there 
 would come over her a tremor of icy fear, for well 
 she knew that, from her point of view, a man friend 
 married was a man friend marred. 
 
 It was to her a new experience to be in close touch 
 with such a real worker as was Miles Rushworth. 
 There was nothing in common between him and the 
 idle, often vicious, and for the most part mindless 
 young men who drifted in and out of the spendthrift 
 world in which she and Jervis had both been so popu- 
 lar as long as their money had lasted. 
 
 She got up at last, and went into her luxurious state- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 5i 
 
 room to fetch a parasol. It was a charming costly trifle, 
 matching the blue coat and skirt she was wearing, but 
 large enough to shelter her face from the sun. Her 
 quaint little sailor hat, a throw-back to a mode of long 
 ago, while very becoming, was quite useless from that 
 point of view. 
 
 She walked slowly along the deck, hoping against 
 hope that Rushworth would see her and, leaving his 
 work, join her; but as she passed his state-room she 
 heard his voice dictating. 
 
 The French of all ages and both sexes are lovers of 
 beauty, so in a small way Ivy Lexton's progress 
 through the picturesque old town of Dieppe was a 
 triumphal progress. Most of the people she passed 
 turned and looked after her with unaffected admiration 
 and one man — she felt instinctively that he was some 
 important person — followed her for quite a long way. 
 But it was very hot, and in time she grew weary of the 
 crowded streets. Taking as her guides a couple who 
 were carrying their bathing costumes and towels, she 
 went after them up a shady by-way and so through the 
 old gateway leading to the wide lawns along the sea- 
 front, which are the great charm of Dieppe. 
 
 What an amusing, lively, delightful place ! Against 
 the deep blue sky rose the white Casino, and the park- 
 ing place was crowded with serried rows of motors. 
 Along the front groups of Frenchwomen, for the most 
 part wearing white coats and skirts, strolled about with 
 their attendant cavaliers. 
 
 Her spirits bounded up; she felt herself to be once 
 more what she had not felt herself to be at all on Rush- 
 worth's yacht, in her own natural atmosphere again. 
 
52 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 And, to add to her satisfaction, she soon spied out the 
 Hotel Royal, brilliant with flowers and blue and white 
 sun-blinds. 
 
 The Angelus chimes rang out from one of the old 
 churches, and the gay crowd began to move slowly 
 towards the villas and hotels which form the sea-front 
 side of the incongruously-named Boulevard de Verdun. 
 
 Ivy walked into the cool hall of the hotel, and sat 
 down in an easy chair with a sigh of pleasure. 
 
 How she wished she was staying here instead of on 
 the yacht ! She delighted in the atmosphere of gay 
 bustle and care-free wealth and prosperity of all the 
 happy-looking people who were strolling past her on 
 their way to the restaurant. She enjoyed the glances of 
 covert, and in some cases of insolent, admiration 
 thrown her way; in fact she was kept so well amused 
 that she gave quite a start when she heard Rush- 
 worth's voice exclaim, "So here you are, little lady! 
 I've been looking for you everywhere. I thought you'd 
 be out of doors." 
 
 She got up, and then he said something which rilled 
 her with dismay. 
 
 "Among my letters this morning there was one 
 from a very old friend of mine, a man with whom I 
 worked during the war. He and his wife have a room in 
 some back street, for they're not at all well off. So I 
 thought it would be a good plan to take them for a 
 drive this afternoon. I felt sure you wouldn't mind?" 
 
 "Of course not !" 
 
 She felt bitterly disappointed, but she would have 
 been more than disappointed had she known that 
 Rushworth had deliberately asked these old friends to 
 join them, in order to put temptation out of his way. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 53 
 
 He added, a little quickly, "I felt rather a brute not 
 asking them to lunch, but I was so looking forward to 
 my lunch alone with you." 
 
 "I'd been looking forward to it, too," she said in a 
 low voice. 
 
 And then there did come across him a sharp, un- 
 availing pang of regret that he had been so stupidly 
 quixotic, and instantly he made up his mind that their 
 drive should not last more than two hours. After all, 
 he and Ivy were both decent people, and dear friends to 
 boot ; why shouldn't they go back to the yacht to spend 
 a quiet happy hour or two, alone together, before the 
 others returned? 
 
 They had a delicious lunch, the sort of lunch that 
 Ivy enjoyed, in an airy room full of chattering, merry, 
 prosperous-looking couples. 
 
 Then, after they had had coffee, they went out and 
 slowly sauntered to the little garden at the foot of a 
 great cliff on which stands an ancient stronghold. It 
 was cool and quiet there, and the only person with 
 whom they shared the garden was an old lady exercis- 
 ing her Persian cat on a lead. 
 
 They sat down in silence. Rushworth was smoking 
 a cigar, Ivy a cigarette. Suddenly he threw away his 
 cigar, for there had come over him a wild, mad impulse 
 to put his arms round her. But, instead, he moved a 
 little farther away. 
 
 She, too, suddenly flung away her cigarette, and 
 turned to him, "I sometimes wonder, Mr. Rushworth, 
 if you know how awfully grateful I am to you for all 
 you've done for me — and for Jervis." 
 
 He saw that tears were in her eyes, and he took her 
 hand and clasped it closely. He was saying to himself, 
 
54 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "Poor little darling, it would be the act of a cad, 
 of a cur, to take advantage of her gratitude and — and 
 loneliness." 
 
 "You've nothing to be grateful for," he said quietly, 
 and then he released the soft hand he held. "It's a great 
 privilege to meet someone who really deserves a little 
 help. A man who is known to have money is there to 
 be shot at," he smiled a little grimly. "Any number of 
 what are called deserving objects are presented to his 
 view. The real problem is to find the people who want 
 helping, and who won't ask for help." 
 
 He sincerely believed that the woman to whom he 
 was addressing those words fell within that rare 
 category. 
 
 Suddenly he got up. "I see the Actons," he ex- 
 claimed. "I told them three o'clock in front of the 
 Casino — they're a little before their time." 
 
 It was a wonderful drive to Treport, and Ivy, rather 
 to her own surprise, enjoyed it. Partly, perhaps, be- 
 cause Rushworth's old friend, James Acton, "fell for" 
 her at once, to the amusement of his good-humoured, 
 clever, middle-aged wife. They stopped at the Trianon 
 Hotel on their way back and had some early tea; but 
 even so it was only five o'clock when they returned to 
 Dieppe and dropped the Actons. 
 
 Dismissing the car, they began walking towards the 
 harbour. At last — at last they were alone. 
 
 In the Grande Rue Ivy stopped, instinctively, before 
 a minute shop, a branch of a famous house of the same 
 name at Cannes and Deauville. 
 
 The window contained but one object, to Rush- 
 worth's masculine eyes a rather absurd-looking trifle, 
 for it consisted of a lady's vanity bag which looked like 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 55 
 
 a tiny bolster of mother-of-pearl. The clasp consisted 
 of a large emerald set with pearls. 
 
 "What a lovely little bag!' exclaimed Ivy ecstati- 
 cally. 
 
 "D'you like it?" Rushworth was filled with a kind of 
 tender amusement. What a baby she was, after all ! 
 "Like it ? I adore it !" 
 
 "Then I'll give it you — for next Christmas !" 
 "You mustn't ! It must be fearfully expensive," she 
 cried. 
 
 But he had already gone into the shop. With some- 
 thing like awe, she watched him from the pavement 
 shovelling out bundles of thousand franc notes on to 
 the narrow counter behind which stood a white-haired 
 woman. 
 
 How rich, how enormously rich Miles Rushworth 
 must be ! 
 
 As he joined her, Ivy saw that the precious bag was 
 now enclosed in a soft leather case which had evidently 
 been made for its protection. He put his delightful gift 
 into her eager hands, and said, smiling : 
 
 "The elegant old dame in there — she looked like a 
 marquise herself — declares that the clasp of this bag 
 was once a brooch belonging to the Princesse de Lam- 
 balle, Marie Antoinette's friend." 
 
 "How wonderful !" 
 
 He looked at her quizzically, "I said I hoped it 
 wouldn't bring you bad luck ! She quite understood the 
 allusion," which was more than Ivy did. 
 
 "It was made, it seems, to the order of a lady who 
 supplied the jewel for the clasp. She's suddenly gone 
 into mourning, and as they had made it they consented 
 to try and sell it for her. It was being sent on to their 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Deauville branch this very afternoon. It's been here a 
 week, and the old lady admitted that she hadn't had a 
 single inquiry for it !" 
 
 Ivy had now opened the case and taken out the won- 
 derful little bag, her eyes dancing with pleasure and 
 gratitude. She told herself with satisfaction, that, given 
 the right kind of frock, she could use it by day as well 
 as by night. 
 
 There was a very practical, shrewd side to Mrs. 
 Jervis Lexton. But it was a side of her nature which 
 she was slow to reveal to her men friends. 
 
 As they went on board the yacht a telegram was 
 handed to Rushworth. Carelessly he tore it open, read 
 it through, and then handed it to his guest : 
 
 Tremendous affair taking place here to-morrow midday. 
 French President unveiling monument to fallen. We pro- 
 pose staying the night in excellent hotel. Shall be back by 
 tea-time. Charlotte Chattle. 
 
 Ivy looked up. There was joy in Rushworth's face — 
 and more than joy, for the eager, half -shamed look Ivy 
 had so often seen on a man's face was there also. But 
 all he said was : 
 
 "This means that we shall have a quiet little dinner 
 alone together, you and I." 
 
 "That will be very nice," she answered quietly. 
 
 "I've a good deal more work to get through so shall 
 we say half-past eight? We might have dinner in what 
 I call my sea-study. I always dine there, when I'm 
 alone on the yacht." 
 
 Just as she was leaving him, she turned and said 
 gently : 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 57 
 
 "Don't you think you ought to have a little rest after 
 all the work you did this morning? Why not wait till 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 There was such a sweet solicitude in the tone in 
 which she uttered those words that Rushworth felt 
 touched. 
 
 ' 'Work's the only thing that makes time go by 
 quickly," he answered, and then, in a low, ardent tone, 
 he added, "When I'm not with you, I'd far rather be 
 working than idling " 
 
 A sensation of intense, secret triumph swept over 
 Ivy Lexton. She felt that the gateless barrier Miles 
 Rushworth had thrown up between them was giving 
 way at last. To-night would surely come her oppor- 
 tunity of lifting their ambiguous relationship from the 
 dull plane of friendship to the exciting plane of what 
 she called love. 
 
 She turned away, and then, a moment later, she 
 stayed her steps, and looked back to where he was still 
 standing. . . . 
 
 Small wonder that during the three hours that 
 followed that informal parting, Rushworth, while 
 mechanically dictating business letters, was gazing in- 
 wardly at a lovely vision — an exquisite flower-like face 
 and beseeching, beckoning eyes. 
 
Chapter Four 
 
 When Ivy came out of her state-room at half-past 
 eight, the great heat of the day had gone, and old 
 Dieppe harbour was bathed in a mysterious, enchanting 
 twilight. She had put on to-night a white chiffon frock 
 which made her look childishly young, and, as she 
 floated wraithlike down the deck towards him, Rush- 
 worth caught his breath. 
 
 He had been waiting for her — he would have been 
 ashamed to acknowledge to himself for how long, 
 though he knew that she was never late. Jervis had no 
 sense of time, but punctuality was one of Ivy's virtues. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll think my sea-study rather austere !" 
 
 "Austere ?" 
 
 His lovely friend hardly knew the meaning of this, 
 to her unusual, word. Eagerly she walked through into 
 what was the floating workshop of a very busy man, 
 though something had been done this evening to dis- 
 guise its real character. Two great bowls of variously 
 coloured roses stood on the writing-table ; and in the 
 centre of the state-room was a small table set for two. 
 On an Italian plate in the centre of the table was heaped 
 up some fine fruit. 
 
 "How delicious !" She clapped her hands. "Who 
 would ever think we were on board a ship?" , 
 
 "You are the first guest of mine who has ever come 
 through this door." 
 
 He longed to tell her, he wanted her to know, that 
 she held a place apart from any other human being in 
 his life. 
 
 53 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 59 
 
 "How about Miss Chattle?" 
 
 "Charlotte least of all ! Once she was free of this 
 room, I should never be able to get her out." 
 "Not Miss Dale even ?" 
 
 The colour rushed into Rushworth's sunburnt face, 
 and Ivy noted it with a jealous pang, as he answered 
 more gravely, "No, not even Bella. I made up my mind 
 — and I'm a man who once he has made up his 
 mind, well, sticks to it — that this state-room should be 
 my bolt-hole, as well as my study. It's understood by 
 everyone on board that when I'm in here, I won't be 
 disturbed." 
 
 He pointed to a telephone instrument. "If the yacht 
 catches fire, my skipper has permission to ring me up." 
 
 The short dinner was served well and quickly by 
 Rush worth's own steward ; but neither of the two felt 
 in the mood for talking in the presence of even the 
 most unobtrusive third. Each was longing, consciously 
 longing, to be alone with the other. 
 
 During that half hour when he had been waiting for 
 her, aching for her, Miles Rushworth had faced up to 
 the fact that he was madly in love with Ivy Lexton, and 
 that he would give everything he valued most in the 
 world to have her for his own. 
 
 But his passion for another man's wife — so again and 
 again he assured himself — was of an exalted, noble, and 
 spiritual quality. Never would he allow that passion to 
 become earthly. He admitted, at long last, that, as re- 
 garded his own peace of mind, he had been unwise to 
 see as much of Ivy as he had done in London. But he 
 had dreamt, fool that he had been, of a friendship which 
 should be prolonged even after his marriage to another 
 woman. During those three weeks he had also thought 
 
Oo 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 often of the girl whom he meant to make his wife. Ivy 
 should be his friend and Bella's friend — their dear, 
 dear friend. 
 
 But since they had all come together on his yacht 
 Rushworth had had a rude awakening. He knew now 
 that Bella Dale was his dear, dear friend, but Ivy Lex- 
 ton was the woman he loved. 
 
 At last dinner, which had seemed to them both intol- 
 erably long, was over. 
 
 "Would you like coffee served on deck?" asked 
 Rushworth. 
 
 But before Ivy could answer, the steward intervened. 
 "It's just begun to rain, sir," and as he said the 
 word "rain," there came a flash of lightning, followed 
 by a peal of thunder. 
 
 Ivy's host turned to her. "We shall have to stay here, 
 unless you'd rather go into the saloon?" 
 
 "I'd rather stay here," she said in a low voice. 
 
 "Shall I pull down the blind, sir?" 
 
 "You may as well." 
 
 In a minute the man brought in coffee, and then 
 they heard him running along the deck through the 
 pelting rain. 
 
 Ivy's hand lay on the table. She looked at it — her fin- 
 gers were twitching. She felt, with joy and triumph, 
 the tenseness of the atmosphere between them, and, for 
 the first time, something in her responded to Rush- 
 worth's still voiceless passion. 
 
 "I don't want any coffee," she murmured. 
 
 "Neither do I." 
 
 They both rose. He looked across at her. "You'll find 
 that sofa over there comfortable, I think." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 61 
 
 He uttered the commonplace words in a strained, 
 preoccupied tone. The summer storm outside seemed at 
 one with him, shutting them off from the world. 
 
 Ivy walked across to the little couch, which was just 
 large enough for two, and, after a perceptible moment 
 of hesitation, he followed her. 
 
 For a moment he stood silently gazing down into her 
 upturned face. Then he began moving forward a chair. 
 
 "Won't you sit down here, by me?" she asked, look- 
 ing at him with her dovelike eyes. 
 
 "Shall I? Is there room?" 
 
 "Plenty of room," she said tremulously. 
 
 As he sat down, there came another vivid flash of 
 lightning, followed by a peal of thunder louder than 
 the one before. 
 
 He turned quickly to her: "You're not frightened, 
 are you ?" 
 
 "I am — a little." 
 
 And then all at once she was in his arms, and he was 
 murmuring low, passionate words of endearment and 
 of reassurance between each long, trembling, clinging 
 kiss. 
 
 How he loved her ! And how wonderful to know that 
 she, poor darling, loved him too. He felt as may feel 
 a man who, after wandering for days in the desert, 
 suddenly comes on an oasis and a cool stream. 
 
 But even now, when every barrier between them 
 seemed miraculously broken down, Rushworth kept a 
 certain measure of control over himself. 
 
 "I'm going to pull up the blind and put out the light,' 1 
 he whispereu at last. 
 
 A moment later they were in darkness, though 
 now and again a vivid flash of lightning illuminated 
 
62 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 the harbour through sheets of blinding, torrential 
 rain. 
 
 He strode back to the little couch, and sank down 
 again by her ; but he resisted the aching longing to take 
 her once more into his arms. Instead he took her soft 
 hand in his, while he muttered in a broken voice, "I've 
 been a brute ! You must forgive me." 
 
 She answered in a stifled voice, "There is nothing to 
 forgive." 
 
 "I've been to blame all through !" 
 
 Then, in a tone he strove to lighten, "I ought to have 
 labelled you 'dangerous' from the first moment I saw 
 you." 
 
 She melted into tears, and remorsefully he whis- 
 pered, "Have I hurt you by saying that ?" 
 
 She shook her head ; but she pulled her hand away. 
 "Listen, Ivy?" 
 
 It was the first time Miles Rushworth had called her 
 by her name, and for that, Jervis, poor fool, had 
 thought him old-fashioned and over-formal. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered submissively. 
 
 "We've got to talk this out — you and I." 
 
 "Yes," she said again, wondering what he meant by 
 those strange words, and longing, consciously, even 
 exultantly, longing, for him to take her again in his 
 strong arms. 
 
 "I'll begin by telling you something I've never told 
 to any living being." 
 
 He uttered those words in so serious a tone that Ivy 
 felt a thrill of fear, of doubt, go through her. Had he a 
 woman in his life whom he would not, or could not, 
 give up ? 
 
 "I was twenty when my father died, and before his 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 63 
 
 death we had a long private talk. Quite at the end of 
 our talk, he made me give him a solemn promise." 
 
 Rushworth stopped a moment. He was remember- 
 ing what had been the most moving passage up to 
 now in his thirty-five years of life. It was as if he 
 heard the very tones of his father's firm, if feeble, 
 voice. 
 
 "At the time my promise seemed easy to keep. 
 Indeed, I was surprised he thought it necessary to 
 exact it." 
 
 "What was your promise?" Ivy whispered, and she 
 came a little, only a little, nearer to him. 
 
 "My promise was never to allow myself to fall in 
 love with a married woman. Though it hasn't always 
 been as easy as I thought it would be, till now I have 
 kept that promise. But now I've broken it, for I love 
 you. Love you? Why I adore you, my darling " 
 
 Again he waited, and Ivy felt oppressed, bewildered. 
 Many men had said that they adored her. But no man 
 had made that delightful, exciting admission, without 
 showing strong apparent emotion. 
 
 Rushworth had uttered the words calmly, col- 
 lectedly, and staring straight before him. 
 
 "And I can't help myself — that's the rub," he went 
 on, in the same matter-of-fact voice. "Indeed, I'm 
 afraid I'm going to go on loving you all my life," he 
 smiled a rueful smile in the soft darkness which en- 
 compassed them. 
 
 "But of course I knew, even then, when I was a cub 
 of twenty, what my father really meant. There is a part 
 of my promise to him I can keep ; and what's more — by 
 God, I intend to keep it !" 
 
 She was moved, thrown off her usual calculating 
 
04 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 balance, by the strength of his sincerity, and also made 
 afraid. 
 
 "What d'you mean?" she faltered. 
 
 "It's true that I love you — I didn't know there could 
 be such love in the world as that which I feel for 
 you, Ivy. If it would do you any good for me to jump 
 into that harbour out there and be drowned, I'd do it! 
 But I'm going to keep my love for you sacred, and 
 I'm going not only to save myself, but I'm going to 
 save you, my darling, darling love." 
 
 He took her hand again, and this time he 
 kissed it. 
 
 Ivy burst into bitter tears, and Rushworth put his 
 arm around her. 
 
 "I know how you're feeling," he whispered brok- 
 enly. "My poor little darling ! But for God's sake don't 
 cry. I can't bear it. You've nothing to be ashamed of 
 1 — it's been all my fault." 
 
 "Can't we go on being friends? It's been so wonder- 
 ful having you for a friend!" she sobbed. 
 
 "Of course we'll go on being friends — dear, dear 
 friends. But lovers — no ! I'm going right away — it's the 
 only thing to do." 
 
 He was telling himself that of course she did not 
 understand — how could she, gentle and pure if yet 
 passionate creature that she was ? — the strength of his 
 temptation. She would never know, indeed, he must 
 never allow her to know, what she meant to him, and 
 all he was about to give up for her sake. A sweet, lov- 
 ing wife, children, in a word, a happy, normal life — all 
 that Bella Dale had stood for in the secret places of his 
 heart. 
 
 He was brought back to the present by her agitated, 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 65 
 
 agonised, "Going away ? Surely you're not going away, 
 now ?" 
 
 He waited a moment without answering her. A 
 frightful struggle was going on in his heart, his con- 
 science. Then, at last, he answered the, to him, piteous 
 question. 
 
 "Do you remember my once telling you of my sis- 
 ter? Of how I longed for you to know her — but that 
 she was too ill for me to take you to her." 
 
 "Yes," she murmured, trying to remember. 
 
 She had not been really interested, only secretly glad 
 that Rushworth's widowed sister was not well enough 
 to see her. Ivy Lexton did not care to be brought in 
 contact with her men friends' mothers or sisters They 
 never liked her, and she never liked them. 
 
 "My sister saw a new specialist this week, and he 
 says she ought to winter in South Africa. She's horri- 
 bly lonely — her husband was killed in the war, and — 
 and now I've made up my mind to go with her. You 
 do agree that it's the best thing — indeed, the only thing 
 for me to do ?" 
 
 There was something in his tone as he uttered the 
 question that made her feel that, for the moment, at 
 any rate, no plea would move him. 
 
 "I hate your going so far away," she moaned. 
 
 "It's the only thing to do," he repeated in a hard 
 tone. 
 
 "I'm afraid you despise me," she said very low. 
 
 "Despise you? Good God! I honour you * 
 
 And then all at once she was again in his arms. 
 Moved out of her false selfish self by the strength 
 and reality of his emotion, "I love you," she murmured, 
 
66 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 clinging to him between their kisses. "I shall always 
 love you," and believed she spoke the truth. 
 
 Surely, surely, he wouldn't go away now ? 
 
 The door opened, and in the darkness they sprang 
 apart. 
 
 "The hotel has sent the car for you, sir. It is now on 
 the quay." 
 "The car?" 
 
 A feeling of surprise and despondency swept over 
 Ivy. 
 
 Rushworth got up. For a moment or two, it seemed 
 like eternity to him, he found he could not speak. 
 
 Then he said, "I'm afraid I must go now, Mrs. 
 Lexton. I'm sleeping at the Hotel Royal to-night. A 
 business friend of mine is staying there, and we are 
 going to have a talk before turning in. He is going to 
 Paris to-morrow morning." 
 
 Addressing his servant : "I'll be coming in a minute. 
 The storm's over, isn't it?" he added. 
 
 "I think it is, sir." 
 
 "Then put on the light again, and take the despatch- 
 box that's over there on my writing-table to the car." 
 
 Rushworth waited till the sounds of footsteps on the 
 deck outside had grown faint. Then he came back to 
 Ivy, but he had once more regained possession of him- 
 self. 
 
 "I want to tell you, now, what I didn't mean to tell 
 you till the last day of our trip. Some cousins of mine 
 have a charming flat in the Duke of Kent Mansion, 
 close to Kensington Gardens. They want to let it for 
 six months, and I've just taken it in the hope that you 
 and your husband will live there till you have found 
 something you like better." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 67 
 
 "You're too good to me." 
 
 She looked crushed, defeated, humiliated. 
 
 "Ivy ! My precious darling " the yearning cry 
 
 escaped him. 
 
 Slowly she lifted her head, and her eyes, swimming 
 in tears, her trembling mouth, longing for his kisses, 
 beckoned. 
 
 He leapt forward, and she fell upon his breast. 
 "Must you go away? I don't know how I shall live 
 without you," she sobbed. 
 
 As at last he tore himself from her arms, "Oh God," 
 he exclaimed. "If only you were free!" 
 
Chapter Five 
 
 ''Look at lucky Olive Larnoch. A month ago she didn't 
 know where to turn for sixpence!" 
 
 Ivy Lexton, and one of her young married women 
 friends, Janet Horley, were lunching together at the 
 Embassy Club. 
 
 Every place in the great room was occupied. At the 
 next table an American diplomat was being lunched by 
 one of the younger Ministers of the Crown ; and close 
 by a popular actor-manager was entertaining a pretty 
 young duchess. Two sisters, who had just leapt into 
 musical comedy fame, were laughing at the top of their 
 voices, while being gaily chaffed by their host, an 
 elderly peer who had entertained two generations of 
 charming women by the daring quality of his wit. 
 
 Olive Larnoch ? Ivy gazed eagerly across at a couple 
 sitting at right angles from where she sat herself. 
 
 "Look at her string of pearls studded with huge 
 diamonds! They're all real!" went on Mrs. Horley 
 excitedly. "As for the emerald Jock Larnoch gave her 
 the day they became engaged, it's worth five thousand 
 pounds " 
 
 "I'm sure I've seen her before," exclaimed Ivy. 
 
 "Of course you must have often seen her, in the old 
 days, when she was Olive Ryde, a war widow without 
 a bob " 
 
 " — and a stocking-shop in North Bolton Street?" 
 
 "You've got it in one ! And her stockings always 
 laddered, too. Well, one evening, she met a Scotch man 
 of business here at the Embassy, named Jock Larnoch. 
 
 68 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 69 
 
 He'd never been in a night-club before, so I suppose it 
 went to his head ! I happen to know the people who 
 brought him here, and the funny thing is that they 
 hadn't an idea he was made of money. They just 
 thought him comfortably off. Yet his first love-gift to 
 Olive was a Baby Rolls — she didn't know what to do 
 with it, poor dear !" 
 
 Ivy gazed with absorbed interest at. the fortunate 
 bride of the Scotch millionaire. How marvellous it 
 must be to have everything one wants, including an 
 adoring husband! She sighed a quick, bitter little 
 secret sigh. The sight of this fortunate young woman 
 had brought back to her poignant memories and a 
 sudden realisation of what her life might be now, had 
 she been, a few weeks ago, what Miles Rushworth 
 called "free." 
 
 "Is that nice-looking man her spouse?" 
 
 "Heavens, no! That's Bob Crickle, who wrote the 
 book of T'wee-t'we. Jock Larnoch spends every other 
 week 'at the works' ; there never was such a lucky girl 
 as Olive!" 
 
 Again, with a sensation almost of despair, Ivy 
 thought of Rushworth, and of all that he might have 
 meant in her life by now if he hadn't been so — so old- 
 fashioned and queer in his ideas. 
 
 The Lextons had been settled down in London for 
 nearly two months, and Jervis was going to Rush- 
 worth's City office each morning. As for Ivy, she was 
 once more a popular member of the happy-go-lucky, 
 while for the most part financially solid, set with whom 
 she had danced, played bridge, lunched, and supped 
 through life, in the days when she and her husband 
 were still living on what remained of Jervis's fortune. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 But woman does not live by amusement alone. Ivy 
 loved being loved, so she had "made it up" with Roger 
 Gretorex. 
 
 Rushworth was far away, and though he wrote to 
 her by every mail, his letters, as she sometimes pettishly 
 told herself, might have been read aloud at Charing 
 Cross. So it was that, though she had really done with 
 Gretorex, she still went, now and again, to Ferry Place, 
 but far less often than in the days when she had been 
 utterly down on her luck, and at odds with Fate. 
 
 And yet, though the Lextons' troubles seemed over, 
 black care was again beginning to dog Ivy's light foot- 
 steps, for she was once more what she called, to her- 
 self, very hard up. 
 
 True, the couple were now living in what appeared 
 to Ivy's husband extreme comfort, and even luxury. 
 Not only was their flat one of the best in the fine 
 block called the Duke of Kent Mansion, charmingly 
 furnished ; but an excellent cook, and a good day-maid 
 had been left there by Miles Rushworth's cousins. So 
 what might have been called the Lextons' home-life 
 ran as if on wheels. 
 
 From the moment, however, that Ivy had come back 
 to London, secure in the knowledge that her husband 
 was now earning a thousand pounds a year, paid 
 monthly, she had again fallen into the way of buying, 
 or, better still, of ordering on account, any pretty costly 
 trifle, any becoming frock or hat, that took her fancy. 
 She also, in a way that seemed modest to herself, had 
 at once begun to entertain. 
 
 It was such fun to give lively little luncheon parties 
 to her women friends — lunch being followed as often 
 as not by bridge! One, sometimes even two, bridge 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 7i 
 
 tables would be set out in the attractive drawing-room 
 and, in due course, a bountiful tea would be served by 
 the smiling day-maid, for those of Ivy's guests who 
 were not afraid of getting fat. 
 
 The good-natured old cook had not been used to 
 so much work, and she had very soon declared, not 
 unreasonably, that she must have extra help in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Lexton, who was rather pathetically anxious "to 
 make good," always went down to the City each 
 morning by the Underground. But he came back by 
 omnibus, and he invariably dropped in at his club on 
 his way home, and, as he was an open-hearted fellow, 
 he often asked one of his new business acquaintances 
 to drop in too. That, also, meant entertaining, but 
 on a far more modest scale than that in which Ivy 
 indulged. 
 
 Though Mrs. Jervis Lexton had learnt long ago 
 the fine art of living on credit, there are a great many 
 things which even in London a prosperous young 
 couple with a good address cannot obtain, as it were, 
 for nothing. Each week many pounds slipped through 
 pretty, popular Ivy's fingers, and she honestly could 
 not have told you how or why. So it was inevitable 
 that she should again begin to feel short of money — 
 short, even, of petty cash. 
 
 Often she told herself that it was maddening to feel 
 that if Rushworth were in England she could almost 
 certainly have had all the money she needed, and that 
 without too great a sacrifice of her pride, or, what was 
 far more important, his good opinion of her. Just be- 
 fore leaving for South Africa he had given her a 
 hundred pounds as "a birthday gift." How good he 
 
72 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 was, how generous ! Her heart thrilled with real grati- 
 tude when she thought of Miles Rushworth. 
 
 Late in the same day that his wife had lunched at 
 the Embassy Club, Lexton, who was going out to 
 what he called a stag party that evening, came back 
 from the City to find an unpleasantly threatening letter, 
 this time from a tailor to whom he had owed for years 
 a huge bill, and who had evidently just heard of his 
 new-found prosperity. 
 
 For once Ivy's husband looked ruffled and cross, 
 and she, also for once, felt very angry indeed. Jervis 
 had begun, so she told herself with rage, to put on airs, 
 just because he had a job — a job that she was too 
 clever and tactful ever to remind him was entirely ow- 
 ing to her friendship with his employer. 
 
 At last he left the flat and, with a feeling of relief, 
 she went off, too, by omnibus, to the tiny house where 
 Roger Gretorex lived and practised his profession. 
 It was in what might have been called a slum, though 
 each of the mid-Victorian, two-storied, cottage-like 
 dwellings were now inhabited by decent working people 
 and their families. 
 
 Ivy had not been to No. 6 Ferry Place for nearly 
 a fortnight, and her lover had written her a long, 
 reproachful letter, imploring her to come and see him 
 there, if for only a few moments. It made him feel so 
 wretched, so he wrote, never to see her now, except in 
 the company of people and in surroundings which 
 filled him with contemptuous dislike, or, in a sense 
 worse still, only in the presence of her husband. 
 
 When everything was going well with Ivy Lexton, 
 she felt bored, often even irritated, with Roger 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 73 
 
 Gretorex and his great love for her. But the moment 
 she was under the weather and worried, as she was 
 again beginning to be, then she found it a comfort to be 
 with a man who not only worshipped her, but who 
 never wanted her to make any effort to amuse or flatter 
 him, as did all the other men with whom she was now 
 once more thrown in contact. 
 
 So it was that this late afternoon, immediately after 
 Jervis had left the flat, she telephoned and told the 
 enraptured Gretorex that as she happened to have this 
 evening free, she would come and have dinner with 
 him at Ferry Place. 
 
 And yet, as she sat in the almost empty omni- 
 bus on her way to Westminster, her i heart and her 
 imagination were full of Miles Rushworth, and not 
 once did she even throw a fleeting thought to the 
 man she was going to see. Gretorex had become to 
 Ivy Lexton what she had once heard a friend of hers 
 funnily describe as a kind of "Stepney" to her 
 husband. Sometimes she felt that she really preferred 
 Jervis to Roger. Jervis was so kindly, easygoing, un- 
 exacting. 
 
 Still to-night she felt cross with Jervis, because of 
 the scrap they had had over the tailor's bill, so the 
 thought of secret revenge was sweet. 
 
 But the image securely throned in her inmost heart 
 was that of Miles Rushworth. 
 
 The knowledge that Rushworth, a man possessed 
 of great, to her imagination limitless, wealth, was lov- 
 ing her, longing for her, and yet, owing to his over- 
 sensitive, absurdly scrupulous, conscience, hopelessly 
 out of her reach, awoke in Ivy Lexton a feeling of 
 fierce, passionate exasperation. 
 
74 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 At last she stepped lightly out of the omnibus, the 
 conductor, and an old gentleman who had been her 
 only fellow-passenger, eagerly assisting her. She smiled 
 at them both. Even the most trifling tribute to her 
 beauty always gave her a touch of genuine pleasure. 
 She was looking very pretty to-night in a charming 
 frock, and in her hand she held the curious little bolster 
 bag which Rushworth had bought for her at Dieppe. 
 
 Eight o'clock boomed from Big Ben, and Roger 
 Gretorex, his arm round Ivy's shoulder, led her into 
 the tiny dining-room, where had been prepared in 
 haste an attractive little meal. She had been what the 
 man who love4 her with so devoted and absorbing a 
 passion, called ''kind," and he felt happy and at 
 peace. 
 
 After they had finished dinner they sat on at table 
 for a while, and, as she looked across at him, Ivy told 
 herself that her lover was indeed a splendid-looking 
 man — a man many a woman would envy her. 
 
 ''Sometimes," he said in a low voice, "I dream such 
 a wonderful dream, my dearest. I dreamt it last 
 night " 
 
 She looked at him roguishly. "Tell me your dream !" 
 
 "I dreamt that you were free, and that we were mar- 
 ried, you and I " 
 
 She made no answer to that remark, only shook her 
 head, a little pettishly. For one thing, she always felt 
 a trifle cross, as well as bored, when Gretorex talked 
 in what she called to herself a sloppy, sentimental 
 way. Could he seriously suppose that, if she had the 
 good fortune to be what he called "free," she would 
 marry a poverty-stricken doctor who was forced to live 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 75 
 
 and work in a slum ? He evidently did suppose that ; and 
 the fact that he did so made her feel uncomfortable. 
 
 "I don't set out to be particularly good, Roger, but I 
 do think it awfully wrong to talk like that!" 
 
 He said slowly, "I agree, it is." 
 
 "It makes me feel I oughtn't to come and see you 
 like this, in your own house. Jervis would be very 
 much put out if he knew I ever came here." 
 
 Gretorex, wincing inwardly, made no answer to 
 that observation. Sometimes this woman, who was all 
 his life, would say something that made him experience 
 a violent feeling of recoil. 
 
 She had got up as she spoke, and with a sensation 
 of relief she put on her hat. It was still early, and she 
 had suddenly remembered an amusing bachelor girl 
 named Judy Swinston, who lived not far from here, in 
 Queen Anne's Mansions. Judy had said that she was 
 always at home after dinner on Thursdays, so why 
 shouldn't she, Ivy, go along there now ? She could tele- 
 phone from a call office to find out if it was really true 
 that the Bohemian crowd who formed Judy Swinston's 
 circle didn't bother to dress. 
 
 In some ways Ivy Lexton was very conventional. 
 She would have disliked making part of any gathering 
 which could be called a party, in her present day-frock 
 and walking shoes, charming as were both the frock 
 and the shoes. It was a perfect St. Martin's sum- 
 mer evening, more like June than the first of 
 November. 
 
 "You're not going yet?" asked Gretorex, in a tone 
 almost of anguish. 
 
 "Jervis said he'd try and be back by half-past ten, 
 so I knew I'd have to be home earl v. f 
 
7 6 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 'T see. All right. You won't mind my walking with 
 you a little way ?" 
 
 And then she turned and faced him, angry at his 
 obtuseness. How utterly selfish men were! 
 
 "I should mind — mind very much indeed! When- 
 ever we've left the place together, I've always felt un- 
 comfortable. Taxis go all sorts of ways nowadays — 
 just to make their fares bigger, I suppose. The other 
 day a taxi brought Jervis and me down close here, past 
 the end of this street, though it was quite out of our 
 way. I should hate it, if he met us walking together at 
 this time of night. He would think it so queer." 
 
 Again he said sorely, "I see. All right." 
 
 Suddenly there came the sound of raucous cries 
 echoing down Ferry Place. 
 
 " . . . Verdict in the Branksome Case. . . . All the 
 winners !" 
 
 "I thought they weren't allowed to cry papers now ?" 
 said Ivy, as the shouts drew nearer and nearer. 
 
 "They cry them down here. As for the Branksome 
 Case, to my mind the verdict is a foregone conclusion. 
 The man will hang, and they'll let the woman off — 
 though she ought to hang too !" 
 
 "A lot of people were talking about the Branksome 
 mystery where I was lunching to-day," exclaimed Ivy. 
 "I knew nothing about it, so I felt rather a fool. The 
 truth is, I'm not a bit interested in murders, Roger. 
 I think it's morbid to want to know about such 
 things." 
 
 "Do you, darling? Then I'm afraid I'm morbid. This 
 Branksome Case is of peculiar interest to every medi- 
 cal man, owing to the simple fact that there is a great 
 deal of secret poisoning going on nowadays." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 77 
 
 "What a horrid idea!" And Ivy Lexton did indeed 
 think it very horrid. 
 
 "Horrid, no doubt. But I'm afraid unquestionably 
 true. In fact I heard the question put only the other 
 day, as to what a doctor ought to do if he suspects 
 anything of the sort is going on ?" 
 
 She looked at him with a certain curiosity. "What 
 would you do, Roger ?" 
 
 "I've never been able to make up my mind. Of 
 course, this Branksome story was complicated by the 
 fact that two were in it — a husband and a wife. They'd 
 got everything they could out of the woman's lover, 
 so they made up their minds to do away with him. 
 They were awfully clever, and it's a marvel they were 
 ever found out." 
 
 "How did they do it?" she asked, eager at last. 
 
 "With arsenic — fly papers." 
 
 "Fly papers?" 
 
 He laughed. "Wonderful what people will do some- 
 times, isn't it? Steeping fly papers in water has long 
 been a common way of ridding oneself of a tiresome 
 husband. There's arsenic in almost everything we use 
 — at least, that's what's said." 
 
 "Arsenic?" Ivy pronounced the word very carefully. 
 It was a new word in her limited vocabulary. 
 
 He smiled across at her. Every moment of her pres- 
 ence was precious to him, so he talked on, eager too. 
 "There's plenty of the stuff in my surgery, at any rate. 
 It's a splendid tonic, as well as a poison." 
 
 "What a funny thing!" and she smiled at him, ap- 
 parently rather amused at the notion. 
 
 Looking back, for even Ivy Lexton looked back 
 now and again to certain crucial moments of her life, 
 
78 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 she realised it must have been at that very moment 
 that a certain as yet vague and formless plan slipped 
 into her mind. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," Gretorex smiled back at her, 
 "I've got to make up and send off this very evening a 
 mixture which will contain arsenic " 
 
 "I must be off now," Ivy said, a thought regret- 
 fully. 
 
 They walked down the short passage, and through 
 the two doors which separated the house from the 
 surgery. Once there he turned up the light. Anything 
 — anything to keep her a few moments longer in his 
 company ! 
 
 He went quickly across from the door to the left 
 corner of the bare, low-ceilinged room, now his sur- 
 gery, which had once been an outhouse. There he un- 
 locked the cupboard where he kept his dangerous 
 drugs, and lifted down a jar on which was printed on a 
 red label the word "Arsenic." Placing it on a deal table 
 above which was a hanging bookcase, he exclaimed, "If 
 you would like to see, darling, what " 
 
 And then there came a thunderous knock at the front 
 door of the tiny house. 
 
 "Wait one moment! Don't go yet, dearest," he said 
 hastily. "I won't be a minute !" 
 
 He rushed away, though even in his haste he did not 
 forget to shut both the doors which separated the sur- 
 gery from the rest of the house. 
 
 Ivy Lexton gave a quick look round the sordid- 
 looking stone-flagged walled space, through which her 
 eager little feet had so often carried her last winter, at 
 a time when she had been in love, really in love, with 
 Roger Gretorex. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 79 
 
 She noted that there was no blind to the little square 
 window. But, even in the unlikely event of anyone 
 looking in through that window, no one standing out- 
 side could see, while she stood by the table, what she 
 was doing, or was about to do. 
 
 'Standing very still, she listened. From the consult- 
 ing-room at the other end of the passage there came the 
 sound of voices, raised in argument. 
 
 Hesitatingly she took up the jar Gretorex had placed 
 on the table. Then she looked at it with avid curiosity. 
 How strange and exciting to know that Death was in 
 that jar — prisoned, but ready to escape and become the 
 servant of any quick-witted, determined human being. 
 
 When, at last, she put the jar down again, she 
 noticed what she had not seen till now, that a glass 
 spoon lay on the table. 
 
 Once more she looked round the bare surgery. 
 Once more she listened intently, only to hear again 
 Gretorex's voice, far away, raised in argument. 
 
 All at once and in feverish haste she began unscrew- 
 ing the top of the jar. Once this was achieved, she 
 pressed the jewelled top of her bolster bag, and as it 
 sprang open, she took her powder puff out of its 
 pochette. Then, taking the glass spoon off the table, 
 with its help she began shaking into the little white 
 leather-lined pocket a quantity of the powder which 
 she knew to be a deadly poison. 
 
 After snapping-to the bag, she replaced its cap on the 
 jar labelled "Arsenic" and screwed it tight. Then she 
 stepped back from the table a little way, and stood 
 quite still, thinking of what she had just done. 
 
 Why had she done that — to herself she called it 
 "funny" thing? Deep in her heart she knew quite 
 
8o 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 well the answer to her own wordless question. But she 
 did not admit her purpose, even to herself. 
 
 All at once she heard sounds just behind her — the 
 sounds made by slippered, shuffling feet. 
 
 Filled with a sudden shock of sick terror, she turned 
 slowly round to see Roger Gretorex's old charwoman, 
 Mrs. Huntley, standing uncertainly in the middle of the 
 room. 
 
 The woman had evidently let herself in from the 
 back alley with a latchkey. But how long had she been 
 here ? And how much had she seen ? 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Huntley," said Ivy in a shaken voice. 
 "You did startle me!" 
 
 "Did I, ma'am? I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I just 
 come in to see if the doctor wanted anything," the old 
 woman spoke in a pleasant, refined voice. 
 
 "He'll be here in a minute " 
 
 "I won't disturb him now, ma'am. I'll come in 
 later." 
 
 Opening the door through which she had entered, 
 she slipped through it into the gathering darkness. 
 Then she shut the door noiselessly behind her. 
 
 Ivy moved again close to the deal table. She felt 
 violently disturbed, even terrified. Yet the old woman 
 had looked absolutely placid, though a little taken 
 aback at finding a lady where she had expected to see 
 nobody, excepting maybe her employer, and him only 
 if he were engaged in making up medicines. 
 
 Hardly knowing what she was doing, Ivy Lexton 
 glanced up at the row of books in the shabby little 
 bookcase above the table by which she was standing, 
 and she saw that among them was one entitled, 
 "Poisons." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 81 
 
 She was just about to take it down when she heard 
 quick footsteps in the short passage, and Gretorex 
 opened the surgery door. 
 
 "I won't be more than a few moments now! You 
 will stay, my dearest, won't you, till I've done with 
 this chap?" 
 
 "Of course I will. Don't hurry," she answered, in a 
 soft, kindly tone. 
 
 She took down the book and hurriedly she turned to 
 the index. 
 
 Yes! Here was the word she sought. There were a 
 number of references — half a dozen at least — and she 
 turned up, "Effects of Arsenic; page 154." 
 
 A famous case of secret poisoning was quoted, with 
 every detail set out, and she read it with intense, 
 absorbed interest. It told her what she had so much 
 wanted to know, and feared to ask Roger Gretorex, 
 how a secret poisoner went to work, and also how long 
 the process took before — before — even to herself she 
 did not end the question. . . . 
 
 As she put the volume back on the bookshelf her 
 mind travelled into the future — the now possible, now 
 probable, future. 
 
 Standing there, in Gretorex's barely furnished 
 surgery, she saw herself the cherished wife of Miles 
 Rushworth, and not only rich beyond the dreams of 
 even her desire, but also secure from every conceivable 
 earthly ill. 
 
 Had Ivy Lexton belonged to another generation, 
 she would doubtless have called what had just hap- 
 pened to herself "providential." As it was, she just 
 thought it a piece of astounding, almost incredible, 
 good luck. 
 
82 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 She next took down from the shelf a thin little book 
 dealing with infantile paralysis. But she had only just 
 time to open it, and to glance, with a feeling of shrink- 
 ing distaste, at one of the illustrations, when Gretorex 
 burst into the surgery. "The poor chap's gone at last! 
 What are you reading, darling?" 
 
 "A book about children, dear." 
 
 There came a pathetic look into her eyes, and 
 Gretorex gently took the thin volume from her hand. 
 Then he kissed that lovely, soft little hand. 
 
 She had told him, very early in their acquaintance, 
 that her husband hated the idea of children, as if 
 they had a child it would surely interfere with the 
 kind of idle, gay life that he, Jervis, loved. For the 
 hundredth time Gretorex cursed Lexton for a heartless 
 brute. 
 
 She allowed him to take her in his arms. For a few 
 moments they clung together, and she kissed him with 
 real passion, responding as she had not responded 
 for what seemed to Gretorex an eternity of frustrate 
 longing. 
 
 Ivy had been frightened, very much frightened, just 
 now. It was surprisingly comfortable and reassuring 
 to feel his strong arms round her, to know that he 
 loved her — loved her. 
 
 "Did you buy an evening paper?" she asked at last, 
 disengaging herself from his close embrace. 
 
 "No, but the chap who came to see me had one in 
 his hand, and I believe he left it behind. Would you 
 like me to give it you to read in the omnibus ?" 
 
 "It would hurt my eyes to do that. I was only 
 wondering what had happened about that Branksome 
 Case?" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 83 
 
 "I can tell you that without looking at the paper, 
 darling. In fact I did tell you — but you've forgotten, 
 my pet." 
 
 "What was it that you told me ?" 
 
 "That they'll hang the man, and let the woman 
 off!" 
 
 He spoke quite confidently. "There's not a doubt 
 but that she really planned the whole thing out. But he, 
 poor wretch, bought the fly papers. Most of the secret 
 poisoning that goes on is done by women." 
 
 "How dreadful !" 
 
 "A great many dreadful things go on in this strange 
 world, my darling love." 
 
 "You mean things that are not found out?" 
 
 He nodded, almost gaily. He was glad, so glad, to 
 find a subject that interested her, and that might make 
 her stay a few moments longer. 
 
 So, "I'm afraid that only one secret poisoner is found 
 out for six that go scot free," he went on. "Even now 
 it's difficult to tell the difference between the effect 
 produced by, say, arsenic, and a very ordinary ailment. 
 A post-mortem only takes place if there's already rea- 
 son to suspect foul play." 
 
 "Post-mortem ?" 
 
 The word meant nothing to Ivy Lexton. 
 
 "In the vast majority of cases the danger is negli- 
 gible," he continued. "The secret poisoner, especially 
 if a woman, is never even suspected, and if she is " 
 
 "If she is?" echoed Ivy uncertainly. 
 
 "The doctor, nine times out of ten, gives her the 
 benefit of the doubt !" 
 
 He ended his careless sentence with a laugh. It was 
 of her, of her dear nearness, of her kind, soft, loving 
 
§4 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 manner, that he was thinking, and not at all of what he 
 was saying. 
 
 "Would you let her off, Roger ?" 
 
 He grew suddenly grave. "Well, no, I don't think 
 I would. You see it wouldn't be right. For one thing, 
 she might try the same game over again." 
 
 She looked at him coldly. Few men were as set on 
 doing right as was apparently this man. 
 
 Then she smiled, a curiously subtle, sweet little 
 smile. She knew, if no one else did, the weak place in 
 his defences. It was pleasant to know that no other 
 woman would ever have that knowledge. Ivy believed, 
 rightly or wrongly, that a man does not love twice as 
 this man, Gretorex, loved her. 
 
 "Well, I must go now/' she said at last. And 
 then, for she saw the sudden darkening of his face, 
 "You may as well come with me as far as the 
 corner of Great Smith Street, Roger. It's quite dark 
 now." 
 
 Once more she allowed him to kiss her. Once more 
 there came from her the response which had now for 
 so long been lacking, and of which the lack made him 
 feel so desolate. 
 
 As they walked along the now shrouded, deserted 
 little back streets of old Westminster, Ivy Lexton was 
 very gentle in her manner to the man who loved her 
 with so whole-hearted and selfless a devotion. 
 
 She had quite decided that soon they must part, 
 never to meet again. And yet, though Gretorex would 
 never know it, it was to him, albeit indirectly, that she 
 would owe her splendid freedom, and all that freedom 
 was to bring to her. It was that knowledge, maybe, 
 that made her manner so gentle and so kind. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 85 
 
 When at last Jervis Lexton came in, he found his 
 wife playing patience in the pretty sitting-room where 
 she spent so little of her time. 
 
 He felt a little surprised, for unless she happened to 
 be out, as was the case six nights out of seven, Ivy 
 always went to bed early. 
 
 "Thank God, I'm safe home again!" he exclaimed. 
 "It was the most awful show. The grub wasn't bad, 
 but the champagne was like syrup. IVe 'some thirst,' I 
 can tell you !" 
 
 "Wait a minute, and" — she smiled a gay little smile 
 —"I'll mix you a highball, old boy. Would you like a 
 Bizzy Izzy, just as a treat?" 
 
 "The answer, ma'am, is 'yes' !" 
 
 She went off into the dining-room, and took from 
 the fine old mahogany brass-bound wine-cooler a bottle 
 of rye whisky and a bottle of sherry. Then, carefully, 
 she poured a small wineglass of each into a tall glass. 
 
 With the glass in her hand she hurried down the 
 passage, and so into the bright, clean, empty kitchen. 
 There she soon found some ice, and, after having 
 chipped off a number of small pieces, she waited a 
 moment and listened intently, for she did not want to 
 be surprised in what she was about to do. 
 
 But the old cook was lying sound asleep in the bed- 
 room which lay beyond the kitchen. Ivy could even 
 hear her long, drawn-out snores. 
 
 Opening a cupboard door very, very quietly, she 
 found a syphon, and filled up the glass almost to the 
 top with soda-water. Then, quickly, she mixed in with 
 a clean wooden spoon a good pinch of the powder she 
 had secreted in the pochette of her bag. 
 
 "A perfect Bizzy Izzy !" Ivy called out gaily as she 
 
86 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 swiftly went down the corridor, holding in her steady 
 hand the tall glass, now full almost to the brim. 
 
 Through the hall and back into the sitting-room 
 she hurried, and then she watched, with an odd sensa- 
 tion of excitement, her husband toss off the delicious 
 iced drink. 
 
 "This soda fizz has got a bitter tang to it," he ex- 
 claimed, "but it's none the worse for that!" 
 
 Ivy stayed awake for a long time that night. She had 
 suddenly begun to feel afraid, she hardly knew of 
 what. But at last she dropped off to sleep. 
 
 Atnineo'clockthe next morning she awoke. What was 
 it that had happened last night ? Then she remembered. 
 
 Leaping out of bed she rushed across the dressing- 
 table, on which there lay the mother-of-pearl bolster 
 bag she had had out with her last night. Opening it she 
 took out her handkerchief, her powder puff, and her 
 purse. Then she put the bag, now quite empty save 
 for the white powder the tiny white leather-lined inner 
 recess contained, into an old despatch-box which had 
 belonged to her father. 
 
 It was the only "lock up" Ivy Lexton possessed ; 
 at no time of her life had she been so foolish as to 
 keep dangerous love-letters more than a very short 
 time. She put the despatch-box in what was the empty 
 half of a huge Victorian inlaid wardrobe. Then she 
 got into bed again, and rang the bell. 
 
 A moment later the day-maid opened the bedroom 
 door. 
 
 "Mr. Lexton was ill in the night, ma'am. He 
 thinks he ate something last evening that didn't agree 
 with him. He asked me to tell you that he's not going 
 to the office this morning." 
 
Chapter Six 
 
 It was the eighth of November, a day which, though 
 she never realised it, altered the whole of Ivy Lexton's 
 life. And this was the more extraordinary because 
 she was usually quick enough to realise the importance 
 of everything that concerned herself. 
 
 But on this day she was feeling secretly excited, 
 anxious, and what to herself she called "nervy," for 
 her husband's illness, though it had only lasted just 
 over a week, seemed to her intolerably long-drawn-out. 
 
 Jervis Lexton, poor devil, was putting up a grim, 
 instinctive fight for life. Coming of a long line of 
 sporting, out-of-door, country squires and their placid 
 wives, he was magnificently healthy, hard-bitten, and 
 possessed of reserves of physical strength on which he 
 was* now drawing daily larger and larger drafts. 
 
 On the morning when she had first been told that 
 Jervis had been taken ill in the night, Ivy had gone 
 down to Rushworth's city office. There, as she put it 
 afterwards when telling the invalid of her interview 
 with Mr. James, the man he called his boss, "red car- 
 pets had been put down for her," and no difficulty at 
 all had been made as to Lexton's staying away. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the young man had very soon 
 been sized up as being, from a business point of view, 
 hopeless. But his pleasant, easy manners, and his in- 
 exhaustible fund of small talk and of good stories, 
 amused the boss. Also — and that, naturally, was the 
 one thing that mattered — Jervis Lexton was a pet of 
 Miles Rushworth. 
 
 87 
 
88 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 After Mrs. Jervis Lexton's visit to the office, how- 
 ever, what had seemed a mystery had been at any rate 
 partially explained. What man, so Rushworth's Lon- 
 don agent asked himself smiling, could resist that de- 
 liciously pretty and sweet-mannered little woman? No 
 wonder a job had been invented for her husband, who 
 was, after all, a decent chap. 
 
 A day was to come when Mr. James would try to 
 remember how Ivy Lexton had impressed him, and 
 when all he would succeed in remembering, very 
 vividly, was how agreeable that impression had been, 
 and how touchingly the lovely lady had revealed her 
 devotion to her husband, fortunate Jervis Lexton. 
 
 On the second day Jervis had said he felt so queer 
 that he would like to see their old friend, Dr. Lan- 
 caster. And by now, after five days, that genial gen- 
 eral practitioner, though utterly unsuspicious of the 
 truth, was nevertheless becoming slightly uneasy at the 
 persistence of the illness. 
 
 He had insisted, much against Ivy's will, on sending 
 in a nurse, a placid, kindly woman named Bradfield, 
 who had often nursed for the doctor before. 
 
 Small wonder that the patient's wife was also 
 becoming just a little fretful, and more than a little 
 anxious. How long, she often asked herself restlessly, 
 was her ordeal going to last? 
 
 Yet another fact added to Ivy Lexton's discomfort 
 during those long days of waiting. 
 
 That fact, or rather problem, concerned Roger 
 Gretorex. She found it increasingly difficult to prevent 
 him from coming to the flat. When alone with her 
 he made no secret of his dislike of meeting her 
 husband on "Hail fellow, well met!" terms, and yet 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 89 
 
 he longed to be with her every moment of his scanty 
 leisure. 
 
 At times she felt she almost hated him, for by now 
 her whole mind was filled with the thought of Rush- 
 worth, and of all that she felt convinced Rushworth 
 was going to mean in her life. But she could not yet 
 afford to break with Gretorex. Afford, indeed, was still 
 the right word, for again he was supplying her with 
 what had always been to Ivy the staff of life — petty 
 cash. 
 
 But she came to one great resolution, and that was 
 to go no more to the humble little house in the West- 
 minster slum with which she had now a secret, terri- 
 fying association. And so, as her slightest wish was 
 law to Gretorex, the two began meeting now in a 
 picture gallery, or, when it was a fine day, in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens, which was conveniently near the charm- 
 ing flat the Lextons owed to the generous kindness 
 of Miles Rushworth. 
 
 So far Ivy had managed to conceal her husband's 
 illness from Gretorex. With regard to that mysterious 
 illness, it was of her lover, and of her lover alone, that 
 up to now she had felt afraid. 
 
 As a matter of fact Roger Gretorex had already 
 completely forgotten that idle talk of theirs concern- 
 ing the Branksome poisoning mystery. But every word 
 that had been uttered during the evening when she had 
 had supper at Ferry Place, and every moment that 
 she had spent in the surgery, remained uncannily 
 present to Ivy's mind. 
 
 And now, on this eighth of November, she had been 
 out for an hour, looking into the shop windows which 
 
9° 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 line Kensington High Street. She had even gone into 
 one famous emporium and bought a new, and very 
 expensive, black model hat. Though quite unobtrusive 
 in shape, it was at once as simple and as unusual as 
 only a French model hat can be. She had felt that she 
 might have cause to be really very much put out if 
 that perfect little hat were bought, over her head so 
 to speak, during the next few days. 
 
 At last, feeling more cheerful, she walked brisklv 
 back to the Duke of Kent Mansion. The pleasant- 
 spoken porter — all men, even lift porters, were always 
 pleasant-spoken to Ivy Lexton — took her up in the 
 lift. She let herself in with her latchkey, for she al- 
 ways liked slipping in and out of the flat alone. 
 
 As she went through the hall towards her charm- 
 ing bedroom, the door of her husband's room opened, 
 and Nurse Bradfield came out, looking flustered and 
 worried. 
 
 "Mr. Lexton doesn't seem so well, and as we 
 haven't seen Dr. Lancaster for two days, I telephoned 
 to say I'd like him to come now. But oh, Mrs. Lexton, 
 such a dreadful thing has happened !" 
 
 Under her delicately applied rouge, the colour 
 drifted from Ivy's face. 
 
 "Something dreadful?" she repeated mechanically. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, for Dr. Lancaster has gone and broken 
 his leg playing golf ! He was staying with his 
 brother-in-law at Seaford, for one night only, but 
 now he's laid up there, and they don't know for how 
 long." 
 
 Ivy's first feeling was one of relief. She had been 
 so dreadfully frightened just now lest "something" 
 should have been found out. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 9* 
 
 But even so, as the nurse went on speaking, there 
 did come over her a slight feeling of misgiving. 
 
 "However, Dr. Berwick, the doctor who works in 
 with Dr. Lancaster, so to speak, is coming round in- 
 stead !" Nurse Bradfield continued. 
 
 "I hope he's nice," said Ivy earnestly. 
 
 The accident to Dr. Lancaster was real bad luck. 
 He was a dear old thing, and so truly fond of her. 
 When they had been almost penniless, he had attended 
 her twice for nothing. 
 
 There came a curious look over the nurse's face. 
 She hesitated, and then made up her mind to be 
 frank. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, Mrs. Lexton, I don't much 
 like Dr. Berwick ! But then I'm prejudiced, for I once 
 had a nasty little scrap with him when I was nursing 
 another case for Dr. Lancaster. I consider that Dr. 
 Berwick was very rude to me." 
 
 "How horrid of him!" exclaimed Ivy sympatheti- 
 cally, although she had not really been attending to 
 what Nurse Bradfield was saying. 
 
 But she did listen, with startled attention, when the 
 nurse suddenly added : 
 
 "However, he's said to be very clever, and he's 
 much more up-to-date than Dr. Lancaster. I shouldn't 
 be a bit surprised if Dr. Berwick finds out what really 
 is the matter with Mr. Lexton !" 
 
 Ivy stared fearfully at the speaker, and again there 
 swept over her a strong feeling of misgiving, if not 
 of fear. 
 
 Thus was effected the entrance of Dr. Berwick into 
 the lives of Ivy Lexton and her husband. 
 
9 2 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 In spite of his shrewdness and long professional 
 experience, it took the new doctor some days to become 
 even vaguely puzzled — so true is it that murder is 
 the one chink in the armour of a civilised community 
 — over certain unusual features in his patient's case. 
 
 On the occasion of his first visit to Jervis Lexton, 
 Dr. Berwick had been in a great hurry, and though 
 he had seen his new patient's wife for a few moments, 
 he had impatiently dismissed her from his mind as 
 a foolish, frivolous little woman. Indeed, considering 
 the manner of man he was, he could hardly have told, 
 after that brief interview in the dimly lighted hall, 
 whether young Mrs. Lexton was pretty, or just ordi- 
 nary, though he had noticed, with disapproval, that she 
 was very much made up. 
 
 Ivy on her side, if feeling slightly surprised by the 
 doctor's lack of interest in her attractive self, was at 
 the same time reassured by the fact that Dr. Berwick 
 evidently thought her husband only suffering from 
 a temporary, if obstinate ailment, brought on, most 
 probably, by something he had eaten during the 
 evening which had preceded the night he had first 
 been taken ill. 
 
 And yet her feeling of misgiving prevailed so far 
 that she deliberately tried to keep out of the new 
 doctor's way. This was quite easy, for she was out to 
 most meals, and owing to Lexton's illness she had 
 stopped giving her pleasant little bridge-parties at the 
 flat. 
 
 But as the days dragged on, as Jervis Lexton, in- 
 stead of responding to treatment, grew steadily worse, 
 Dr. Berwick began to feel really puzzled. He made up 
 his mind one day to see Mrs. Lexton. On that day Ivy 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 93 
 
 was going to be motored to Brighton by a new admirer, 
 and she had said she would come in after lunch to 
 fetch her fur coat. So the doctor, believing she would 
 be back soon, waited for her. But the moments became 
 minutes, and the minutes mounted up to close on half 
 an hour. 
 
 Feeling very much annoyed, he was just about to 
 leave the flat, when Ivy walked into the drawing-room, 
 looking, as he instantly acknowledged to himself, 
 charmingly pretty and gay. 
 
 "I waited to see you, Mrs. Lexton, because I am 
 not satisfied with your husband's condition. From 
 what the nurse tells me, Dr. Lancaster was puzzled 
 too, though he said nothing of that in the notes he 
 sent me concerning the case. ,, 
 
 Then, almost in spite of himself, he was touched by 
 the look of distress which at once shadowed her lovely 
 face, and it was in a kinder tone that he went on: 
 
 "If he does not pick up in the next day or two, I 
 should very much like to have another opinion. Will 
 you try to persuade him to see a specialist?" 
 
 "Of course I will," she said quickly. "Though he 
 can't bear any fuss made over, him, poor old boy! He 
 very much objected to our having a nurse; but she's 
 such a comfort to me." 
 
 Dr. Berwick disliked Nurse Bradfield. He thought 
 her slow and old-fashioned. So now he told himself 
 that, though she might be a comfort to Mrs. Lexton, 
 he would far prefer a different kind of nurse to tend 
 one as ill as he now realised Jervis Lexton to be. 
 
 He looked fixedly at his patient's wife, debating 
 within himself whether he ought to impart to her a 
 suspicion which was beginning, only beginning, to 
 
94 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 touch his mind. Now and again, during the last two 
 days, he had felt a slight, half -doubting suspicion as 
 to whether certain untoward symptoms could possibly 
 mean that Lexton was absorbing some form of irritant 
 poison. But even to hint or half -imply such possi- 
 bility is a very serious thing to do from a doctor's point 
 of view, and so he fell back on what seemed the wiser 
 course of recommending a second opinion. 
 
 "Do you think Dr. Lancaster will be away long?" 
 asked Ivy. "He's such an old friend of mine," and she 
 smiled, a pretty, disarming little smile. "I know you're 
 ever so much more clever than he is " 
 
 Dr. Berwick interrupted harshly, "That's quite un- 
 true! Dr. Lancaster has had ten times the experience 
 I've had, and I take my hat of! to him every time. But 
 I fear he's not likely to be back for a long time. You 
 see, he's no longer a young man, and it is a great 
 chance for him to be invalided away from home, and 
 where he can't be got at by the kind attentions of 
 friends and — patients." 
 
 The next day an untoward thing happened which, 
 though it seemed at the time of very little account, was 
 yet to prove of considerable moment. 
 
 Roger Gretorex ran across a Mrs. Horley, whom he 
 had often met in Ivy's company in the now far-away 
 days when he would go anywhere, and everywhere, 
 just to see her, and to hold her hand for a moment. 
 Mrs. Horley naturally alluded to Jervis Lexton's ill- 
 ness, and was evidently much surprised to find that it 
 was all news to him. To everyone but Gretorex, Ivy 
 constantly mentioned her husband's unfortunate co r 
 dition, and expressed some measure of anxiety. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 95 
 
 Though only half believing Mrs. Horley's tale, or 
 rather believing that Lexton was suffering from some 
 slight indisposition, Gretorex went off to the flat, only 
 to find that Ivy was out, as usual. 
 
 The cook had opened the front door. She knew 
 Gretorex quite well by sight, for in the early days 
 of the Lextons being there, he had been an occasional 
 visitor. 
 
 He listened to her wordy account of "the master's" 
 illness ; and then the nurse, hearing voices in the hall, 
 opened her patient's door. 
 
 "Nurse ! This is Dr. Gretorex, a great friend of the 
 master and missus," said cook, retreating down the 
 corridor towards her kitchen. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield, who found life very dull just now, 
 was pleased to see the fine-looking young man — a doc- 
 tor, too. 
 
 "Will you ask Mr. Lexton if he would care to see 
 me?" asked Gretorex. 
 
 He felt he could do nothing less, as he was there, 
 and Ivy was out. 
 
 Poor Jervis eagerly, even joyfully, welcomed the 
 suggestion, and the nurse left the two young men 
 together. They talked of all kinds of things — things 
 that interested Lexton rather than Gretorex. 
 
 At last the visitor rose. "HI be going now " 
 
 "Must you? I get so bored lying here. I wish, old 
 chap, you could think of something that would make 
 me feel the thing again? I don't think much of Ivy's 
 Dr. Lancaster. Besides, he's just broken his leg!" 
 
 Then he went into details of what had become his 
 wretched case, and, after having heard him out, 
 Gretorex produced a paper pad and a fountain pen. 
 
9 6 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Rapidly he began writing out a prescription, and he 
 was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not 
 hear the bedroom door open. 
 
 Dr. Berwick, who was tired, having been up all 
 night over an anxious case, stared with anger, as well 
 as amazement, at his as yet unknown colleague. 
 
 "Hallo I" cried Jervis, trying to lift himself up from 
 the pillow, for he had become very weak "Here's a 
 lark! An impromptu consultation, eh?" 
 
 Then, as even he realised that Dr. Berwick looked 
 like a thundercloud, as he afterwards expressed it to 
 the nurse, he went on, apologetically : "I was joking of 
 course! Gretorex, this is Dr. Berwick, who has taken 
 over Dr. Lancaster's patients." 
 
 Then, looking at Berwick, he went on: "Dr. 
 Gretorex is a great friend of mine and Ivy's. He came 
 in just now, and I told him about my poor dry throat 
 and asked him if he could think of something that 
 might give me a little relief. You don't mind, do 
 you ?" 
 
 Dr. Berwick waited a moment. Then he said, in far 
 from a pleasant tone: 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth, I do mind. You are my 
 patient, Mr. Lexton, not Dr. Gretorex's patient." 
 
 Gretorex rose from the chair on which he had been 
 sitting close to the sick man's bed. The colour rushed 
 up all over his dark face. He said stiffly, cursing Lex- 
 ton for a fool the while : 
 
 "Mr. Lexton had just told me that Dr. Lancaster 
 has broken his leg. I had no idea that someone else had 
 already taken over the case " 
 
 There followed an awkward silence between the two 
 men. Dr. Berwick was waiting for the formal apology 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 97 
 
 which the other did not consider it necessary to tender 
 to him. 
 
 At last Gretorex took the piece of paper on which 
 he had written out a prescription for a soothing mix- 
 ture and tore it in two. 
 
 "Well, Lexton," he exclaimed, 'Til be off now, 
 leaving you, I'm sure, in excellent hands! Tell Mrs. 
 Lexton I came in. I've been so awfully busy this last 
 fortnight that I haven't had a minute to myself. I've 
 taken over for a friend a practice in Westminster for a 
 bit. It's in a slum, and means a lot of work " 
 
 "And precious little pay, eh?" said Lexton. 
 
 Roger Gretorex smiled grimly, "But it's all ex- 
 perience." 
 
 Then he went out of the room, with just a cool nod 
 to the other doctor. 
 
 It was a very different Dr. Berwick who at eight that 
 same evening finished eating his well-cooked, daintily- 
 served dinner. Janey Berwick was what her husband's 
 old friends called, with truth, a thoroughly nice woman. 
 After their early marriage she and her husband had 
 had a bitter struggle, but that had only made them 
 come the closer to one another, and now that he was 
 beginning to be really successful, she was determined 
 to make him, so far as lay in her power, comfortable. 
 
 She wore to-night her prettiest evening frock, and 
 anyone, seeing them sitting there side by side in front 
 of their cheerful fire in their pleasant sitting-room, 
 would have thought them a pair of engaged lovers, 
 rather than a couple who had been wedded for close on 
 twelve years. 
 
 Janey Berwick still looked a young woman, for she 
 
9 8 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 had been only nineteen when she had given up a 
 comfortable, even luxurious, home, to throw in her lot 
 with the young man who till two or three months be- 
 fore their wedding had been still a medical student. 
 
 He bore more signs than did his wife of the struggle 
 they had gone through. However, that struggle was 
 now a thing of the past, or, at least, so they both had 
 good reason to think. 
 
 An intelligent doctor either shares everything or 
 nothing with his wife. Berwick shared everything and 
 now he was engaged in telling her about Jervis Lexton, 
 and how puzzled he was fast becoming over Lexton's 
 curious condition. He also told her how surprised, not 
 to say indignant, he had been to discover, when he had 
 gone to see his patient to-day, another doctor there, 
 actually prescribing for Lexton — true, only as a friend, 
 but acting, even so, in a most irregular fashion! 
 
 "I think I made him feel what I thought of such 
 conduct," he said with satisfaction. 
 
 Then suddenly he asked her a question. 
 
 "D'you remember that your people took a shooting 
 in Sussex many years ago, when I first knew you, from 
 a man call Gretorex?" 
 
 "Of course I do, darling! Anchorford was the name 
 of the place/' 
 
 She was puzzled at the sudden change in the con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Well, this young chap I found prescribing for 
 Lexton is Roger Gretorex! I had a sort of feeling Fd 
 seen him before. ,, 
 
 "But what an extraordinary thing — I mean, that he 
 should be a doctor." 
 
 "I don't see why. Only the old house and that 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 99 
 
 bit of shooting belonged to them, even then. D'you 
 remember Mrs. Gretorex? She was very much the 
 
 grande dame " 
 
 "Yes, she was in a way, but so really kind. She 
 took a great fancy to me," said Janey Berwick 
 slowly. 
 
 "I don't think she approved of me. She thought you 
 ought to do better." 
 
 Berwick's wife smiled. It was true that Mrs. Gre- 
 torex hadn't much cared for the dour, silent, medical 
 student who was obviously in love with \ er attractive 
 young friend. 
 
 "It all comes back to me. They were fearfully poor; 
 but Mrs. Gretorex was keeping up all her charities 
 in the village just as if she had still been the rich lady 
 of the manor. I thought it splendid of her. What is 
 Roger Gretorex like now ? He was such a handsome 
 boy," she concluded, with some curiosity. 
 
 Her husband waited a moment, then he answered : 
 "He's still good-looking ; I can tell you that much. But 
 I didn't like the look of him. He said that he'd taken 
 over a slum practice, somewhere in Westminster." 
 
 "Is he a great friend of Mr. Lexton?" 
 
 "He seemed to be, though they're as different as 
 chalk from cheese. The one's a born idler, the other I 
 should say a born worker; though, mind you, Squire 
 Gretorex was a bad man. D'you remember the sort of 
 things we were told about him, Janey? How he had 
 come in for thirty thousand a year when he was 
 twenty-one, and how by the time he was fifty he had 
 run through the whole of his fortune on the turf ?" 
 
 "I expect Dr. Gretorex takes after his mother," she 
 said with a smile. 
 
1 00 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Suddenly there came the postman's loud knock, and 
 Berwick, jumping up, went out into the hall. 
 
 He came back with only one rather bulky letter, 
 addressed to himself, in a woman's sloping handwrit- 
 ing as yet unknown to him. 
 
 He opened the large, square, pale-mauve envelope 
 slowly, deliberately. It contained a note folded in two, 
 and also an enclosure, an envelope on which was 
 written "Prescriptions." 
 
 He glanced over the note: 
 i 
 
 Dear Dr. Berwick, 
 
 You asked me to send you Dr. Lancaster's pre- 
 scriptions. I fSund them just after you left. Jervis is feeling 
 better this afternoon, and the nurse says that if you're busy 
 she doesn't think you need come to-morrow. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Ivy Lexton. 
 
 He looked across at his wife. "It's from Mrs. Lex- 
 ton. She says her husband's better, and that I need 
 not go there to-morrow. That's a comfort !" 
 
 Idly he took out what that other envelope con- 
 tained. Dr. Lancaster's prescriptions might give him a 
 clue as to what the old fellow really thought of Lex- 
 ton's mysterious condition. 
 
 "Hallo!" he exclaimed in a tone of extreme sur- 
 prise, for what was written on a wide sheet of thin, 
 common paper, folded in eight, ran: 
 
 Friday night. 
 
 My own precious love (for that you are and always will 
 be)— 
 
 Of course I quite see your point of view. Indeed I abso- 
 lutely agree in a sense with every word that you have 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 101 
 
 written to me. We have done wrong in allowing ourselves 
 to love one another, and when I say "we" I really mean I 
 Roger Gretorex, not you, Ivy Lexton. You were, you are, 
 the purest and best woman I have ever known. 
 
 I can swear before God that, had you been even moder- 
 ately happy, I would have killed myself rather than have 
 disturbed your peace. My only excuse, not for having loved 
 you — of that I am not at all ashamed — but for having let 
 you know that I loved you, is that when we first met you 
 had begun to find how bitter a loveless life can be. 
 
 You say you feel you ought never to come again 
 to Ferry Place. I bow to your decision, dearest, and I will 
 say that you are right in having come to that decision, 
 even though it causes me agony. Thank you for saying I 
 may still write to you, and that you will sometimes tele- 
 phone to me. 
 
 Your devoted 
 
 Roger Gretorex. 
 
 Berwick read the letter right through. Then he 
 handed it to his wife. 
 
 "Janey? I want you to tell me what you think of 
 this ! Both of the writer, I mean, and of the woman to 
 whom this letter was written ?" 
 
 Slowly, with her husband closely watching her, and 
 feeling, it must be admitted, ashamed of what she was 
 doing, Janey Berwick read Roger Gretorex's letter to 
 Ivy Lexton right through. 
 
 Then she looked across at her husband, and her face 
 bore an expression that a little surprised him. He had 
 expected it to be filled with the wrath and disgust he 
 felt himself. 
 
 "This is written with a man's heart's blood," she 
 said at last. "There must be more in this little 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Mrs. Lexton than you think, Angus. Surely this letter 
 cannot be in answer to one sent by a silly, frivolous 
 woman?" 
 
 "I wonder," he said gloomily, "what their real re- 
 lations have been. This letter might, of course, mean 
 one of two things." 
 
 She was reading the letter once more, slowly and 
 carefully. At last she looked up. "I am inclined to 
 
 think " then she stopped and exclaimed, "I don't 
 
 know what to think, Angus !" 
 
 "What were you going to say just now?" he asked 
 quickly. 
 
 "I was going to say that I'm inclined to think that 
 their friendship has not been innocent. That was what 
 I was going to say ; but even in these last few moments 
 I've turned right round! Now I would say in all sin- 
 cerity, my dear, that I think it very probable that 
 there's been nothing but passionate love on his side, 
 and I suppose grateful affection on hers. She evidently 
 doesn't care for her husband; so much is quite clear." 
 
 "No one would ever think so, from her way of 
 speaking of him. The only time I've ever seen them 
 together they seemed on the most affectionate terms. 
 He was calling her 'darling' all the time, and she called 
 him 'dear old boy,' and seemed genuinely very much 
 worried about him." 
 
 "At any rate she's now made up her mind to do the 
 right thing," said Janey Berwick gravely. "One can't 
 but honour her for that, when one remembers " 
 
 She smiled, a curious little smile. 
 
 "Yes, my dear? Out with it!" 
 
 "After all, it is very delightful to be loved," she said 
 softly, "and this poor young chap evidently adores her." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 103 
 
 "Now comes a difficult question: what am I to do 
 with this letter? I wonder if I ought to send it back to 
 her " 
 
 "If I were you, I wouldn't send it back to her. If 
 she's the sort of woman you've described her to be, it's 
 quite likely she'll never discover that she sent it you 
 by mistake." 
 
 "Ought I to put it in the fire?" 
 
 "I don't think you ought to do that. It doesn't belong 
 to you. You've no right to destroy it. Wait a day 
 or two, dearest, and see what happens. She may 
 ask you if you have got the letter ? Then you can give 
 it back to her. I'll keep it if you like, Angus. We'll put 
 it in an envelope and I'll address it to myself. If I 
 keep it in the secret drawer of my old desk over there, 
 only you and I will know where it is." 
 
Chapter Seven 
 
 A long, long week went by, and it was now the 
 evening of the 16th of November. Nurse Bradfield had 
 been out for an hour after lunch, and while she was out 
 Ivy had "looked after" Jervis. She made a point of 
 doing this at some time of her day, though it was 
 always over-full. 
 
 Being both good humoured and good natured, 
 Nurse Bradfield fell in easily with any plan proposed 
 by her patient's wife. She had become very fond of 
 Jervis Lexton, and, though aware of Ivy Lexton's 
 selfishness and innate frivolity and levity, she was yet 
 attracted, in spite of herself, by the younger woman's 
 beauty, and what was in very truth an exceptional 
 charm of manner, and what some of Ivy's friends 
 called her cheeriness. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield would have been surprised indeed 
 could she have looked into Ivy Lexton's mind, and seen 
 how often and how anxiously that mind was occupied 
 with herself. 
 
 Often the nurse would be touched and gratified by 
 the consideration with which she was treated, and her 
 comfort studied. It was no wonder that she, on her 
 side, never even thought of insisting on her right to a 
 certain amount of rest and exercise. She was no longer 
 a young woman. She had few friends in London, and 
 this day nursing job with a pleasant young couple 
 was an agreeable interlude in her often anxious and 
 hard-working life. 
 
 So on this early afternoon Ivy and Jervis had what 
 1 04 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 105 
 
 her patient afterwards weakly described to his nurse 
 as a quiet, nice little time together. 
 
 Then Ivy had gone out to a bridge-party, and now 
 she had just come in, leaving herself barely time 
 enough to dress and go out again. 
 
 To the young day-maid who hovered, timidly, ad- 
 miringly, about her, Mrs. Lexton sadly expressed her 
 regret at being in too great a hurry to see Mr. Lexton, 
 even for a minute. 
 
 Hurry was the word to-day. She was hurrying over 
 her dressing as she never hurried before, and, while 
 she made up with feverish haste, there was a strange 
 look on her lovely face. She even noticed that she did 
 not look "quite the thing," as she gazed at herself in 
 the looking-glass, and she tried, but it was a failure, to 
 smile, reassuringly, at herself. 
 
 She had turned away from the dressing-table and 
 had just slipped her frock over her head, when there 
 was a knock at the bedroom door, and Nurse Bradfield 
 came in. 
 
 "I feel anxious about Mr. Lexton," she said in a 
 worried voice. "I don't like his colour. Will you 'phone 
 for the doctor, Mrs. Lexton? I hate leaving Mr. Lex- 
 ton, even for a moment !" 
 
 Ivy of course murmured a word of assent. Then it 
 was as if her heart bounded in her breast. Had it come 
 at last — her order of release? 
 
 She felt a spasm of terror shake her being. Also a 
 sensation of abject fear of hard-faced, cold-mannered 
 Dr. Berwick. 
 
 This morning she had discovered the envelope con- 
 taining the prescriptions which she believed she 
 had sent the doctor a few days ago. And as she 
 
io6 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 stared at it, puzzled, she suddenly remembered — 
 remembered, with a sharp stab of dismay, thrusting 
 Gretorex's letter into an empty envelope which she 
 herself, in the early days of Jervis's illness, acting on 
 Dr. Lancaster's fussy advice, had marked "Prescrip- 
 tions." Fool, fool that she had been! 
 
 There was that in the lovely, sensitive face of her 
 patient's wife that caused the nurse to run forward and 
 put her arms round her. 
 
 "Don't be so upset, Mrs. Lexton! We'll have the 
 doctor round in a few minutes. Though he's not my 
 sort, Dr. Berwick is very clever, and maybe he'll think 
 of something to bring him round — quick ! But do please 
 now 'phone at once!" And she almost ran out of the 
 room. 
 
 But Ivy did not go over to the side of the bed where 
 stood the telephone. Instead, she went and sat down 
 again in front of the pretty dressing-table. She shrank 
 with terror from the thought of sending for Dr. Ber- 
 wick "all in a hurry, like this." 
 
 Oh ! What had made her give that large, that dan- 
 gerous, dose of the — the stuff, to Jervis to-day? He 
 had felt weak, weak and what he oddly called "spent." 
 So she had mixed him a stiff brandy and soda. And 
 the doing of that had seemed such a good opportunity 
 for . . . Ivy did not end the sentence, even to herself. 
 
 Again, why wasn't Roger Gretorex in London? 
 What a fool she had been to let him go for a long 
 week-end down to Sussex to his tiresome mother. 
 There was such support in his unquestioning love, in 
 his adoring devotion, especially as he no longer asked 
 her, with pleading, ardent, burning words of longing, 
 to go to that horrid little house in Ferry Place. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 107 
 
 At last, slowly, and with dragging steps, she went 
 over to the telephone and rang up the doctor's house. 
 
 To her relief it was a woman's voice, kindly, gentle, 
 which answered. 
 
 "My husband is away. He won't be back till to- 
 morrow morning. Mr. Lexton less well? I'm so sorry. 
 I'll have a message sent round at once to Dr. Singleton, 
 who always takes over Dr. Berwick's work. He only 
 lives two doors off, and his telephone is unluckily out 
 of order." 
 
 Ivy waited for what seemed to the other a very long 
 time. 
 
 "Are you sure he'll be able to come at once?" she 
 asked. 
 
 There came the slightly impatient answer, "I can't 
 be sure of that, for Dr. Singleton may be out. But he'll 
 come as soon as he can." 
 
 "We want someone at once," and the voice sounded 
 so sad, so woeful, that Mrs. Berwick, at the other end 
 of the telephone, felt ashamed of the suspicion she had 
 harboured about young Mrs. Lexton ever since the 
 night she had read Roger Gretorex's love-letter. It 
 was, however, a suspicion she had kept to herself. 
 Even if these two had been lovers, they were so no 
 longer. And in any case it was none of her business. 
 
 But what was this Mrs. Lexton was saying? 
 
 "There's a doctor living in Duke of Kent Mansion. 
 I think I'd better try and get him, don't you? My 
 husband is so very ill. Nurse is quite frightened !" 
 
 Without waiting for Mrs. Berwick's assent, Ivy 
 hung up the receiver. 
 
 She felt very much less afraid than she had felt just 
 now. Surely fate was playing into her hands? She told 
 
io8 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 herself that it was really a most fortunate thing that 
 Dr. Berwick happened to be away. 
 
 She went out into the hall and listened. But no 
 sounds were coming from the sick man's room. 
 
 Timorously she called out, "Nurse!" 
 
 She was afraid to open Jervis's bedroom door, for 
 she was determined not to see him. To do so, she told 
 herself, would do him no good, and only make her feel 
 miserable. 
 
 The kitchen door, situated some way off, at the end 
 of the long corridor, swung open, and the nurse ap- 
 peared, a jug of boiling water in her hand. 
 
 "I'm coming," she called out, "I'm coming, Mr. 
 Lexton. Is the doctor here already?" 
 
 "Dr. Berwick has gone away till to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Shall we try and get the doctor who lives in num- 
 ber ia, downstairs?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't think Dr. Berwick would like us to 
 do that! He was so disagreeable about that nice Dr. 
 Gretorex. Surely Dr. Berwick has someone who takes 
 his patients when he's away? I never heard of such a 
 thing as a doctor leaving his patients unattended ! But 
 I've thought of something to give Mr. Lexton that may 
 ease the dreadful pain. He seems a little better now." 
 
 "I'm glad of that," said Ivy fervently. And she was 
 glad. It hurt her, made her feel wretched, when she 
 had time to remember it, to think of poor Jervis suf- 
 fering. 
 
 As time had gone on, Nurse Bradfield had liked Dr. 
 Berwick less and less. He had such a short, unpleasant 
 way with him. Also, she was too experienced not to 
 have quickly seen that he was both puzzled and irri- 
 tated by his patient's lack of reaction to his treatment. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 109 
 
 Once or twice she had thrown out a feeler about this. 
 But he had rebuffed her, almost rudely, while yet 
 giving her strict instructions never to leave her patient 
 alone, and always to administer herself the food and 
 the medicines prescribed. This had surprised, and even 
 offended her. 
 
 Not only had the nurse become fond, in a way, of 
 beautiful Mrs. Lexton, but for Jervis himself she had 
 now almost a tender feeling. He was such a real gen- 
 tleman, giving as little trouble as he could, and even 
 when in sharp pain invariably patient and good- 
 humoured. 
 
 "I suppose you'd like me to stay in to-night?" asked 
 Ivy nervously. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield hesitated. 
 
 "I don't think you need, really. It isn't as if you 
 could do anything, Mrs. Lexton? I can manage quite 
 well ; and if I think it necessary I can always send cook 
 for the doctor in the flat downstairs." 
 
 So Ivy went off, with a sensation of intense relief, to 
 a theatre-party, composed of a young married woman 
 of much her own age and two men. Her own special 
 escort was a good-looking bachelor whom she had met 
 since her return to London, and with whom she spent 
 a great deal of what she called her spare time. 
 
 She determined to banish Jervis from her mind, and, 
 in quite a short time, she succeeded. After all, he was 
 "a little better," and Nurse Bradfield was kindness 
 itself. 
 
 Ivy had abstained from saying to which theatre she 
 was going, and after an amusing evening spent in 
 laughing at a really funny farce, the four went on to 
 supper at the Carlton. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Her new man friend drove her home at almost 
 one in the morning, and she lingered for quite a long 
 while in the deserted hall of the Duke of Kent Man- 
 sion, bidding him farewell. When at last he went off 
 she felt quite "good," for she had only allowed him 
 one kiss. 
 
 Lightly she ran up the stairs, for the lift stopped 
 working at midnight. But when she reached the land- 
 ing outside her front door, Ivy Lexton did not at once 
 put her latchkey in the lock. Indeed, she waited for 
 quite a long time. At last, however, she did put the key 
 in the lock, and slowly she turned it. 
 
 Then she gave a stifled cry of surprise, for Nurse 
 Bradfield was sitting in the hall, waiting for her. 
 
 There was a look of great distress, almost of shame, 
 on the nurse's kind face. She got up, and looked 
 straight into the now terrified eyes of the merry-maker. 
 
 "I've bad news for you — very bad news, Mrs. Lex- 
 ton." 
 
 She waited, hoping the other would say something 
 that would imply she understood what that bad news 
 must be. 
 
 But Ivy remained silent, staring at Nurse Bradfield 
 with terror-filled, dilated eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Lexton took a very serious turn for the worse 
 about half-past ten. I sent at once for the doctor down- 
 stairs, but he was out ; and — and " she did not fin- 
 ish her sentence. "I don't think anything could have 
 saved him. His heart gave way — that's what it was ! He 
 looks so young, so boyish, so peaceful." 
 
 The tears came into her eyes. "Would you like to see 
 him ?" 
 
 "Oh no! I— I couldn't!" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY in 
 
 The newly-made widow burst into tears, and the 
 older woman led her tenderly to her bedroom, and 
 helped her to undress. 
 
 "I'll never forget how kind you were to my poor 
 darling — and to me, too, nurse. I hope to be able to 
 prove my gratitude some day," whispered Ivy, after 
 the other had tucked her up in bed. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield was touched. She forgot how selfish 
 she had secretly thought little Mrs. Lexton's conduct 
 had been, in practically insisting on going out this 
 evening. She only remembered thenceforth her pretty 
 ways, her sweet manner to her poor husband, and the 
 easy good nature which always made her willing, when 
 she happened to be at home, to arrange some little 
 treat for her husband's kind nurse. 
 
 That night Ivy lay for a long, long while with eyes 
 wide open in the darkness. What had just happened 
 filled her with a kind of awe. She had not known how 
 easy and simple is the passage from life to death. 
 
 She reminded herself how very kind, how good a pal, 
 she had always been to poor Jervis, and how happy he 
 had been these last two months, owing to Miles Rush- 
 worth. 
 
 Dear, delightful, generous Miles Rushworth! The 
 thought of him brought a rush of joy, as well as com- 
 fort, in its train. 
 
 At last a great peace descended upon her. All the 
 terrors which had assailed her during those infrequent 
 moments when she had been, by some strange chance, 
 alone, during her husband's illness, had vanished as 
 if they had never been. 
 
 As she looked back she shivered at the thought of 
 
112 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 how frightened she had sometimes felt. And yet, after 
 all, she knew now that there had been nothing to be 
 really frightened about. 
 
 Roger Gretorex had been right as to what he had 
 said, on that evening she still remembered so well. At 
 the time she had thought it horrid of him to imagine 
 such a thing as that — she let what he had suggested 
 stay undefined. No need surely to put it into ugly 
 words, even to herself. All the same, she did bring her- 
 self to face the comforting fact that, if rather horrible, 
 it was certainly true. A great many more people are 
 undoubtedly helped out of life than stupid, unimagina- 
 tive folk suppose. As to those who — well — help them to 
 leave a world which has no further use for them, they 
 certainly, as Roger had declared, "got away with it,'' 
 often with marvellous success. 
 
 True, that disagreeable Dr. Berwick had been 
 puzzled — he had said as much to her. But she had 
 got on much better with him during the last couple of 
 days, since, in fact, he had seen that she really could 
 not endure the sight of poor Jervis's sufferings. . . . 
 
 The word "death," which means so much to the 
 great majority of men and women, meant very little to 
 Ivy Lexton. Indeed, she felt, as she lay there in the 
 darkness, that this man who had been her lover-com- 
 rade had only gone away out of her life on a long 
 journey — a journey from which, however, he was 
 never to return. The fact that she had planned that 
 journey, that it was owing to her direct action that he 
 had gone from the world he found on the whole so 
 pleasant, would and must, not only remain hidden, but 
 in time be forgotten even by herself. 
 
 In a way, she was forgetting it already as she turned 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 113 
 
 to her cloudless, sunny future — to the delightful 
 existence she would henceforth lead, first as the fiancee, 
 and then as the wife, of Miles Rushworth. 
 
 Run straight? Of course she would run straight! 
 For one thing, Rushworth wasn't the sort of man with 
 whom it would be safe to run crooked. For all his odd 
 ideas, and to Ivy his ideas as to morality were indeed 
 singular, she realised that he had his weather eye very 
 much open. She would henceforth have to be what to 
 herself she vaguely called "a good woman." But then, 
 how easy it is to be a good woman when one has a 
 hundred thousand a year! 
 
Chapter Eight 
 
 After a good night of deep, healthy sleep, Ivy Lex- 
 ton awoke. She sat up in bed and then, all at once, 
 she remembered. . . . 
 
 Her first sensation was one of intense, almost pain- 
 fully acute, relief. True, she would still have, for just 
 a little while, to play a part. But playing a part was to 
 her second nature. Now and again, but very rarely, in 
 moments of suspense, and now and again in moments 
 of panic, there would appear before a pair of aston- 
 ished eyes another woman altogether to the every-day 
 Ivy. 
 
 She slid out of her comfortable warm bed and softly 
 opened the door of her bedroom, to see that the grand- 
 father's clock in the hall marked a quarter past nine. 
 
 The kindly, fussy old cook came out of her kitchen, 
 and when she saw the slender figure, clad in diaphanous 
 pale pink ninon trimmed with lace, standing half-in 
 half-out of the door, she hurried down the passage and 
 whispered, "Go back to bed, ma'am ! I won't be a min- 
 ute in getting you a cup of tea. I scarcely slept a wink 
 all night, I was that upset. Mr. Lexton was such a nice 
 young gentleman." 
 
 "Thank you very, very much, cook!" 
 
 Tears, genuine tears, rose to Ivy's eyes. What cook 
 said was so true — Jervis had been "such a nice young 
 gentleman," especially during this painful illness. It 
 seemed so strange to think of him as gone, for ever, 
 from a world which on the whole had treated him so 
 kindly, and of which he had been so contented a 
 114 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 115 
 
 denizen. Ivy did not put the thoughts which haunted 
 her mind in those words, but that was the purport of 
 them. 
 
 After she had had her breakfast, she began to feel 
 oddly restless, and so, earlier than was usual with her, 
 she got up and dressed. Nurse Bradfield, it appeared, 
 was still asleep. 
 
 The newly-made widow hesitated as to what she 
 should wear. Finally she decided on a pretty black 
 georgette frock she had bought from a friend who had 
 started a profitable little business in French models, 
 some of which she cleverly managed to smuggle over 
 from Paris. 
 
 x\fter she had put it on, Ivy looked at the reflection 
 of herself in the long narrow panel of looking-glass set 
 in the wall at right angles from the window. Yes, the 
 dress was charming, and looked just right. 
 
 She ran across to a walnut-wood chest, and took out 
 of it the hat she had bought yesterday. For the first 
 time, since she had come into the flat last night, she 
 smiled. The little hat was so chic, really chic ! And it 
 made her look so — well, why not say it to herself? — 
 so absolutely lovely. 
 
 Slowly, reluctantly, she took off the hat, and then she 
 went into the drawing-room. 
 
 The blinds were still drawn down. How strange! 
 Then she remembered why they were drawn down. 
 
 She wandered about the room, feeling just a little 
 dazed. Should she telegraph for Roger Gretorex? It 
 was so stupid of his mother to have given up the tele- 
 phone. No one could be so poor as that; it was just 
 meanness and affectation ! But if she wired she knew he 
 would come back at once. She also knew that she could 
 
n6 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 trust him to take off her shoulders all worrying, maybe 
 even unpleasant, arrangements. 
 
 And yet the fact that she was now a widow would 
 'certainly made Roger "tiresome." So unfortunately 
 certain was this that she felt it better to leave him 
 alone, at any rate for the present. Also she was a little 
 afraid of seeing him just now. After all, owing to his 
 being a doctor, he had such an uncanny knowledge of 
 — of poisons, and of their effect on the human body. 
 
 She sat down ; then she got up again, and at last 
 she began moving about restlessly. 
 
 Suddenly she told herself that she might as well sit 
 down and write to Miles Rushworth. It could be quite 
 a short letter. He would of course remember that in 
 her very last letter she had said that poor Jervis was 
 worse, and that she was feeling anxious. 
 
 She wondered how long it takes for a letter to get to 
 South Africa. And then with a sensation of relief came 
 the thought that she could cable. It would be quite 
 natural for her to do that as, after all, her husband had 
 been in Rushworth's employment. 
 
 She went over to the writing-table, and, sitting down, 
 drew a telegraph form towards her. She would write 
 it out, and then take it herself to the post office. She 
 didn't feel, somehow, like sending a cable to Rush- 
 worth over the telephone. That is the worst of living 
 in a flat. Everything one says may be overheard, espe- 
 cially from the hall. 
 
 But instead of taking up a pen, she put her elbows 
 on the table and gazed in front of her. 
 
 There had suddenly come over her a most un- 
 expected sensation of lonelines. Oh, if she had one 
 good man friend who wasn't in love with her, and who 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 117 
 
 would help her through the next few days ! She did so 
 shrink from — from everything. Laying her head on the 
 table, she began to sob with self-pity. 
 
 The door opened, and the nurse came in. Ivy looked 
 up. 
 
 "I'm so miserable ! So miserable ! I don't know what 
 to do!" 
 
 "Don't you worry about anything, Mrs. Lexton. 
 Dr. Berwick will be round pretty soon. I telephoned 
 to his house just now, and left a message for him. Mrs. 
 Berwick was shocked to hear our dreadful news. She 
 said she was expecting the doctor back any minute 
 now. I expect Dr. Gretorex will be in some time to- 
 day, too. Surely he'll see to all the things that have to 
 be done." 
 
 "All the things?" Ivy looked timorously at Nurse 
 Bradfield, and shivered. 
 
 The other saw her look of dismay. "Poor little 
 thing," she said to herself, "she's not much more than 
 a child, after all." 
 
 Aloud she said, "I thought of going out presently. 
 Not for long" — fear had flashed into Ivy's face — 
 "only just for a few minutes." 
 
 She added kindly: "I shouldn't try to write, if I 
 were you, Mrs. Lexton. I'd just lie down and have a 
 rest. I don't suppose you've had much sleep?" 
 
 Ivy answered plaintively, "I lay awake all night. You 
 see it was such a shock, nurse, such a dreadful shock," 
 and she thought that what she said was true. 
 
 In a way it had been a dreadful shock, for Ivy had 
 never come face to face with death. She had been still 
 a pupil at a fashionable school when her father had 
 killed himself. 
 
n8 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 The nurse led her to the comfortable sofa. "You lie 
 down here." 
 
 Ivy obeyed, wondering why she felt as she did feel 
 — so thoroughly upset and unnerved. 
 
 She had been lying down perhaps ten minutes when 
 she heard the now familiar knock of Dr. Berwick. She 
 started up, and what natural colour she had left her 
 cheeks. Angrily she told herself that it was stupid to 
 feel frightened. There was nothing to be frightened 
 about. 
 
 The door opened, and the doctor strode into the 
 darkened room. He turned a frowning, preoccupied 
 face on the newly-made widow. Then, when his eyes 
 rested on the tear-stained little face, his expression 
 softened. 
 
 "I'm more sorry than I can say that I happened to 
 have been away all yesterday, Mrs. Lexton. I only 
 came back this morning.' ' 
 
 Ivy began to cry, and again he felt touched by her 
 evident distress. 
 
 "Sit down, Mrs. Lexton. Do sit down. I'm afraid 
 you've had a terrible shock." 
 
 "A dreadful, dreadful shock!" she sobbed, "I had 
 no idea that Jervis was so ill." 
 
 "Last time I was here he was certainly better," he 
 said quickly. "You thought him better too, didn't you ?" 
 
 "I did. I did indeed." 
 
 She was trembling now, and though she was con- 
 sciously playing a part, her emotion was still genuine. 
 
 She sat down on the sofa and the doctor drew up a 
 chair and sat down too, a little to her surprise. 
 
 "If you feel up to it," he said, "I want to ask you 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 119 
 
 a few questions. I mean as to what happened yester- 
 day?" 
 
 She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "I 
 can't tell you very much, for I was out a great deal 
 yesterday. But nurse never left Jervis, not for one 
 moment. She's been most awfully kind, and " 
 
 He cut her short, brusquely. "I know she's a good 
 old thing. What I want to know is whether Mr. Lexton 
 received any visitor or visitors yesterday?" 
 
 "Visitors?" She looked at him in surprise. "Not 
 that I know of. He was far too ill." 
 
 In a tone which he strove to make light, he ob- 
 served, "I thought that your husband might have seen 
 Dr. Gretorex for a few moments." 
 
 The colour rushed into her face. 
 
 "He can't have seen him. Dr. Gretorex is in the 
 country." Then, a little confusedly, she added, "At 
 least, I'm nearly sure that he is." 
 
 "Ah, well, then he can't have come in, of course." 
 
 A knock sounded on the door, and Nurse Bradfield 
 came into the room. 
 
 Ivy welcomed her presence. Looking up into the 
 kind face, now full of sympathy, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Dr. Berwick has been asking me if my husband 
 saw anyone yesterday? But I'm quite sure Jervis 
 wasn't well enough to see anyone." 
 
 "Mr. Lexton only had one visitor," said the nurse 
 quickly, defensively, "and that was Dr. Gretorex." 
 
 "I thought," said the doctor, turning sharply on 
 Ivy, "that you said just now that Dr. Gretorex was 
 in the country?" 
 
 "He was to have been in the country, staying with 
 his mother for a long week-end." 
 
120 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 There was no mistaking Ivy's look of surprise. Not 
 that she thought it mattered, one way or the other, 
 whether Roger Gretorex had come in or not yesterday. 
 
 "At what time was he here ?" asked Dr. Berwick. 
 
 The nurse waited a moment. "I suppose it would 
 have been about four o'clock. He didn't mean to see 
 Mr. Lexton." 
 
 Said Dr. Berwick grimly to himself, "Oh, didn't he?" 
 
 Nurse Bradfield went on, a little nervously: "He 
 asked for Mrs. Lexton, and when he heard that she 
 was coming in soon — you said you wouldn't be out 
 long," and she turned to Ivy — "he said he would come 
 in and wait. After he had been in the drawing-room 
 about ten minutes, he rang for the maid and asked to 
 see me. I told him I thought Mr. Lexton on the whole 
 better, and then he inquired if Mr. Lexton would care 
 to see him. He said he couldn't stay long, as he had a 
 train to catch " 
 
 Dr. Berwick said negligently, "Did you leave them 
 alone together, nurse?" 
 
 "Yes, I did, doctor, for I knew they were great 
 friends. Dr. Gretorex thought Mr. Lexton less well 
 than the last time he had seen him. In fact, he saw a 
 great change." 
 
 "Did he tell you that?" 
 
 She replied quickly, "He told me that he thought 
 him very far from well, and that he was distressed at 
 the change he saw in him." 
 
 "You never told me all that," said Ivy plaintively. 
 
 "I ought to have done, Mrs. Lexton. But the truth 
 is I was too upset, when Mr. Lexton took a turn for 
 the worse, to remember anything." 
 
 "I'm sure seeing Roger Gretorex for a few moments 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 121 
 
 can't have done him any harm," said Ivy gently. "They 
 were great friends." 
 
 But as she made that commonplace remark, she 
 flushed again, remembering Roger's highfalutin' letter 
 — what a fool she had been not to destroy it at once ! 
 
 "So I understood on that occasion when Dr. 
 Gretorex, from my point of view, most improperly 
 began to prescribe for him," said the doctor, in a tone 
 which, even to himself, sounded trenchantly ironic. 
 
 Meanwhile Nurse Bradfield, supposing that for the 
 present the doctor had done with her, had turned to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 "I should be obliged, nurse, if you would wait in 
 the dining-room for a few moments. I should like to 
 speak to you on my way out." 
 
 "Certainly, Dr. Berwick." 
 
 The good woman told herself with a touch of con- 
 tempt that he could have nothing of any moment to say 
 to her. She had done her duty, and more than her duty 
 as a day nurse, to poor Jervis Lexton. 
 
 As she shut the door, Dr. Berwick turned to his late 
 patient's widow. 
 
 "In the circumstances," he said, in a slow, emphatic 
 tone, "I am afraid, Mrs. Lexton, that there must be a 
 post-mortem." 
 
 "A post-mortem?" repeated Ivy falteringly. "What 
 is a post-mortem, Dr. Berwick ?" 
 
 She was trying to remember what it was exactly that 
 Roger Gretorex had said about a "post-mortem/ 
 Much that he had said, during that conversation which 
 had meant so little to him, and so much to her, was 
 almost terribly present to her mind. But her memory as 
 to that alarming word or expression had become dim. 
 
122 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Ivy Lexton had always remained, until to-day, most 
 comfortably ignorant of all the terrible, strange, and 
 awful things that now and again occurred outside her 
 own immediate little circle of people and of interests. 
 
 The newspaper reports of a really exciting "society 
 case," of the kind which amused and intrigued her 
 special set of friends, amused and intrigued her too ; 
 though only if there was nothing going on at the time 
 in her own life of infinitely greater moment. As to 
 what is called, often erroneously, "a murder mystery" 
 she had never felt any interest at all. 
 
 Her look of innocent inquiry at once effaced from 
 Dr. Berwick's mind what might have been described 
 as a gossamer suspicion which he had now and again 
 entertained, during the last ten days, with regard to 
 his patient's wife. 
 
 He did not answer her question at once. Instead he 
 asked her slowly, "I suppose you have some man rela- 
 tive who can see to everything for you? Though I 
 advise that no arrangements be made to-day." 
 
 "No arrangements?" She looked at him surprised. 
 
 "Does that mean " she waited for a moment, then 
 
 went on, "that poor Jervis's funeral cannot take place 
 as soon as nurse thought it might ?" 
 
 "Nurse? What did nurse say?" he asked quickly. 
 
 She realised at once that she had made a mistake in 
 mentioning nurse. 
 
 Ivy was only clever with regard to those men — they 
 were in the great majority — whom she instinctively 
 knew to be strongly attracted to her lovely self. 
 
 "Nurse seemed to think that the funeral could be 
 on Thursday," she answered in a low voice. 
 
 "Nothing can be settled till the post-mortem has 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 123 
 
 taken place, Mrs. Lexton. Once the cause of death has 
 been ascertained, the funeral can, of course, take place 
 at once." 
 
 Ivy had moved away while he was speaking, and 
 she was now standing by the writing-table, with her 
 back to the window. 
 
 Slowly, mechanically, she repeated : "The cause of 
 death ?" 
 
 Though she uttered the four words in her usual 
 voice, there had suddenly swept over her a sensation of 
 intense terror. 
 
 "I'm sure that you feel quite as anxious as I do, 
 Mrs. Lexton, to know what can have brought about 
 your husband's death in so sudden and mysterious a 
 fashion," said Dr. Berwick earnestly. "I have not con- 
 cealed from you that to me this case, ever since I took 
 charge of Mr. Lexton, presented more than one puz- 
 zling feature." 
 
 Though, unlike his wife, he felt quite sure that the 
 attractive, silly young creature before him had never 
 returned Roger Gretorex's love, she had certainly been 
 foolishly imprudent. With indulgent contempt he told 
 himself that she was the sort of woman who always 
 likes to have an adoring swain hanging about her. 
 
 "I think it more than likely," he said, getting up, and 
 speaking far more lightly than before, "that nothing 
 untoward will be discovered as a result of the post- 
 mortem — which, by the way, simply means an examina- 
 tion. But still, if only for my own satisfaction, and I'm 
 sure that my feelings will be shared by Dr. Lancaster, 
 I should like to be able to put what is the truth, rather 
 than a mere guess, as to the cause of Mr. Lexton's 
 death on the certificate." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Again he had uttered those awful words — the cause 
 of . . . death. 
 
 She forced herself to say, with a look of childish 
 appeal, "I daresay you'll think it strange, Dr. Berwick, 
 but this is the first time in my life that I've ever been 
 even in the same house where " 
 
 She stopped, and he supplied the end of her sentence. 
 
 " — there has been a death? That is not so strange 
 as you may think, Mrs. Lexton. Some people go 
 through a long life without coming in contact even 
 with serious illness." 
 
 "It's that which makes it all so dreadful," and again 
 she melted into tears. 
 
 She was telling herself that if they really found out 
 anything as a result of — what was that strange, terrify- 
 ing term ? — the post-mortem, then this hard-faced man 
 standing there might make a great difference, perhaps 
 all the difference, to her being, well, worried. 
 
 Her look of appeal, her tears, did touch the doctor. 
 He asked himself idly what age this lovely little woman 
 could be? She looked so amazingly young. Not a day 
 over twenty! But she must, of course, be much older 
 than that, for Jervis Lexton had talked on one occasion 
 as if they had been married quite a long time. 
 
 Ivy felt the wave of kindly feeling, and was re- 
 assured. 
 
 "I shall be so lonely now," she said plaintively. 
 
 "Have you no woman friend who would come and 
 stay with you, Mrs. Lexton ? In any case, you ought to 
 communicate with your husband's lawyers. I suppose 
 Mr. Lexton's life was insured?" 
 
 "No, Jervis was not insured." 
 
 She looked surprised at the question. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 125 
 
 "He quarrelled with his lawyer last year," she added 
 forlornly. "And our one really great friend, Miles 
 Rush worth, lives at Liverpool, but he is in South Africa 
 just now." 
 
 "You mean the owner of the Rushworth Line?" 
 
 "Yes, my husband was in his London office. I'm go- 
 ing to cable to Mr. Rushworth. It's so dreadful to feel 
 I've no one to turn to." 
 
 "I should think Dr. Gretorex might be able to help 
 you ?" 
 
 He uttered the commonplace words in a tone he 
 tried to make matter-of-fact. Still, he threw her a quick 
 look, and he did become aware that the half-question 
 had disturbed her. Though how much he had disturbed 
 her he was never to know. 
 
 She turned to the writing-table, and began piling the 
 papers which lay on it to one side, and then there rose 
 before her inner vision a view of Roger Gretorex's 
 surgery as it had looked on that evening when she had 
 been surprised, just for a moment, by his old char- 
 woman. She saw again the jar labelled "Arsenic" 
 standing on the deal table. 
 
 "I'm not quite sure where Dr. Gretorex is just now. 
 Besides, he's so dreadfully busy." 
 
 Dr. Berwick reminded himself that the poor little 
 woman had undoubtedly been trying to put an end to 
 Gretorex's infatuation. Gretorex's own letter had 
 proved that. So it was decent of her not to send for 
 him just now. 
 
 "I must be going, Mrs. Lexton, for I have a great 
 deal of work to get through this morning." 
 
 He took her hand in his, and then he felt startled, 
 for it was icy cold. Poor, pretty little thing! She had 
 
126 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 evidently had a more serious shock than he had 
 supposed. In her own childish way she must have 
 been really fond of that feckless, yet not unattractive, 
 chap. 
 
 True, she had been no more use in the sick-room 
 than an officious, affectionate child would have been ! 
 And only this last week he had thought it oddly heart- 
 less of her to have been out almost the whole of every 
 day. But he realised, now, that she had never before 
 come in contact with serious illness. . . . 
 
 However, there could be no doubt as to her real 
 grief and sense of loss. There were black lines round 
 her long- fringed, violet eyes ; marks of tears still 
 stained her roseleaf-tinted cheeks. And — and she was 
 really so lovely that now, when bidding her good-bye. 
 he did hold her hand maybe a thought longer than he 
 need have done. 
 
 "Get out of doors all you can/' he said feelingly. 
 "Go and walk in Kensington Gardens now, till lunch 
 time. And don't worry about anything! As far as will 
 be possible, I promise to save you all trouble and 
 anxiety." 
 
 She gave his strong hand an affectionate squeeze. 
 
 "I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, doctor, 
 I shall never forget how awfully kind you've been." 
 
 Till a few moments ago she had thought Dr. Ber- 
 wick very unkind, but Ivy Lexton was dowered with 
 so great a power of self-deception that she really did 
 believe what she had just said. 
 
 As the doctor was going quickly through the hall, 
 Nurse Bradfleld came out of the dining-room. 
 
 "You wanted to see me, Dr. Berwick?" 
 
 "Did I ? Well, I don't think I need trouble you after 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 127 
 
 all, nurse. Wait a moment, though. I'd just like to 
 have your address. I suppose you are leaving here 
 to-day ?" 
 
 Nurse Bradfield was genuinely surprised. She had 
 felt so sure that the doctor thought but poorly of her ; 
 and she on her side had no wish to nurse under him 
 again. Still, one never can tell ! She took a card out of 
 her handbag, and handed it to him. 
 
 "There's going to be a post-mortem," he said sud- 
 denly, and then he looked at her hard. Had she had no 
 suspicion of anything being wrong? 
 
 Her evident astonishment answered his unspoken 
 question even before she said in a surprised tone: 
 "Have you any doubt yourself, doctor, as to the cause 
 of Mr. Lexton's death ?" 
 
 He nearly replied: "The greatest doubt! In fact, I 
 don't feel I can sign the death certificate." 
 
 But he checked himself. It wouldn't do for her to 
 go and frighten that poor little woman. After all, his 
 suspicions might be — he certainly hoped they were — 
 absolutely unjustified. 
 
 And then it was her turn to astonish him. 
 
 "I hope Mrs. Lexton won't be put to any great 
 expense," she murmured. "In spite of this lovely flat, 
 and her wonderful clothes, I'm afraid they were very 
 poor. In fact, Mr. Lexton, when he was wandering so 
 much these last two days, talked a lot about money, 
 and seemed to blame himself very much. But I should 
 say that it was she who was extravagant !" 
 
 "Extravagant?" said the doctor, surprised. "Is Mrs. 
 Lexton extravagant? I should have thought she had 
 very simple tastes." 
 
 Nurse Bradfield smiled to herself. "Men are soft 
 
128 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 where a pretty face is concerned," she reminded her- 
 self tolerantly. 
 
 Then aloud she said : "Mrs. Lexton spends a great 
 deal of money over her clothes — and I know that she 
 is a good bit in debt. There was a man here the day 
 before yesterday who said he wouldn't go away till he 
 was paid. But he had to, at last, for she wasn't in till 
 midnight. We must hope that Mr. Lexton was well 
 insured." 
 
 "He wasn't insured at all," said the doctor shortly. 
 "I asked Mrs. Lexton, for had he been, she ought at 
 once to have informed the insurance company." 
 
 For the first time in his professional life Dr. Berwick 
 went home in what he himself described as "the middle 
 of his round." 
 
 Mrs. Berwick saw the motor draw up outside their 
 little house, and running out into the hall she opened 
 the front door. 
 
 "Darling!" she cried, "did you forget anything?" 
 
 "No, Janey, I forgot nothing. But I've got to arrange 
 for a post-mortem, so I thought it better to come back 
 here, rather than ring up from a call office." 
 
 She saw that he was excited and disturbed, and, be- 
 ing a wise woman, she asked him no questions. But she 
 was not surprised when, instead of going straight off 
 to the telephone, he turned into their sitting-room, and 
 shut the door behind him. 
 
 "Janey?" he said slowly. "You know that that poor 
 chap Lexton died last night? Mrs. Lexton, as usual, 
 was out. She came in to find him dead." 
 
 "How dreadful !" 
 
 "He was better, it seems, in the morning — very 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 129 
 
 much better. Then Roger Gretorex came in and sat 
 with him some time alone or so I gather from the 
 nurse." 
 
 There followed a long, pregnant silence between the 
 husband and wife. Then there came over Mrs. Ber- 
 wick's face a look of terrible dismay. 
 
 "D'you mean that you suspect ?" And there was 
 
 a world of horror in her voice. 
 
 "I don't suspect anything," he answered sharply. 
 "And I certainly don't want you to put words into my 
 mouth, or even thoughts into my mind. There's going 
 to be a post-mortem, so we shall soon know part of the 
 truth, at any rate." 
 
 She waited a moment, and her voice sank almost to 
 a whisper. 
 
 "Then Mrs. Lexton consents to a post-mortem?" 
 
 "Her consent was not asked," he said brusquely. 
 "But I'll tell you one thing, Janey. If there's been any 
 foul play, she's not in it. I've thoroughly satisfied my- 
 self of that." 
 
 "But Roger Gretorex? A doctor? How terrible!" 
 
 "I know," he muttered. "But, Janey?" 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "I think it's ninety-nine chances to one against my 
 half -suspicion turning out to be the truth. What with 
 his impudence in prescribing for my patient, and that 
 queer love-letter of his — well, I'm prejudiced against 
 the chap." 
 
 "I'm not surprised at that," she breathed. 
 Indeed, she, Janey Berwick herself, felt strongly 
 prejudiced against Roger Gretorex. 
 
Chapter Nine 
 
 Roger Gretorex had gone back to his consulting-room 
 after a long morning's round. He loved his work, yet 
 to-day his heart was not in it, for he was extraor- 
 dinarily excited, and moved as he had never before felt 
 moved in his twenty-eight years of life. 
 
 He had come up early from Sussex by a workman's 
 train, and had found waiting for him an undated and 
 unsigned note in Ivy Lexton's handwriting: 
 
 I'm not quite sure if you are in London ; but I know you 
 will be very sorry to hear that Jervis died suddenly last 
 night. 
 
 I hardly know what I am doing — the shock has been so 
 great. Nurse says his heart must have given way. I would 
 rather not see anybody for a little while. 
 
 Now that his morning's work was over, he was free 
 to commune with his own thoughts, and to dwell on 
 what the future now held for him — a lifetime of bliss 
 with the woman whom he worshipped, and who had 
 given him the greatest proof of her love a woman can 
 give a man. 
 
 His cherished darling was free — free to become, 
 after a decent interval had elapsed, his adored, hon- 
 oured wife in the face of the world ! He thanked God 
 that he had never let his mother know the truth concern- 
 ing their past relations. He thanked God again that the 
 only time the two had met had been in those early days 
 when he and Ivy had just been friends, and when he, 
 at any rate, had thought that so they would remain. 
 
 True, his mother was far too clever, too devoted to 
 
 130 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 131 
 
 him, her only child, not to guess, even then, that he 
 was in love with Ivy. She had even ventured to say a 
 word to him as to the danger of too close a friendship 
 with a married woman. And he had bitterly resented it. 
 He remembered her words, and his answer, "You're 
 wrong, mother. Ivy Lexton is the best and purest 
 woman I have ever known!" 
 
 No wonder that, as he had gone in and out of the 
 poor dwellings of his patients this morning, he had 
 asked himself, again and again, how long it would be 
 before he and Ivy could declare their love ? 
 
 He remembered a war widow in their neighbour- 
 hood who had married again within four months of her 
 husband's being killed. Still, the world is very different 
 in peace-time from what it is in war-time. All he would 
 have to consider would be his own mother's sense of 
 what was right and fitting. 
 
 Ivy's friends? His sensitive lips curled in disdain. 
 They would scarcely be surprised if she re-married a 
 week after her husband's death ! 
 
 Then, suddenly, there came over him a feeling which, 
 to such a man as Roger Gretorex, was painfully like 
 shame. 
 
 Jervis Lexton had been something of a wastrel and 
 all of a fool, but the young man had also been, accord- 
 ing to his lights, a good husband. It was not Jervis's 
 fault that Ivy had never loved him. Her heartless, 
 money-loving mother had forced her into the marriage 
 when she was almost a child. Such was the story she 
 had told Gretorex, and that story he implicitly believed. 
 
 He told himself that the only decent thing to do, 
 now, would be to write her a short note of regret and 
 sympathy, as cold and colourless as hers had been. 
 
132. THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 How he longed, how he ached, to see her ! But it was 
 clear she wished to see no one, not even him, the one 
 closest to her, yet. 
 
 The long morning of pent-up emotion, and of really 
 hard work, had tired him out — made him feel, too, 
 suddenly very hungry. He got up and took his hat off 
 the peg on the door, intending to snatch a hasty meal 
 at a restaurant in Victoria Street hard by. 
 
 Then, just as he was turning towards the door, the 
 telephone bell rang. With a feeling of irritation he took 
 up the receiver. 
 
 "Yes?" he called out impatiently. 
 
 And then there came over him a thrill of intense joy, 
 for the voice which said in a tremulous tone, "Is that 
 you, darling?" was Ivy Lexton's voice. 
 
 She had not called him "darling" once, since her 
 return to London, and that though he knew she often 
 used the endearing term, even to the pet dogs of her 
 women friends. 
 
 "Of course it is," he answered tenderly. "How are 
 you, dearest ? A little less tired and" — he forced himself 
 to add the word — "unhappy?" - 
 
 And then he heard her voice again ; but now it was 
 full of a kind of cold urgency. 
 
 "I've something so dreadfully important to say to 
 you — are you alone in the house ?" 
 
 "Absolutely alone," he called back reassuringly. 
 
 He did not count Mrs. Huntley, the old woman who 
 lived a door or two off, and who "did" for him, as 
 anybody. 
 
 "Please don't say my name, and I won't say yours. 
 Telephones are tapped sometimes, and I'm so — so 
 frightened," came the whispered words. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 133 
 
 There followed a long pause, and Gretorex suddenly 
 felt filled with an unreasoning sensation of acute ap- 
 prehension. There had been that in Ivy's tremulous 
 tones which he had never heard there before — a note of 
 horrible fear. 
 
 "Are you listening ?" came at last the beloved voice, 
 sounding now startlingly near. 
 "I can hear you perfectly." 
 
 "Something so dreadful has happened! I don't know 
 how to tell you. It's so — so strange. You'd never guess 
 what it was !" 
 
 He tried to curb his anxiety, his suspense, his impa- 
 tience. 
 
 "What is it that has happened?" he asked quietly. 
 
 Again there followed a long unnatural pause. Then, 
 at last, Ivy Lexton breathed the words : 
 
 "The doctors found out yesterday that poor — you 
 know who I mean — did not die what they call a natural 
 death." 
 
 "Not a natural death?" he repeated in a tone of 
 amazement. "What do you mean, darling?" 
 
 "They say he died of some kind of poison." 
 
 "Poison! D'you mean he committed suicide?" he 
 asked incredulously. 
 
 "Oh, no, they don't think that." 
 
 Then, in a tone of great relief, she added: "But I 
 suppose he may have done so." 
 
 Gretorex felt not only exceedingly surprised, but 
 inexpressibly shocked as well. 
 
 "I should be very loth to believe that," he said at 
 last. 
 
 "What I really want to tell you is that a dreadful 
 man has been to see me this morning. He's only been 
 
134 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 gone about half an hour. I was afraid to telephone 
 from my own — " She waited a moment, then uttered 
 the word "house." "I'm speaking from a call office." 
 
 "What did the man say ? Who was he ?" he asked. 
 
 "He had to do with the police and he said he was go- 
 ing to see you as soon as he'd had something to eat. 
 I said you generally went to your club to lunch, and 
 that you wouldn't be back before three." 
 
 "Why should he want to see me?" Gretorex said 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "He seemed to know so much about you. So much" 
 — her voice sank — "about us. He asked me such funny 
 questions, darling. Of course I told him — I told him," 
 her voice faltered, "that you were just a great friend 
 of mine and of — you know of whom?" 
 
 "So I am. So I was " 
 
 But Roger Gretorex was no fool, and his whole be- 
 ing had become flooded, these last few moments, with 
 an awful sensation of dismay and foreboding. 
 
 "Tell me exactly what it was this man asked you, 
 and what you said to him, my pet ?" 
 
 He tried to make his voice sound confident and reas- 
 suring. 
 
 "I can't tell you everything over the telephone. It 
 would take too long. He wasn't really disagreeable. In 
 fact, we ended up quite good friends. But he said it was 
 his duty to find out the truth, as that horrible man — 
 you know whom I mean?" 
 
 "No," he called back rather sharply, "I have no 
 idea whom you mean! Can't you speak plainly, darl- 
 ing? No one is in the least likely to be listening over 
 the wire." 
 
 And then she breathed the one name that she did 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 135 
 
 breathe during that strange, to Gretorex that terrible 
 and ominous, telephone conversation. 
 
 "I mean Dr. Berwick, of course. He told them, I 
 suppose, about you." 
 
 "Who do you mean by 'them* ?" 
 
 "The people at Scotland Yard." 
 
 "But what could Dr. Berwick tell anybody about 
 me ?" 
 
 "That you used to come to the flat — that we were 
 friends." 
 
 And then, in an imploring voice that was scarcely 
 audible, she murmured : 
 
 "You won't give me away, dear? You will never let 
 anyone know that " 
 
 Interrupting her he exclaimed, "There's nothing to 
 give away ! You and I have only been friends — nothing 
 more." 
 
 He felt a thrill of relief when she said, in a more 
 natural tone : 
 
 "That's exactly what I said. I mean that's what I 
 told the man who came from Scotland Yard. I think he 
 did believe me at last, but " 
 
 "Yes?" asked Gretorex anxiously. "But what, my 
 dear ?" 
 
 "I was silly enough to let out that you had been 
 rather fond of me, in a sort of a way." 
 
 "I'm sorry you did that. I'm afraid that was a mis- 
 take. I mean " 
 
 "I know what you mean! The moment I'd said it 
 I saw what a mistake I'd made ! But he spoke as if he 
 already knew such a lot, or at any rate, some part 
 of it." 
 
 He said patiently, "What part of it ?" 
 
136 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "That even if I didn't care for you, you had been 
 very fond of me." 
 
 "I don't see that our private affairs are anyone's 
 business but our own," he said savagely. 
 
 She answered despairingly, "Neither do I. But there 
 it is ! I know he'll talk about me to you." 
 
 Gretorex felt as if he were living through a hideous 
 nightmare. What could, what did, all that Ivy had said, 
 and was saying, mean ? 
 
 "There's something else I must tell you and warn 
 you about, before I ring off. The man actually asked 
 me, darling, if I'd ever been to see you — I mean alone. 
 Of course I said no, that I had never been alone to see 
 you. Why should I ? But I did tell him about the time I 
 came to tea with Rose Arundell, when Captain Chiches- 
 ter came too. The man from Scotland Yard is sure to 
 ask you about that — at least I'm afraid so." 
 
 "About my tea-party? Why should he?" 
 
 "No, no," she cried shrilly. 
 
 Then, in a low tone, she uttered the words, "He'll 
 certainly ask you whether I ever came to see you alone, 
 at Ferry Place. Don't you understand ?" 
 
 "I hear what you say. But everyone we know is 
 aware that we've been great friends. There's no mys- 
 tery about it." 
 
 "That's what I said. And also that you were so fond 
 of — you know who, and he so fond of you." 
 
 To that Gretorex made no answer. In a sense it was 
 true that poor Jervis Lexton had become quite fond of 
 him, and that this was so had made him feel wretched 
 and ashamed. 
 
 "Forgive me for having worried you, dear " 
 
 There was something — he would not even to himself 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 137 
 
 use the words — cringing, even abject, in the tone in 
 which she uttered that poor little sentence. 
 
 He answered at once, "You could never worry me, 
 my darling! I can't help thinking there's some queer, 
 spiteful enemy of yours, some cruel woman, behind all 
 this?" 
 
 She cried hysterically, "It's a spiteful, cruel man! 
 It's Dr. Berwick — I know it is!" 
 
 "But why d'you think that, darling?" 
 
 Gretorex waited a moment, then asked in almost a 
 whisper, "Was he' fond of you? Did he make love to 
 you ?" 
 
 She was so long in answering his question that, 
 for a moment, he thought they had been cut off. Then 
 he heard the muffled reply, "Not exactly, though of 
 course he liked me. But — but he hated you ! I do know 
 that." 
 
 "I see," and he thought that he did. 
 
 "Dr. Berwick wouldn't sign some kind of a certi- 
 ficate which nurse says a doctor always has to sign 
 when a person dies," she went on. "You know what I 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's why they had what is called a post-mortem, 
 
 and found out my poor sweet had been " her voice 
 
 faltered. 
 
 It was, even now, like a blow between the eyes for 
 Gretorex to hear Ivy call Jervis "my poor sweet." 
 
 Again she waited a while then he heard her whis- 
 pered, agitated, half-question : 
 
 "I do so wonder what that man will say to you? I 
 feel so horribly nervous." \ 
 
 He said impatiently, "I don't suppose he'll say much. 
 
138 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 But of course it's the business of the police to get in 
 touch with everyone who can throw even a little light 
 on a mysterious death." 
 
 "You'll be very, very careful ?" 
 
 For the moment he could not think what she meant. 
 
 Then, with a painful feeling of self-rebuke and fear, 
 he hastened to reassure her, "Of course I will! Not 
 that there's anything to be careful about." 
 
 "I must go home now," and he heard her blow him 
 a kiss. 
 
 She hadn't done that for — it seemed an eternity to 
 him. 
 
 He hung up the receiver, went across to his writing- 
 table, and sat down. He must think hard, and prepare 
 some sort of story. But even now he could not imagine 
 why his name, his personality, were being brought into 
 this mysterious affair of Jervis Lexton's sudden death. 
 
 Jervis Lexton's death caused by poison? And the 
 police already making inquiries? The whole story 
 sounded incredible to Roger Gretorex. He told himself 
 that of course some extraordinary mistake had been 
 made. But whose mistake? 
 
 His mind turned at last to Dr. Berwick. He had only 
 seen the man once — and a damned offensive fellow he 
 had seemed to be ! So much did Gretorex remember. 
 But Berwick was more than that — he was a blackguard 
 who had made love to a patient's wife. 
 
 Poor little Ivy ! Poor precious little love ! No wonder 
 she had been frightened, made quite unlike her gay, 
 brave self, by the ordeal she had just gone through. 
 How he longed to go and seize her in his arms, to bear 
 her away to some place where they could be just them- 
 selves — lovers ! 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 139 
 
 The thought of a crowded restaurant was intoler- 
 able. He no longer felt hungry. Besides, the man, he 
 supposed him to be a detective, mentioned by Ivy, 
 would soon be here. 
 
 All at once he heard the sounds made by a broom in 
 the passage outside. 
 
 He opened the door. "Will you come in here for a 
 moment, Mrs. Huntley?" 
 
 The old woman shuffled into the room, and he looked 
 at her fixedly. 
 
 "I feel very tired to-day — too tired to go out." 
 
 Taking a two-shilling piece out of his pocket, he 
 handed it to her: "Will you get me some pressed beef 
 or ham? I suppose there's bread and butter in the 
 house ? I'm ashamed to bother you, for I know you're 
 in a hurry to get home." 
 
 Said Mrs. Huntley, with a rather pathetic laugh, 
 "I'd do a good bit more than that for you, doctor! 
 Why, I'd go to any trouble for you." 
 
 "Mrs. Huntley?" 
 
 He moved a little nearer to the old woman. 
 "You've just said that you'd go to any trouble for 
 me " 
 
 "Ay, and so I would! I'll never forget how good you 
 were to that poor daughter of mine. Why, it's thanks to 
 you that she died easy. I'm not likely to forget that, 
 however long I may live." 
 
 "The time has come when you can do something — 
 something very important — for me," he said, wonder- 
 ing if he were being wise or foolish. 
 
 "Can I, sir? You've only got to say what it is. I 
 don't mind no trouble." 
 
 "I regard you," he said slowly, "as a very superior 
 
140 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 person, as well as a very trustworthy one, Mrs. 
 Huntley." 
 
 She grew red with pleasure at his kind, flattering 
 words, and, troubled as he was, Gretorex's heart went 
 out to her. 
 
 "All I want you to do," he went on, "is to hold 
 your tongue on my behalf. The time may come when 
 you will be asked what sort of visitors I have received 
 since I came to live here. You may be questioned as to 
 whether any ladies ever came to see me " 
 
 He waited a moment, feeling acutely uncomfortable 
 at having to ask the old woman to lie for him. 
 
 "You will be doing me a great service, Mrs. Huntley, 
 if you will answer that no friends ever come to see me 
 unless they have an appointment. Also that, to the best 
 of your belief, the only time you have ever seen any 
 lady here was when I gave a tea-party some time ago. 
 Do I make myself quite clear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, quite clear." 
 
 "And have I your promise ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, you have my promise." 
 
 He took her withered, work-worn hand in his. 
 
 "I'm very grateful to you. This may mean more to 
 me than you will ever know." 
 
 "I'll go and get the things for your lunch, sir." 
 
 She shut the door behind her, and a moment later, 
 as he saw her pass the window, a hot tide of humilia- 
 tion seemed to overwhelm him. He had seen, by the 
 expression on her face, that everything there was to 
 know, she knew. 
 
 As for Mrs. Huntley, she felt quite sure that Dr. 
 Gretorex, who, though she knew him to be far from 
 well off, had spared neither time nor money in his care 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 141 
 
 of her dying daughter, was about to figure as a co- 
 respondent in a divorce case. 
 
 Well, in so far as she could help him, she'd do any- 
 thing. Lie for him? Of course she would! Where's the 
 good of caring for a person if you're not willing to do 
 anything for him or her? Such was Mrs. Huntley's 
 simple philosophy of life. She was a good hater as well 
 as a good lover. In her fashion she loved Gretorex, but 
 she hated Ivy Lexton. 
 
 Those who are called "the poor" are seldom 
 deceived in a man's or a woman's real nature and 
 character. They are too close up against the hard 
 realities of life to make many mistakes. It requires no 
 touchstone to teach them the difference between dross 
 and gold. 
 
 About three o'clock the telephone bell rang again. 
 
 Gretorex hoped for a moment to hear Ivy's voice 
 again, but it was a man who asked, "Can I speak to Dr. 
 Roger Gretorex?" 
 
 "My name is Roger Gretorex." 
 
 "I have a matter of business to discuss with you, 
 Dr. Gretorex; and I'm telephoning to know if I may 
 come along now, as you are in ?" 
 
 "Pray do so. But may I ask your name? And 
 would you mind telling me your business?" he called 
 back. 
 
 "My name is Orpington. As to my business, it would 
 take too long to explain. But I will be with you in a 
 very few minutes." 
 
 Mechanically Gretorex began to tidy his consulting- 
 room. For the first time in his life he felt horribly 
 afraid, he knew not of what, but that made his dread 
 
142 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 of the coming inquisition all the sharper, the fuller of 
 suspense. 
 
 His mother had managed to keep one conservatory 
 going, and though he had given away a good many of 
 the flowers he had brought up with him this morning, 
 there was still a lovely nosegay on his writing-table. 
 And the sight of these fragrant blossoms recalled 
 poignantly to her son's mind the woman who had 
 gathered them for him. Was he going to bring sorrow, 
 and what to her would be worse than sorrow — shame — 
 on her honoured name ? 
 
Chapter Ten 
 
 As Inspector Orpington, of the Criminal Investiga- 
 tion Department, Scotland Yard, entered dusty, 
 poverty-stricken Ferry Place, he made up his mind that 
 he would be, so far as was possible in the circum- 
 stances, frank with the man he was on his way to see 
 with regard to Jervis Lexton's death. 
 
 Like many an Englishman of his type, he had his 
 own clear, if unexpressed, philosophy of life. He pre- 
 ferred the straight to the tortuous way, and that, it may 
 incidentally be observed, is true of all the really suc- 
 cessful men in his peculiar line of work. 
 
 Such men naturally suffer from the defects of their 
 qualities. Inspector Orpington had no belief in what 
 he called to himself the French methods of criminal 
 investigation. For one thing, he was convinced, and 
 backed his conviction from experience, that in the vast 
 majority of cases there is seldom anything mysterious, 
 or out of the way, even in the best-planned and most 
 intelligent type of crime. 
 
 With regard to the case concerning which he had 
 just been ordered to make certain preliminary inquiries, 
 the story he had been able to piece together was even 
 now, from his point of view, a straightforward story of 
 illicit love leading to a cold-blooded and cruel murder. 
 He had already interviewed the dead man's two regular 
 medical attendants, his trained nurse, and last, but by 
 no means least, his tearful, hysterical, and singularly 
 attractive young widow. 
 
 Ivy Lexton remained, in Inspector Orpington's 
 
 143 
 
144 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 mind, the one point of doubt and mystery, if indeed 
 ''mystery" you could call it, in the affair. 
 
 He had found it very difficult to make up his mind 
 as to whether Mrs. Lexton was entirely innocent 
 regarding the events which had led to Lexton's death. 
 He had detected certain flaws in the story she had 
 appeared, in spite of her agitation, so willing to tell. 
 But he had been naturally impressed by the firm con- 
 viction expressed by the two doctors who had attended 
 Jervis Lexton. They had both declared that their 
 patient's wife had been not only innocent, but quite 
 unsuspicious, of the sinister tragedy which had un- 
 doubtedly been enacted during the fortnight which had 
 preceded her husband's death. 
 
 Dr. Berwick had said brusquely: "Why, the woman 
 was never there ! She was out morning, noon, and night. 
 I myself only saw her three times, each time only for a 
 few minutes, and Only once with her husband." 
 
 Orpington had also been struck by the liking both 
 the nurse and the cook showed for Lexton's widow ; 
 and that though they both admitted she was selfish and 
 pleasure-loving. 
 
 But what weighed the scale most of all in favour of 
 Ivy's complete innocence was the fact that the life of 
 Jervis Lexton had not been insured, and that with her 
 husband apparently disappeared the poor, pretty little 
 woman's only source of income. 
 
 Long experience had convinced Inspector Orpington 
 that there are only two outstanding motives for secret 
 murder — money, and the passion called love. As he 
 considered the story in all its bearings, it seemed plain 
 to him that, whereas it had been very much to Ivy 
 Lexton's interest to keep her husband alive, this young 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 145 
 
 man, Roger Gretorex, had undoubtedly had a strong 
 motive for compassing his death. Mrs. Lexton, in the 
 course of the long examination and cross-examination 
 to which she had been submitted this morning, had 
 admitted, albeit with a certain reluctance, that Roger 
 Gretorex not only passionately loved her, but had also 
 at various times pestered her with unwelcome atten- 
 tions. 
 
 Everyone interested in the detection of crime is 
 aware that persons arrested on a charge of murder are 
 always solemnly warned that anything said by them 
 may be used in evidence against them. But probably 
 few people know that the giving of any such warning is 
 left to the discretion of the C.I.D. men who are engaged 
 in those preliminary inquiries which, in the majority of 
 cases, do end by bringing a murderer to justice. Certain 
 rules are laid down for their guidance ; but even so a 
 great deal is left to the ordering of their own con- 
 sciences, to what each individual considers it fair or 
 unfair to ask of one who may be actually suspected of 
 having committed the crime under investigation. 
 
 Orpington's object was to get at the truth. It was his 
 considered opinion that the guilty are painfully alive to 
 their danger, and will go to any length to protect them- 
 selves. In their case the plainest warning is wasted. As 
 to an innocent witness, he believed the best way to put 
 him or her at ease is to be reasonably frank. 
 
 He felt sure that, in Roger Gretorex, he would find 
 one both forewarned and forearmed. What he desired 
 to know, as a result of his coming interview with the 
 young doctor, was how far Mrs. Lexton had told the 
 truth as to her relations with the man who, owing to 
 
146 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 his passion for herself, had almost certainly poisoned 
 her husband. 
 
 Slowly he walked, with the sergeant he had brought 
 with him, down the now deserted, airless little street. 
 What a contrast to the broad avenue in which stood the 
 fine block of flats known as Duke of Kent Mansion! 
 It was difficult to believe that the woman with whom 
 he had spent over an hour this morning, in the shad- 
 owed drawing-room where everything spelt not only 
 comfort, but affluence and luxury, could have been on 
 terms of close intimacy with a man who lived in Ferry 
 Place. 
 
 Before he had time to ring the bell, the narrow 
 front door of the tiny two-storied house opened, and 
 the person he had come to see and, he felt sure, to con- 
 vict of the most hideous and cruel form of murder 
 known to civilised man, stood before him. 
 
 What a fine young chap! And what a haughty, 
 sombre, defiant countenance! 
 
 Yet the voice in which Gretorex uttered the com- 
 monplace words, "Will you come in?" was a deep, 
 pleasant, cultivated voice. 
 
 The doctor led his two visitors into his consulting- 
 room, a room which, though poorly furnished, was yet, 
 as the inspector quickly noted, that of a man accus- 
 tomed to the amenities of life. For one thing he noticed 
 the lovely bunch of fragrant hot-house flowers stand- 
 ing in a glass on the writing-table. He felt what he 
 very seldom did feel — surprised. 
 
 As the three men sat down, Gretorex full in what light 
 came in through his one window, the inspector observed : 
 
 "My name, doctor, as I told you over the telephone, 
 is Orpington, and I am attached to the Criminal In- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 147 
 
 vestigation Department of Scotland Yard. I have come 
 to ask you certain questions concerning the death of a 
 gentleman who was at one time, I understand, a patient 
 of yours." 
 
 "If you will tell me his name, I will look up his case," 
 said Gretorex quickly. 
 
 "His name was Jervis Lexton, and his death took 
 place last Tuesday in Flat 9 of Duke of Kent Mansion, 
 Kensington." 
 
 "Jervis Lexton was never a patient of mine," the 
 young man answered firmly ; and then he hesitated, and 
 finally added, "He was a friend — I suppose I might 
 even say a great friend." 
 
 "Are you already aware of the circumstances con- 
 cerning Mr. Jervis Lexton's death, Dr. Gretorex?" 
 
 And then Roger Gretorex told the first of the lies 
 he felt it incumbent on him to tell during this, to him, 
 terrible interview. 
 
 "I've been in the country for nearly a week, and I 
 only learnt on my return here, this morning, of Mr. 
 Lexton's death. I am as yet unaware of the circum- 
 stances to which I presume I owe your visit." 
 
 He waited a moment, then told the inspector what 
 was indeed the truth : 
 
 "I was exceedingly surprised to learn of his death, 
 for I had seen him just before leaving town. Though I 
 thought him far less well than the last time I had been 
 with him, there was nothing to indicate the seriousness 
 of his condition." 
 
 "Yet you told the nurse that you were dismayed by 
 the charge in his appearance ?" 
 
 "I daresay I did. She thought him distinctly better, 
 I do remember that, and I disagreed with her." 
 
148 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "You did not ask to see Mr. Lexton, Dr. Gretorex. 
 The nurse tells me your call was on Mrs. Lexton. As 
 that lady was out, Nurse Bradfield, I understand, sug- 
 gested you should see her patient, as she thought it 
 would cheer him up." 
 
 "That is so, and I was not with him for more than 
 ten minutes.' , 
 
 "You were, I think, alone with him during that 
 time ?" 
 
 "Yes, I was." 
 
 "You went down to the country immediately after 
 seeing him?" 
 
 "Yes. I went to my home in the country the same 
 afternoon, and, as I told you just now, I only came 
 back this morning." 
 
 "Mr. Jervis Lexton died during the evening of the 
 day you saw him — that is, on Tuesday, the 16th of 
 November. His regular medical attendant, Dr. Ber- 
 wick, was not satisfied as to the cause of death. A post- 
 mortem was held on the Thursday, and revealed the 
 fact that Lexton's death was due to a large dose of 
 arsenic administered some hours before death. Accord- 
 ing to Nurse Bradfield, you, Dr. Gretorex, were the 
 last person, apart from herself and, I believe, the cook, 
 who saw him alive. That is why I am here." 
 
 Gretorex stared at the speaker in silence ; and, grad- 
 ually, all the colour ebbed from his face. 
 
 In spite of himself the inspector felt sorry for the 
 young man. He told himself that Roger Gretorex 
 evidently saw the game was up. Still, the doctor 
 looked the sort of chap who would put up a fight 
 for it. 
 
 Inspector Orpington made an almost imperceptible 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 149 
 
 sign to the sergeant he had brought with him, and the 
 man at once quietly left the room. 
 
 Orpington got up and looked out of the window 
 until he saw his sergeant in the street outside. Then he 
 turned and said to Gretorex : 
 
 "I sent my sergeant out of the room, doctor, because 
 I am obliged now to ask you a question which I thought 
 you would prefer to have put to you privately. You 
 were, I understand, a friend of Mrs. Lexton's as well 
 as a friend of her husband ?" 
 
 "I was on terms of friendship with them both," and 
 his face turned deeply red. 
 
 "But you saw much more of Mrs. Lexton than you 
 did of her husband?" 
 
 This was a bow drawn at a venture, and it brought 
 down the quarry. 
 
 "I sometimes escorted Mrs. Lexton to a picture 
 gallery, and now and again we went to a theatre 
 
 together. But " he waited a moment, and the 
 
 colour ebbed from his face. Though what he was 
 going to say was true, he hated saying it — "Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lexton always seemed on the best of terms to- 
 gether." 
 
 "So I understand. But I am not seeking information 
 as to the relations of Mr. and Mrs. Lexton. What I 
 wish to suggest, without offence, is that you, Dr. 
 Gretorex, would have liked to have been on closer 
 terms of friendship with Mrs. Lexton than she thought 
 it right to allow ? I will be frank with you — Mrs. Lex- 
 ton has admitted as much." 
 
 A burning flush again rose to Gretorex's dark face. 
 Poor Ivy ! Poor, foolish little darling ! He did not feel 
 the slightest feeling of anger with her. He only felt a 
 
150 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 choking sensation of dismay. Whatever had possessed 
 her to say such a thing ? 
 
 He answered, speaking quietly, passionlessly, "Mrs. 
 Lexton is a very attractive woman, and a beautiful 
 woman. It is difficult to be with her without feeling 
 
 inclined to — well " and as he hesitated, the older 
 
 man smiled. 
 
 "To make love to her? I absolutely agree, Dr. 
 Gretorex. Though she was naturally very much upset 
 when I saw her this morning, I thought Mrs. Lexton 
 one of the most engaging, as well as one of the best- 
 looking, young ladies I had ever come across." 
 
 Poor Gretorex! He would have liked to have struck 
 Inspector Orpington across the face, and yet his own 
 words had called up the look that had so grossly 
 offended him on the other's countenance, and had also 
 provoked his remark. 
 
 "Do you admit, Dr. Gretorex, that you were very 
 much attracted to this lady?" 
 
 "You put me in a difficult position; but I admit 
 that perhaps I did say one or two foolish things 
 to her." 
 
 He was wondering, with a feeling of agonising 
 anxiety, whether Ivy had kept his letters. 
 
 "Did Mrs. Lexton ever by chance come here, to 6 
 Ferry Place?" 
 
 "She came to tea on one occasion, but not alone, 
 of course. A friend of hers, a widow called Mrs. 
 Arundell, and a man friend of Mrs. ArundelFs, came 
 with her." 
 
 And then Roger Gretorex leant forward : 
 "I do hope that you will believe me when I tell you 
 that any — well, feeling of attraction, was entirely on 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 my side. When I did, I admit very foolishly, once try 
 to tell her " 
 
 He stopped, and the other interjected, not unkindly, 
 "How much she attracted you?" 
 
 Gretorex nodded, and then he gasped out the lying 
 words — "She made me feel at once she was not that 
 kind of woman." 
 
 "I suppose," said the inspector with a twinkle in his 
 eyes, "that Mrs. Lexton used that very expression." 
 
 Gretorex tried to smile back. 
 
 "Well, yes, I believe she did. It happened a long 
 time ago, in fact when I first made the Lextons' 
 acquaintance." 
 
 Now this observation gave the direct lie to Ivy Lex- 
 ton's statement, which Orpington honestly believed 
 had been extracted from her against her will. 
 
 "I suppose that you can suggest no reason why this 
 man, Jervis Lexton, should have wished to take his 
 own life?" 
 
 "No, none at all. He had just obtained an excellent 
 job." 
 
 "You can throw no light either, I presume, as to how 
 the arsenic which undoubtedly caused his death can 
 have been administered to him?" 
 
 "Not only can I throw no light on it, but I find it 
 almost impossible to believe what my reason tells me 
 is true — your assertion that his death was directly due 
 to the administration of arsenic." 
 
 The speaker's voice was strong, assured. At last he 
 was on firm ground. 
 
 "I take it there is a surgery attached to this house, 
 and that you make up your own medicines ?" 
 
 The inspector asked that vital question in a very 
 
152 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 quiet tone, but Gretorex realised its purport as he 
 answered, "I do — for the most part." 
 
 "I should like to see the surgery." 
 
 "By all means." 
 
 Roger Gretorex got up. Then he placed his back 
 against the door. 
 
 Instantly Inspector Orpington, though he was a 
 brave man, and had been in more than one very tight 
 corner, felt a cold tremor run through him. Was this 
 fine-looking young chap going to whip out a revolver 
 and kill, not only himself, but also the man whose un- 
 pleasant duty it had been to show him that the game he 
 had been so mad as to play was up ? 
 
 But he need not have been afraid. 
 
 "Look here! Before I take you into my surgery, 
 where you will find a jar of arsenic as likely as not on 
 an open shelf — for I am a careless chap, and no one 
 has access to the place but myself and my old char- 
 woman — I want to say something to you. I don't sup- 
 pose you will believe me, but I wish to tell you, here 
 and now, that I have no more idea of how poor Lexton 
 got at the arsenic which caused his death — if it did 
 cause it — than you have, and that the one thing of 
 which I am quite sure is that it did not come out of my 
 surgery." 
 
Chapter Eleven 
 
 Instead of doing what he ought to have done — that is, 
 to have sought at once the best legal aid in his power — ■ 
 Roger Gretorex made up his mind to go back to Sus- 
 sex, if only for a few hours. 
 
 Ivy's words of agonised fear now found an echo in 
 his own heart. His mother must hear the very few and 
 simple facts concerning Jervis Lexton's death from 
 himself. 
 
 On his way to the station he saw two newspaper 
 placards, and he felt as if it was at him that they 
 shouted the ominous words : 
 
 KENSINGTON 
 POISONING 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 WELL-KNOWN 
 CLUBMAN 
 POISONED. 
 
 He bought an evening paper in the station, and then, 
 when he unfolded it, he felt a sharp stab of anger 
 and disgust. In the centre of the front page was a 
 charming portrait of Ivy — Ivy looking her sweetest 
 and most seductive self. Above and below the photo- 
 graph was printed a series of paragraphs dealing with 
 the joyous life the young couple had led in the care- 
 free existence which centres round the idler members 
 of the fashionable night-clubs. It was also stated that, 
 on the very night of Mr. Lexton's unexpected death, 
 
 153 
 
154 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Mrs. Lexton was supping at the Savoy with "a smart 
 theatre-party." * 
 
 In the grateful darkness of a late November after- 
 noon, Roger Gretorex walked the two miles which 
 separated the little station from Anchorford, the village 
 which he still felt part of the very warp and woof of 
 his life, though he owned practically no land there. 
 All that his father had been able to keep was the manor 
 house, and the little portion of the park which had sur- 
 rounded the dwelling-house of the owners of Anchor- 
 ford from the days of Domesday Book. 
 
 Now and again Gretorex, as he hurried through the 
 narrow lanes, would tell himself that the inexplicable 
 mystery attaching to Jervis Lexton's death by poison 
 was bound to be cleared up, and probably in some 
 quite simple way — a way that he himself was now too 
 excited and too anxious to think out for himself. 
 
 Then there would come a sudden sensation of doubt, 
 of despondency. Like Ivy, but with far more cause, 
 Roger Gretorex began to feel as if a net were closing 
 round him. 
 
 At last he turned into the long avenue which led to 
 Anchorford House, and his heart leapt when he saw 
 the long Elizabethan front, now bright with twinkling 
 lights. 
 
 He rang the front door bell, and then he schooled 
 himself to wait patiently for old Bolton, who, once his 
 father's head groom, now acted as general factotum 
 and odd- job man. 
 
 But when, all at once, the door opened, it was his 
 mother, tall, upright, grey-haired, who stood there, her 
 face full of eager welcome. 
 
 "I knew it was you, my dearest! I don't believe in 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 155 
 
 presentiments, but I have been thinking of you all to- 
 day, even more than usual." 
 
 His face gave no answering smile. He looked very 
 grave, and yet how young he seemed to her, standing 
 there; how strong, how finely drawn and carved, was 
 his now serious face! 
 
 "I wish you'd wired, Roger. Enid was coming in to 
 late supper ; but I'll put her off " 
 
 "You needn't do that, mother. It's true I've come 
 down to tell you of something rather unpleasant that's 
 just happened to me. But the telling of it won't take 
 long. Please don't put off Enid. In fact I shall be glad 
 to see her, and I may have to go back to town by the 
 last train." 
 
 He followed her across the wide hall which formed 
 the centre of the old house, and so into a lobby which 
 led to the charming sitting-room which had always been 
 associated in his mind with his mother. They both sat 
 down there. But he waited a moment before he began 
 his story and then in the telling of it he chose his words 
 with painful care. 
 
 "A very odd thing has happened, mother, and I felt 
 I should like to tell you about it at once." 
 
 "What is it that has happened, Roger ?" 
 
 As he said nothing, she went on quietly, in a matter- 
 of-fact tone : "Whatever it is, I know quite well that 
 you have not been to blame in any way." 
 
 "Well, no, I don't think I have been to blame. And 
 
 yet, well, mother, I've not been " and then he 
 
 stopped dead. 
 
 For the first time in his life he felt afraid. The 
 extraordinary story he had come to tell suddenly took 
 on gigantic proportions. Until to-day, though he had 
 
156 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 felt discomfort, and something akin to shame, some- 
 times, when with Jervis Lexton, Roger Gretorex and 
 Fear had never met. 
 
 "You remember," he said at last, "my friend Ivy 
 Lexton? She came down here for a week-end last 
 winter." 
 
 "I remember Mrs. Lexton very well," answered 
 Mrs. Gretorex in a tone of studious detachment. 
 
 As her son had uttered the name of the woman he 
 called his friend, a feeling of fear coupled with a 
 sensation of painful jealousy filled the mother's heart. 
 Remember the beautiful woman she had instantly 
 known, without his telling her so, that Roger loved? 
 There had scarcely been a day in the last few months 
 when she had not remembered, with a sensation of dis- 
 comfort, lovely Ivy Lexton. 
 
 "Jervis Lexton, Ivy's husband, fell ill about three 
 weeks ago " 
 
 And then again Gretorex felt as if he could not go on. 
 
 "What has happened is put as clearly, here, as any- 
 thing I can tell you !" he exclaimed at last, and he 
 handed her the evening paper containing Ivy's photo- 
 graph. 
 
 She took the paper from his hand, and she was in 
 such haste to see what it was that her son did not dare 
 to tell her himself, that she did not wait to put on her 
 spectacles. 
 
 Holding the sheet right under her reading lamp, she 
 read the ominous paragraphs headed "A Kensington 
 Poisoning Mystery" right through. 
 
 "Well," she said at last, "and in what way, Roger, 
 does this concern vou? Were you acting as Mr. Lex- 
 ton's medical attendant?" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 157 
 
 He answered at once, "I'm glad to say I was not. In 
 fact I only saw the poor chap twice during the whole 
 course of his illness. He was being looked after by a 
 very good doctor, a man called Berwick." 
 
 She said again, "Then in what way does this horrible 
 story concern you, my dear?" 
 
 There followed a long pause, and all at once a certain 
 suspicion rushed into Mrs. Gretorex's mind. 
 
 "Is it possible," she said at last, in a very low voice, 
 "that your friend Mrs. Lexton is suspected of having 
 poisoned her husband ?" 
 
 Roger Gretorex leapt to his feet. 
 
 "Good God — no, mother ! Whatever made you think 
 of such a thing?" 
 
 "I don't know. Forgive me, Roger." 
 
 For the first time in her life she felt that her 
 son was looking at her with something like — oh, no, 
 not hatred, but anger, furious anger, in his blazing 
 eyes. 
 
 He repeated the cruel question: "Whatever made 
 such a monstrous idea come into your mind ?" 
 
 She faltered, "It was foolish of me." 
 
 "More than foolish — and very unlike you, mother," 
 he said harshly. 
 
 Then he moved his chair closer to hers, and stretch- 
 ing out his hand, he took hers. 
 
 "Ivy was the best of wives to Jervis Lexton," he 
 said in a low voice. "Lexton ran through a large for- 
 tune, and then, instead of trying to get a job, simply 
 idled about, and lived on his friends. He was a com- 
 plete wastrel." 
 
 "Then isn't what the paper says true?" she asked in 
 bewilderment. "I mean about his having joined the 
 
158 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 firm of Miles Rushworth? I thought the Rushworths 
 were shipping millionaires?" 
 
 "So they are. And it's quite true that Lexton had 
 just got a job in the Rushworths' London office. He 
 was well connected, and had a lot of good-natured 
 friends who were always trying to get him something 
 
 to do. However " and then he quoted the familiar 
 
 Latin tag concerning ill words of the dead. 
 
 She gazed across at him. His dark face, now con- 
 vulsed with feeling, was partly illumined by the lamp 
 which stood on a low table between them. 
 
 "Is it conceivable, my son " 
 
 Then she, like him, stopped short, afraid to utter tht 
 words she was going to say. 
 
 "Yes, mother?" 
 
 His voice had suddenly become listless. He had 
 dropped her hand, and was lying back in his chair. He 
 was feeling spent, worn out. 
 
 "Have you any reason to suppose, my boy, that 
 you are in danger of being accused of having poisoned 
 Jervis Lexton?" 
 
 He straightened himself, got up, and then gazed 
 down into her pale but still calm face, and she saw that 
 he looked, if surprised, yet unutterably relieved. 
 
 "Yes, mother ! That is what I came down to tell you. 
 But what made you hit on the truth ?" 
 
 Should she tell him the reason why that frightful 
 thought had come into her mind? After a moment of 
 indecision, she decided that she ought to do so. 
 
 "Can't you guess why that fearful suspicion came 
 into my mind, Roger?" 
 
 His eyes fell before her sad, steady, questioning 
 gaze. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 159 
 
 She went on slowly, "I said a word to you the eve- 
 ning of the day you brought Mrs. Lexton down here. 
 I suppose you didn't take my advice ?" 
 
 "There are certain things about which a man must 
 judge for himself, mother. And with regard to my 
 friendship for Mrs. Lexton I judged for myself." 
 
 He sat down again and covered his eyes with his 
 right hand. The words he had just uttered had brought 
 Ivy vividly before him. 
 
 "Now tell me everything, Roger." 
 
 "There's very little to tell," said Gretorex, raising 
 his head. "I feel sure, quite sure, mother, that there's 
 some perfectly natural explanation of what now seems 
 so mysterious." 
 
 "If, as I hope, you have come down to consult with 
 me as to what is the best thing to do, then I trust that 
 you will tell me the whole truth. After all, I am your 
 mother, my darling." 
 
 Her voice rose in entreaty. 
 
 "Whom should you trust, if you do not trust me?" 
 
 He felt very much moved, and, to her surprise, he 
 came and knelt down by her. 
 
 She put her arms round him. "Now tell me every- 
 thing," she whispered. 
 
 And he did tell her almost everything. But he did 
 not tell her, and he never told anyone, of his tele- 
 phone talk with Ivy Lexton. 
 
 His mother was quick to see the flaw in his appar- 
 ently frank account of all that had happened that 
 morning. 
 
 "How did you first hear of Mr. Lexton's death?" 
 she asked. "You were there, I note from the date given 
 in this paper, on the afternoon of the day he died. You 
 
i6o THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 must in fact have gone straight to the station, from 
 your unfortunate call on the poor man." 
 "I did, mother." 
 
 "Then how, and when, did you hear of his death, 
 Roger ?" 
 
 He got up and went across to the chair where he had 
 been sitting. 
 
 "I found a note from Ivy when I arrived at Ferry 
 Place this morning. She knew I was away, and she 
 sent me the note to await me on my return. It was 
 written, evidently, some days ago." 
 
 "I hope you have kept her note." 
 
 He shook his head. "No, mother, I didn't keep it. 
 There was really nothing in it — simply the bare state- 
 ment that Jervis Lexton was dead. She had had an 
 awful shock, and she said she didn't want to see 
 anyone." 
 
 "Then you've not seen Mrs. Lexton since her hus- 
 band's death?" 
 
 "No, I have not seen her." 
 
 There trembled on the poor mother's lips a further 
 question — "Or had any further communication with 
 her ?" But she feared he might be tempted to tell her a 
 lie, so she refrained from asking that, to her, import- 
 ant question. 
 
 Instead she said, "Though you have not put it into 
 words, you feel sure that the man from Scotland Yard 
 suspects you poisoned Jervis Lexton so that his wife 
 would be free to marry you?" 
 
 "That is certainly what the inspector had in his 
 mind, when he questioned me as to my acquaintance 
 with her." 
 
 "Forgive me for asking you the question, Roger. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 161 
 
 I suppose you would marry Mrs. Lexton, if you had 
 the chance?" 
 
 He said at once, "I'd give my soul to marry her, 
 mother. I love her — love her more, I think, than man 
 ever loved woman." 
 
 She gave him a searching look. "Does she love 
 you ?" 
 
 He hesitated, painfully. "I've seen very little of her 
 lately. I know she felt we were not doing right in see- 
 ing as much as we were seeing of each other." 
 
 And then he sighed, a long, long sigh. 
 
 "Try to love her, mother. She is free now, and she is 
 all my life. Please, please try to love her for my sake." 
 
 "I will, my darling boy." 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex was ashamed of the hatred — she 
 acknowledged to herself that it had been hatred — of 
 Ivy Lexton which had rilled her heart. She now told 
 herself that this woman whom her boy adored must 
 have some good in her. 
 
 There came the sound of the front door opening. 
 
 "Here, I think, is Enid Dent," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Gretorex. 
 
 Roger jumped up from his chair, and went forward 
 to meet the girl who, as he knew deep in his heart, 
 loved him. 
 
 Was it because he had known that his mother 
 eagerly desired him to marry Enid, or was it simply 
 because he knew her too well ? Be that as it may, it had 
 only taken three meetings with Ivy Lexton, the wife of 
 another man, to blot Enid out from his heart. 
 
 To-day, the most terrible day of his life, the sight 
 of her honest, thoughtful face brought comfort. For 
 one thing, it was such an infinite relief to know that in 
 
162 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Enid Dent his mother would have an entirely trust- 
 worthy, devoted support and stay, during days which 
 he feared must be anxious and painful days, terrible 
 days to remember, though he had no doubt at all as to 
 the ultimate result of any inquiry into the facts sur- 
 rounding Lexton's death. 
 
 As for Enid Dent, she had loved Roger Gretorex 
 with a silent, unswerving devotion since she had first 
 known what love meant. Though he himself was 
 scarcely aware of it, his whole manner had changed 
 during the last few months, and while this caused her 
 sharp anguish, which she had successfully hidden from 
 those about her, it had never occurred to her, strangely 
 enough, that that alteration had come about because 
 of another woman. 
 
 Now, gazing from the mother to the son, she under- 
 stood at once that they were both in deep trouble. 
 
 "I'm afraid I've come too soon," she said. 
 
 "I'm glad you came early, my dear. We're going to 
 have supper in a few minutes, for Roger has to go back 
 to town to-night." 
 
 Old Bolton hobbled into the room. 
 
 "Rosie Holt says you promised to see her some time 
 to-day, ma'am. She's in the kitchen. Shall I show her 
 into the drawing-room?" 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex made a great effort over herself. 
 
 "Yes, please do, Bolton," she said quietly, "and I'll 
 come and see her." 
 
 Roger turned to Enid : 
 
 "I wonder if you'd take a short turn before supper? 
 I don't get nearly enough exercise in London." 
 "Of course I will." 
 
 They went into the hall, and she hurried on her hat 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 163 
 
 and coat. It was fully a year since she had last taken 
 even a short walk with Roger Gretorex. 
 
 Once they were in the open air, in the kindly dark- 
 ness, he drew her arm through his. 
 
 "Enid, I want to tell you something." 
 
 He spoke almost in a whisper — as if he were afraid 
 he might be overheard. 
 
 "Yes, Roger ?" and she slightly pressed his arm. 
 
 "I'm in trouble," he said sombrely ; "in great trouble, 
 my dear. What makes it worse is the knowledge of 
 how unhappy it is going to make my mother." 
 
 And then at once, for though she was young she was 
 no fool — your country-bred girl often knows a great 
 deal more of real life than your town-bred girl — Enid 
 Dent said to herself that Roger's trouble was connected 
 with a woman. 
 
 "Tell me all about it," she said quietly, and she 
 stiffened herself to bear a blow. 
 
 "I will tell you all about it. But I'm afraid you will 
 be very much shocked." 
 
 To that she made no answer. No doubt some London 
 girl was bringing a breach of promise action against 
 Roger. That was the sort of trouble Enid Dent visual- 
 ised. 
 
 "Things are never so bad when one talks them 
 over," she said, and tried to smile in the dark night. 
 "Nothing could make me feel any different to you, 
 Roger. Why, you're my oldest friend!" 
 
 They were walking away from the house, down a 
 broad path where they had often played when he was 
 a boy of twelve and she a little girl of five. 
 
 "No talking can make any difference to my trouble," 
 and there came a harsh note in his voice. 
 
164 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 They walked along- in silence, and then he gently 
 shook himself free of her arm. 
 
 "I've reason to believe that in the next few- 
 days " 
 
 He stopped short. The ignominy, the horror of what 
 might be going to happen to him, overwhelmed him. 
 
 "Yes, Roger? What is it that you think is going to 
 happen ? Tell me." 
 
 He would have been surprised, indeed, if she had 
 suddenly uttered aloud the words that she was saying 
 in her heart, "Don't you see the agony I am in? It's 
 cruel, cruel to keep me in suspense !" 
 
 "I think it possible, perhaps I ought to say likely, 
 that I may be arrested on a charge of murder, within 
 the next few days." He uttered the dread words quietly 
 enough. "And that though I assure you, Enid, that I 
 am absolutely innocent " 
 
 She cut across his words, "You needn't have troubled 
 to tell me that, Roger." 
 
 "Though I'm absolutely innocent," he repeated, 
 "yet I'm beginning to realise that appearances are very 
 much against me. I've felt all this afternoon as if I 
 were living through a frightful nightmare, and I'm al- 
 ways expecting to wake up and find it was only a 
 dream, after all." 
 
 Enid knew that this man she loved had a violent 
 temper. She supposed that he had had the kind of 
 quarrel with another man in which one of the two 
 strikes out. 
 
 "I've been wondering, during the last few minutes, 
 whether you would be able to come up to London with 
 my mother? It would be such a comfort to know you 
 were with her, if this thing really happens." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 165 
 
 "Of course I will!" she exclaimed. 
 
 He went on: "You've always been like a daughter 
 to her, haven't you ? And I know that, next to me, she 
 loves you best in the world." 
 
 "I think she does," she whispered in a strangled 
 voice, for she was now near to tears. "But a long way 
 after you, Roger." 
 
 "Well, yes," he answered, in a matter-of-fact tone; 
 "no doubt a long way after me. But still she loves you 
 dearly, and she trusts you utterly, as I do." 
 
 "I'll stay with her all through the trouble — if the 
 trouble comes. I promise you that, Roger." 
 
 "It's not that I have any doubt as to the outcome. 
 The man whose death is being, I feel sure, put down 
 to my account, almost certainly committed suicide. 
 There's no other solution possible." 
 
 "Who was the man?" she asked diffidently. 
 
 "An acquaintance rather than a friend of mine, 
 called Jervis Lexton. He fell ill — that I have to admit 
 is a mysterious point about the whole business — about 
 a fortnight ago. He died, rather suddenly, last week, 
 on the 1 6th. A post-mortem revealed the cause of 
 death to have been a virulent poison — arsenic. I saw 
 him alone a few hours before he died, and I have a 
 jar of arsenic in my surgery. There you have the story 
 in a nutshell." 
 
 He spoke in an awkward, constrained tone. 
 
 "Are you really going back to-night?" she asked. 
 "Can't you stay till to-morrow morning? It would be 
 such a comfort to Mrs. Gretorex." 
 
 "I'm afraid I must go back. You see, I've a lot of 
 patients, and it isn't fair to put all that work on another 
 doctor." 
 
166 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "I wonder if you and my mother can come to town 
 to-morrow? She'd be wretched, staying on here in 
 suspense, waiting for news of what, after all, may 
 never happen." 
 
 They were turning now towards the house, and as 
 they emerged from under the trees they both noticed 
 that the front door was open. Through it a shaft of 
 bright light fell on the stone-paved courtyard, and 
 Gretorex suddenly became aware that, in the shadow, 
 a motor with hooded lights was drawn up. 
 
 "Who can that be at this time of the evening?" he 
 said, surprised. 
 
 They walked swiftly across the wide lawn, and so 
 on to the stone pavement. Then, as they passed 
 through the open door, they heard Mrs. Gretorex's 
 voice and the unfamiliar voice of a man in the great 
 hall. 
 
 "I think I hear my son coming in. In any case, I 
 assure you he won't be long." 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex uttered the words in a matter-of-fact 
 yet anxious tone, as if she feared the person she spoke 
 to might not believe her. 
 
 Roger followed Enid through the lobby which sepa- 
 rated the front door from the hall, and then he saw his 
 mother standing with a tall, slight man whom Roger 
 knew to be the Inspector of Police at Lynchester, the 
 county town hard by. They had met two months back 
 in connection with a local poaching affray. 
 
 "May I speak with you for a few moments in 
 private, Dr. Gretorex?" 
 
 A look of great relief had come over the inspector's 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 167 
 
 face ; he was aware in what high regard Mrs. Gretorex 
 was held throughout the neighbourhbod. He had also 
 noticed the young lady who had just come in, and knew 
 her for the only daughter of a local magistrate. So he 
 was anxious to get through the unpleasant business 
 which had brought him to-night to Anchorford Hall, 
 as quietly and quickly as possible. 
 
 "I'm quite at your service. We'll go into the smok- 
 ing-room, but " 
 
 Gretorex turned right round and began rapidly 
 walking towards the front door. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the door had been left open, 
 and he wished to close it. 
 
 But the inspector believed his lawful prey intended 
 to escape into the darkness, and a hundred suspicious, 
 angry thoughts flashed through his mind. 
 
 What a thing it would be to have to search the 
 downs and woods all this coming night! 'Twould be 
 like looking for a needle in a stack of hay. 
 
 He strode past Mrs. Gretorex, and seized Roger 
 with no gentle hand by the collar. 
 
 "I'm surprised, sir, at your trying to get away. I 
 didn't expect such a thing from you!" 
 
 Gretorex wrenched himself free. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean !" he exclaimed 
 angrily. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do. You were making for that door." 
 
 "I was making for the door to shut it." 
 
 He was shaking with anger, and the two glared at 
 each other for a moment in silence. 
 
 Then the inspector took a step forward, and laid his 
 hand on the young man's arm. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "I arrest you," he said, in a voice that was not quite 
 steady, "on the charge of having murdered Jervis Lex- 
 ton on the 1 6th of this month." 
 
 Roger Gretorex stood still. Then he asked : 
 "May I speak to my mother in private for a mo- 
 ment ?" 
 
 "No," said the inspector quickly. "I cannot allow 
 you to do that, Dr. Gretorex. I'm sorry, but from now 
 on you are my prisoner." 
 
 "May I make a statement to you now? I suppose 
 there is no objection to my telling you that I'm ab- 
 solutely innocent?" 
 
 The older man hesitated. 
 
 "I should advise you," he said, not unkindly, "to 
 make no statement. You are, of course, aware that any- 
 thing you say may be used against you in evidence. I 
 need hardly tell you that every facility will be given 
 you to procure legal advice." 
 
 "And what is going to happen to me now ?" 
 
 "You will go with me to Lynchester, and you will 
 be kept there in a police cell till you are conveyed to 
 London to-morrow. Once there, as you probably are 
 aware, Dr. Gretorex, you will be taken to the police 
 station of the district where the alleged murder was 
 committed, and in due course you will be charged." 
 
 Meanwhile the inspector was watching his prisoner 
 closely. He was remembering that during the brief 
 telephone conversation with Scotland Yard, which had 
 led to his presence here, he had been reminded how 
 near Anchorford was to the sea, and he had been 
 warned that he might find his bird flown. 
 
 What a fool he would look if, after having actually 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 169 
 
 arrested him, this man effected even a temporary es- 
 cape! 
 
 ' 'May I shake hands with my mother and — and 
 with my friends?" 
 
 "I will take it on myself to allow you to do that, Dr. 
 Gretorex," was the cold reply. "Then, I'm afraid, we 
 must be getting on." 
 
 " Won't you allow my son to have some supper 
 before you take him away?" asked Mrs. Gretorex. 
 For the first time her voice was not quite steady. 
 "Won't you both have supper here? It's quite ready." 
 
 "No, ma'am, I'm afraid I can't do that. But I 
 promise you your son shall have something to eat, as 
 good as I can get him at this time of night, when we 
 reach Lynchester." 
 
 The inspector's voice had become kindly, even 
 respectful, to his prisoner's mother. He felt very sorry 
 for her. 
 
 But for Roger Gretorex he was not at all sorry. He 
 had been given to understand, quite unofficially of 
 course, that there was a married woman in the case, 
 and that she provided a strong enough motive to hang 
 a dozen times over the fine young fellow now standing 
 by his side. 
 
 "What I would advise you to do, ma'am — advising 
 you as a private person, I mean — would be to go up to 
 London to-morrow morning, and get in touch with a 
 good solicitor. Dr. Gretorex will be allowed to see his 
 lawyer alone as much as he can reasonably require. 
 At least that is the usual procedure." 
 
 Roger Gretorex held out his hand. Something 
 seemed to warn him that it would be wiser for him to 
 
170 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 remain standing exactly where he was standing now. 
 He felt that the inspector was watching him intently. 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex took a step forward. She shook hands 
 quietly, unemotionally, with her son. 
 
 And then something very unexpected happened — 
 unexpected, that is, by every one of the four people 
 there. 
 
 Enid Dent approached Roger a little timidly. Had 
 he not, a few moments ago, called her his friend? 
 When she was close to him, she looked up into his 
 face, for he was far taller than she. And then, all at 
 once, he bent forward and, putting his arms round her, 
 he kissed her good-bye. 
 
Chapter Twelve 
 
 As Ivy stepped down out of the telephone box, after 
 her conversation with Roger Gretorex, she felt, though 
 partially relieved, yet at the same time agitated and 
 still terribly frightened. She was, indeed, so much 
 affected that she did not even notice the admiring 
 glance thrown at her by a man in the next box. 
 
 Her interview that morning with Inspector Orping- 
 ton and his subordinate — for he had brought with him 
 a sergeant — had made her feel sick with fear. True 
 that, after she had answered with apparent frankness 
 the first probing questions put to her, she had felt, as 
 she almost always did feel with any man with whom 
 life brought her into temporary contact, that the in- 
 spector was beginning to like her and to sympathise 
 with her. But, even so, she had experienced this morn- 
 ing what she had never experienced before — not only a 
 sensation of abject fear, but also as if she were be- 
 coming entangled in a horrible, close-meshed net. 
 
 During a brief visit to Paris, in the old days when 
 she and Jervis still had plenty of money to burn, she 
 had gone with a gay party to the Grand Guignol. There 
 she had seen acted a terrifying little play which showed 
 the walls of a room closing in on a man. That was 
 exactly how she had felt during the long examina- 
 tion and cross-examination she had endured this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 One of the things that had made her feel so dread- 
 fully frightened was that the two men from Scotland 
 Yard had not begun their investigations by seeing her, 
 
 J7I 
 
172 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 the widow of the dead man. They had first interviewed 
 Nurse Bradfield, and then the cook. 
 
 While this had been going on, Ivy had waited in the 
 drawing-room, sick with terror and suspense, wonder- 
 ing what the two women were saying about her. At 
 long last, the strangers had come into the drawing- 
 room, looking very grave indeed. 
 
 And now, as she walked back to Duke of Kent Man- 
 sion, choosing instinctively a roundabout way, Ivy kept 
 living over again that strange, even she had realised 
 momentous, interview. 
 
 The inspector had gone straight to the point. When 
 had she, Mrs. Jervis Lexton herself, last been in the 
 company of her husband before his unexpected death? 
 After an imperceptible pause, during which she was 
 wondering fearfully if Nurse Bradfield had remem- 
 bered all that had happened on that sinister last after- 
 noon, she had answered the question truthfully. She 
 said that she had been with Jervis after luncheon, while 
 the nurse had gone out for a short time. 
 
 When Ivy had made this admission, there had come 
 a look of alert questioning on the inspector's face, for 
 Nurse Bradfield had not mentioned that fact, which 
 indeed she had forgotten. And then it was, on seeing 
 the sudden change of countenance on the part of her 
 inquisitor, that Mrs. Jervis Lexton had gently volun- 
 teered the statement that, after she herself had gone 
 out, the sick man had had another visitor that after- 
 noon, a friend of her own and her husband's, a young 
 man named Roger Gretorex, who was a doctor. 
 
 She had allowed, and consciously allowed, herself to 
 look embarrassed, as she made what sounded like an 
 admission. As she had intended should be the case, the 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 173 
 
 inspector had at onci run after that hare. But she had 
 not bargained for what had followed immediately — 
 insistent questioning as to her own and her husband's 
 relations with the man who had been, with the excep- 
 tion of the cook and the nurse, the last person to see 
 Jervis Lex* on alive. 
 
 How long had they known Dr. Gretorex? Did they 
 see much of him? What had been her own relations 
 with him? When, for instance, had she herself b 
 seen him before the death of Jervis Lexton? 
 
 At last, when she was beginning ' 
 meshes of the net rere 1 
 he had "gc J 
 Roger G 
 ought tc 
 
 Neve 
 all righ 
 there. I 
 ington s 
 
 In sp 
 as true 
 Greton 
 her ow 
 man h 
 known 
 Mrs. ] 
 was so 
 questk 
 inwari 
 moleh 
 
 At Jast had come the m 
 had si 
 
 All the questions put U 
 
174 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 apparent ease and frankness. And, as to the last, she 
 explained that she had gone to Dr. Gretorex's house 
 with a great friend of hers, a lady who had then been a 
 widow, a Mrs. Arundell, but who had married again, 
 and was now in India. They had been accompanied by 
 a young man who was a friend of Mrs. Arundell. 
 
 As to going out with Roger Gretorex, she had done 
 so only occasionally, and never since he had confessed 
 he loved her. No, never since her husband's illness. 
 
 How deeply thankful was Ivy Lexton that she had 
 really seen so little of Roger Gretorex of late ! 
 
 And then, all at once, the inspector had said some- 
 thing which had made, as she put it to herself, her heart 
 stand still. 
 
 "I suppose there is a surgery attached to the house 
 in Ferry Place?" he had remarked, speaking his 
 hought aloud. And it had been those words, as to the 
 % able existence of a surgery, that had suddenly 
 o her mind for her as to the line she would take 
 - Roger Gretorex and their relations to one 
 
 *ton then realise the full import of what 
 lost certainly not. Subconsciously she 
 r avowals, her timorous admissions 
 her lovely self, could do Gretorex 
 object had been to shift, at any 
 j ; ", self. 
 
 .terval, perhaps as long as a 
 n she had been alone with 
 ,„ lad sent away his sergeant 
 ior. At the time she had not 
 
 ler kindly, yet in a very 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 175 
 
 solemn, searching tone, adjuring her to be frank, and 
 to tell him of any knowledge, or even suspicion, she 
 might harbour in her mind. But though every word he 
 said added to her secret terror, that terror which was 
 at once tangible and vague, for she knew nothing of 
 the law, she had been wary, and very clever, in her 
 answers. 
 
 Then the other man had come back, and to her 
 surprise and horror she found she was expected to sign 
 a statement. 
 
 "You had better read it over," the inspector had 
 said quietly. 
 
 And Ivy had read it over, hardly realising what it 
 was she was reading, but having the wit to know that 
 this man from Scotland Yard had played fair by her. 
 
 Though in a sense Ivy had said nothing of any 
 importance, apart from that fatal admission of Roger 
 Gretorex's love for her, Orpington had left the flat well 
 satisfied. He believed he now had the threads of what 
 had seemed at first such a mystery, all clutched up into 
 his hands. Incidentally, at the end of that long search- 
 ing inquisition he had reconstituted every moment of 
 the last day of the dead man's life. 
 
 But as he had got up to leave, he had suddenly re- 
 turned to the fact that Mrs. Lexton had been with 
 her husband alone on that last afternoon of his life. 
 That the inspector evidently :tached importance to 
 this fact brought back all h 's terrors. But her re- 
 markable powers of dissimul- ion stood her in good 
 stead, and she again gave a pathetic little account of 
 those few last minutes with her husband. 
 
 "I don't quite know how long it was. Time went by 
 quickly, for I thought he was better ; and we had a little 
 
176 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 chat, making up our minds where we would go when 
 he was well enough to have a change." 
 
 "Did he have anything to drink — a dose of medicine 
 while you were with him, Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! Nurse was not out long enough for that." 
 
 And then it was that Orpington made his one mis- 
 take. Not that it made any difference at all in the long 
 run. But, unconsciously, he had been affected by Ivy's 
 soft, feminine charm, as well as by her fragile loveli- 
 ness. 
 
 "Of course we shall let you know the result of our 
 investigations as soon as I have concluded my inquiries. 
 As for Dr. Gretorex, I shall go and see him as soon as 
 I have had something to eat." 
 
 See Roger? Roger, who was so truthful, so incapable 
 of telling even a white lie? 
 
 The knowledge that Gretorex was going to be 
 subjected to a searching examination made her turn 
 faint with fear. Had she been guilty of folly, and worse 
 than folly, in admitting, nay, in volunteering the in- 
 formation, that Roger loved her? Within herself she 
 debated that question. If Orpington had suspected the 
 truth, then, of course, she had been wise. But had he — 
 had he? 
 
 In any case, the warning of Gretorex had seemed 
 the only thing to do, and on the whole she now felt 
 strengthened, comforted, by his unquestioning faith. 
 
 As at last she went up in the lift of the Duke of Kent 
 Mansion, she heard quick, light steps running up the 
 stairs, and she shivered with apprehension. But it was 
 only a telegraph boy, and as they arrived together at 
 the door of the flat, she asked quickly, "Is the name 
 Lexton ?" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 177 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, 'Mrs. Lexton/ " and he handed her 
 the telegram. 
 
 In her bedroom she tore open the buff envelope and 
 looked first at the signature : 
 
 Just read with great concern result post-mortem. Have 
 cabled John Oram solicitor instructing him to afford you all 
 help financial and other on my behalf. Sister dangerously 
 ill or would return at once myself. Please keep me ac- 
 quainted with any developments. Deepest sympathy. 
 
 Miles Rushworth. 
 
 She burst into hysterical tears of relief. Nothing, 
 surely, could happen to her now that Rushworth had 
 come to her help? 
 
 Always Ivy Lexton had been sheltered, guarded, 
 lifted over the rough places of life by men — men who 
 had been conquered, pressed into her service, by that 
 alluring quality which means so much more than 
 beauty. But not one of the many men to whom she had 
 cause to be grateful in her life had been in the power- 
 ful position of Miles Rushworth, as regarded either 
 character or wealth. 
 
 She lay down on the comfortable couch which stood 
 at right angles to her pretty bed. It was the first time 
 she had ever done so, for she was a strong young 
 woman, in spite of the air of delicacy which added so 
 much to her charm in the eyes of many people, women 
 as well as men. But she felt tired — dreadfully, con- 
 sciously tired, to-day. 
 
 She closed her eyes and, deliberately, she lived over 
 again Rushworth's last long, passionate embrace on 
 the yacht. It was as if she heard spoken aloud his 
 ardent, broken-hearted words, "If only you tverc free !" 
 
178 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Well? She was free now, even at what she was 
 beginning to realise might be a fearful cost. Even so, 
 it could only be a question of months, perhaps of 
 weeks, before she became Rushworth's wife. 
 
 She opened her eyes and smiled for the first time 
 that day, a radiant, secretly confident smile. 
 
 Leaping off the couch she read through Rush- 
 worth's long telegram again. 
 
 John Oram ? What a curious name. Being a solicitor, 
 he must be on the telephone. She would ring him up 
 immediately after she had had lunch, and ask him to 
 come and see her. 
 
 Going into the hall, she called out, in almost a 
 joyous voice, "Nurse? Here I am! I'm so sorry to have 
 kept you waiting." 
 
 Nurse Bradfield came slowly down the corridor. 
 The events of the last few days had aged her, and Ivy 
 was struck by her sad, bewildered expression. She 
 secretly wondered why Nurse Bradfield looked so old 
 and unlike herself ? Nurse Bradfield, lucky woman, had 
 nothing to be afraid of. 
 
 Ivy Lexton never knew all she owed to the woman 
 who had tended Jervis Lexton through his last illness. 
 When Inspector Orpington had done with the nurse, 
 he had formed, albeit unconsciously, a very definite 
 view of the dead man's widow. Thus, even before he 
 had seen Ivy, he had accepted Nurse Bradfield's view 
 of young Mrs. Lexton's nature and way of life. That 
 is, he regarded her as selfish, feather-headed, and ex- 
 travagant; but good-natured, easy-going, and quite 
 incapable of planning and of executing such a crime as 
 that which had brought about her husband's death. 
 
 That Jervis Lexton had died as the result of a foul 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 179 
 
 crime on the part of some man or woman who had a 
 strong motive for wishing him to be obliterated had 
 appeared plain to the man in charge of the case, even 
 before he had interviewed any of the people concerned 
 with it. 
 
 But if Ivy, unknowingly, had reason to be grateful 
 to Nurse Bradfield, Nurse Bradfield just now had cause 
 to be very grateful to Ivy. It meant a great deal to her 
 that she could stay on here, in this luxurious flat, living 
 in quietude and comfort, instead of going back to the 
 hostel which was her only "home" between her cases. 
 
 She had already learnt, and great was her dismay 
 thereat, that she would become an important witness 
 for the Crown, should the mystery be so far cleared up 
 as to bring about a trial for murder. Small wonder 
 that to-day she felt too upset and too disturbed to eat, 
 and she watched, with surprise, Ivy's evident enjoy- 
 ment of the good luncheon put before them. 
 
 The nurse was the more secretly astonished at the 
 newly made widow's look of cheerfulness because she 
 was well aware that "little Mrs. Lexton" was most un- 
 comfortably short of money. 
 
 All that morning, and especially during the latter 
 half of that morning, there had come a procession of 
 tradespeople to the flat requesting immediate payment 
 of their accounts. Some of them had been interviewed 
 by the cook, others by Nurse Bradfield herself. As for 
 Ivy, she had absolutely refused to see any of them. 
 "I have no money at all just now," she had observed 
 sadly. "But of course everybody will be paid in time." 
 
 Nurse Bradfield had even begun to wonder if she 
 would ever be repaid a certain ten pounds which she 
 had lent Mrs. Lexton a few days before. But she was 
 
i8o THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 not as much troubled by that thought as some of Ivy 
 Lexton's fairly well-to-do friends might have been. She 
 even told herself that, after all, she was now receiv- 
 ing far more than ten pounds' worth of comfort and 
 quiet. 
 
 As if something of what she was thinking flashed 
 from the nurse's mind to hers, Ivy said suddenly, "I 
 shall have plenty of money soon, Nurse. And the mo- 
 ment I've got anything I'll give you back that money 
 you were kind enough to lend me." 
 
 There was a tone of real sincerity in her voice, and 
 Nurse Bradfield felt reassured. 
 
 "I only want it back," she said quietly, "when you 
 can really give it me conveniently, Mrs. Lexton. Of 
 course ten pounds is a good deal of money to me. But 
 now that I know poor Mr. Lexton was not insured, I 
 realise that things must be very difficult for you." 
 
 "It's going to be quite all right," exclaimed Ivy 
 impulsively. 
 
 Oh ! what a difference to life Rushworth's cable had 
 made! She felt almost hysterical with joy and relief. 
 
 And then, as there came a ring at the bell, she said 
 quickly to the maid who was waiting at table, "Do tell 
 whoever it is that I shall be able to pay up everything 
 soon — I hope even within the next few days." 
 
 But this time the visitor was not an anxious trades- 
 man. He was a tall, thin, elderly man, with a keen, 
 shrewd face, who gave his name as "Mr. Oram." 
 
 After a few moments spent by him in the hall, he 
 was shown into the drawing-room, there to wait for 
 the lady concerning whom he already felt a keen 
 curiosity. 
 
Chapter Thirteen 
 
 John Oram was an old-fashioned solicitor of very 
 high standing. His firm had always managed all the 
 private business of the Rushworth family, and he was 
 a personal friend of the client from whom he had re- 
 ceived a long and explicit cable about two hours ago. 
 The receipt of that cable, and above all the way it had 
 been worded, had induced Mr. Oram to come himself 
 to Duke of Kent Mansion, instead of sending one of 
 his clerks. He felt intensely curious to see this newly 
 made widow in whom Miles Rushworth evidently took 
 so intimate and anxious an interest. 
 
 Rushworth's cable to John Oram had been nearly 
 three times the length of his cable to Ivy ; and the 
 purport of it had been that the solicitor was to help 
 Mrs. Lexton in every way in his power. The last words 
 of the cable had run: "Find out from Mrs. Lexton 
 the name of her bankers, and place two thousand 
 pounds to her credit." 
 
 After reading the cable, Mr. Oram had sent for his 
 head clerk, an acute, clever man named Alfred Finch, 
 who was some twenty years younger than himself. 
 
 "Can you tell me anything of some people of the 
 name of Lexton, who live in Duke of Kent Mansion ? I 
 gather there's some sort of legal trouble afoot." 
 
 The answer had been immediate, and had filled him 
 with both surprise and dismay. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I know all there is to be known. It's not 
 very much, yet. A Mr. Jervis Lexton died some days 
 181 
 
182 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 ago in one of the Duke o-f Kent Mansion flats. And, as 
 the result of a post-mortem, it has been discovered that 
 death was occasioned through the administration of a 
 large dose of arsenic." 
 
 The speaker waited a moment. His curiosity was 
 considerably whetted, for he had seen a look of aston- 
 ishment, almost of horror, come over his employer's 
 usually impassive face. 
 
 Alfred Finch went on, speaking in a more serious 
 tone : 
 
 "This Mr. Jervis Lexton must have been a man of 
 means, for you may remember, sir, that he drew 
 up the lease of a flat in Duke of Kent Mansion for 
 the Misses Rushworth about eighteen months ago." 
 
 "Aye, aye, I do remember that. I think the rent of 
 their flat was four hundred a year, and the two ladies 
 had to pay a considerable premium on going in. As you 
 say, the Lextons must be well-to-do." 
 
 Mr. Finch allowed himself to smile. 
 
 "There's only one of them now, sir — the dead man's 
 widow. She's said to be very attractive, and well known 
 in smart society." 
 
 "I see. That will do." 
 
 It was no wonder that John Oram, while waiting 
 in the drawing-room of the flat for Ivy to join him, 
 gazed about him with a good deal of interest. Then, 
 all at once, he recognised a fine picture which he knew 
 to be the property of the Misses Rushworth, his clients, 
 and Miles Rushworth's cousins. In a moment what had 
 appeared a mystery was to his mind cleared up. There 
 must be, there was, of course, some sort of connection 
 between the Rushworths and the Lextons ; and the rich, 
 precise, old-fashioned maiden ladies, who, he now 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 183 
 
 remembered, were wintering abroad, had lent their flat 
 to these family connections. 
 
 That would explain everything — Miles Rushworth's 
 urgent cable, as also his evident anxiety that everything 
 should be done to help and succour Mrs. Lexton in her 
 distress. 
 
 Just as he came to this satisfactory explanation of 
 what had puzzled and disturbed him, the door of the 
 drawing-room opened, and Ivy walked in. 
 
 She held out her little hand. "Mr. Oram?" she cried 
 eagerly, 'Tm so glad to see you! I had a cable just 
 before lunch from Mr. Rushworth, telling me that you 
 were going to help me. Everything is so dreadful, so 
 extraordinary, that I feel utterly bewildered, as well 
 as miserable " and then tears strangled her voice. 
 
 For a moment her visitor said nothing. He was 
 amazed at her exceeding loveliness, puzzled also, for 
 he was very observant, by the expression which now 
 lit up the beautiful face before him. Though tears were 
 running down her cheeks, it was such a happy expres- 
 sion 
 
 " Won't you sit down?" 
 
 Her tone was quite subdued now ; the hysterical 
 excitement which had been there had died out of her 
 voice. 
 
 He obeyed her silently, and there shot over Ivy 
 Lexton a quick feeling of misgiving. Mr. Oram looked 
 so grave, so stern, and he was gazing at her with so 
 curiously close a scrutiny. 
 
 "It's very kind of you to have come so soon," she 
 said nervously. 
 
 "I am anxious to help you in every way possible, 
 Mrs. Lexton," he answered quietly. 
 
1 84 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Though the old solicitor was exceedingly impressed 
 by Ivy's beauty, instead of being attracted, he felt, if 
 anything, slightly repelled, by her appearance. 
 
 For one thing, he was sufficiently old-fashioned to 
 feel really surprised, and even shocked, by her "make- 
 up" 
 
 Ivy had made up more than usual this morning, and 
 before coming into the drawing-room just now she had 
 used her lipstick quite recklessly. So it was that while 
 Mr. Oram asked her certain questions, each one of 
 which was to the point, and allowed for but very iittle 
 prevarication on her part, he avoided looking straight 
 at her. 
 
 How astounding, he said to himself with dismay, 
 that such a woman should be a friend of Miles Rush- 
 worth ! A direct question had shown him that she had 
 no knowledge of, or even a bowing acquaintance with, 
 the Misses Rushworth. 
 
 At last he said rather coldly, "I take it you are in 
 possession of very little money?" 
 
 "Very little," she answered, almost in a whisper. 
 
 "At the request of Mr. Miles Rushworth, I have a 
 sum of money to place at your disposal. As a matter of 
 fact, it is a considerable sum — two thousand pounds. 
 If you will tell me who are your bankers, I " 
 
 And then Ivy, keeping the joy she felt out of her 
 voice, interrupted him: 
 
 "I have not got a banking account, Mr. Oram. I 
 had one many years ago, before my husband lost all 
 his money, but I have not had one for over three years. 
 And oh ! it's been so inconvenient." 
 
 A kinder look came into the lawyer's grave face. 
 
 "In that case, Mrs. Lexton, I advise you to open an 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 185 
 
 account at the local branch of the Birmingham Bank. 
 It is close here, in Kensington High Street. Mr. Rush- 
 worth informed me in his cable that you would prob- 
 ably stay on in this flat for the next few weeks." 
 
 "I should like to do that," she said in a low tone. 
 
 "Your husband, I understand, was a great friend of 
 Mr. Rushworth?" 
 
 "Yes, my husband was working in Mr. Rushworth's 
 office when he fell ill." 
 
 "Was he indeed ?" 
 
 That the Lextons could be what the sender of the 
 cable had called "my closest friends" had surprised the 
 solicitor. He had believed himself acquainted with all 
 Miles Rushworth's intimate circle. 
 
 Ivy had come across a good many lawyers in her life, 
 and she had always found them bright, cheery, and 
 pleasant. All of them, to a man, had admired her, and 
 made her feel that they did so. 
 
 Very, very different was this lawyer's attitude. She 
 realised that he did not approve of her, and she even 
 suspected that he regretted his client's interest in her. 
 That was quite enough for Ivy, and she began to long 
 intensely for Mr. Oram to go away. She had already 
 made up her mind that he was "horrid," and she was 
 sorry indeed that such a man should be Miles Rush- 
 worth's representative. 
 
 "I will pay in the cheque to the Birmingham Bank- 
 to-morrow morning, Mrs. Lexton," said the solicitor. 
 "I will call for you, if I may, at eleven, for you will 
 have to come too, in order that the manager may regis- 
 ter your signature." 
 
 At last he got up, and then he said suddenly : "Have 
 you yet seen anyone from the police?" 
 
186 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "Yes, I saw a gentleman from Scotland Yard this 
 morning." 
 
 "I trust your legal adviser was present." 
 "I have no legal adviser." and she looked at him 
 surprised. 
 
 "I'm sorry for that. I had hoped to learn that you 
 had a solicitor, and that he had been present. However, 
 I don't suppose it will make any odds. I presume you 
 told the gentleman from Scotland Yard everything that 
 it was within your power to tell him, concerning the 
 mysterious circumstances surrounding Mr. Lexton's 
 death?" 
 
 "Yes, I did," she said falteringly. 
 
 It seemed to her that he was looking at her with such 
 a hard, cold look on his bloodless face. She even had 
 a queer feeling that this Mr. Oram could see right 
 through her, and she felt a touch of deadly terror. 
 
 But Ivy's fears were quite unfounded. The solicitor's 
 view of Ivy Lexton was very much what "the gentle- 
 man from Scotland Yard's" had been. But whereas 
 Inspector Orpington had liked and pitied her, Rush- 
 worth's lawyer already regretted that, if only as a mat- 
 ter of common humanity, he must now secure for her 
 the best legal advice in his power. 
 
 John Oram had the faults of his qualities. His life's 
 work had brought him in contact with more than one 
 skilful adventuress. But against such a woman, when 
 she came across his path, the dice were already loaded. 
 
 Thus he had never had much trouble with the kind 
 of girl who infatuates a foolish "elder son," and then, 
 maybe, tries to extract an enormous sum out of him by 
 a threat of a breach of promise case. More difficult to 
 deal with had he found, in his long career as a family 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 187 
 
 solicitor, the sort of woman blackmailer who has letters 
 in her possession. But, even in regard to that type of 
 woman, Mr. Oram, with the law on his side, invariably 
 came out of the duel triumphant. 
 
 He had never had to do, even remotely, with a case 
 of murder, and the last thing that would have occurred 
 to his mind was that this lovely young fribble of a 
 woman — for such was his old-fashioned expression — 
 could be a secret poisoner. 
 
 "I think you must authorise me to instruct counsel 
 to represent you at the inquest which I understand is 
 about to be held." 
 
 "What is counsel ?" asked Ivy. 
 
 She felt surprised and uneasy. Was this disagreeable 
 old man going to run up what she knew was called 
 "a lawyer's bill" which she would have to pay out of 
 Rushworth's munificent gift? 
 
 Mr. Oram looked at her with scarce concealed 
 contempt. 
 
 "A counsel," he replied drily, "is any member of 
 the Bar. But naturally some are better than others, 
 and, with your permission, I will obtain for you the 
 services of a gentleman who is thoroughly experienced 
 in cases of this kind." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Oram arrived at his office 
 early, and, after glancing over his letters, he had just 
 made out a cheque for two thousand pounds to "the 
 order of Mrs. Ivy Lexton," when a card was brought 
 into his private room. But before he looked at the card 
 he had already fully made up his mind that he could 
 see no one, however important their business might 
 be, till his return from Kensington. 
 
1 88 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Already the solicitor and his head clerk, Alfred 
 Finch, had gone into the question of who should repre- 
 sent Mrs. Lexton at the inquest, and at the various 
 other proceedings which were likely to take place in 
 connection with Jervis Lexton's mysterious death. 
 Money, as the saying is, being no object, they had 
 selected as her counsel one known to them to be by 
 far the soundest man for that sort of watching brief. 
 
 The old lawyer was sorry indeed that Miles Rush- 
 worth had brought him in touch with what he termed 
 to himself "this very unpleasant business." 
 
 His feeling was not shared by his head clerk. Alfred 
 Finch was already keenly interested in the Lexton 
 case. He was an intelligent man, keen about his work 
 whatever it might be, and he already had managed to 
 make certain pertinent inquiries. Indeed, he very much 
 startled Mr. Oram by a remark he made towards the 
 end of their discussion. 
 
 "They do say, sir, that Scotland Yard as good as 
 know already who poisoned Mr. Lexton. I think it 
 quite probable that you will see the news of an arrest 
 on the newspaper placards on your way to Duke of 
 Kent Mansion." 
 
 "What sort of person has been, or is to be, arrested, 
 Finch? Have you discovered that?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I haven't yet got hold of the man's name. 
 But I gather he's a gentleman, and one who was de- 
 scribed to me as — " he coughed discreetly " — a beau 
 of Mrs. Lexton. Mrs. Lexton seems to have been a bit 
 of a flyer, sir. She was out every night dancing at what 
 they call a smart night-club, or in some big hotel, dur- 
 ing the days when her unfortunate husband was being 
 slowly done to death by this friend of hers." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 189 
 
 "Have you heard anything serious against Mrs. Lex- 
 ton's character ?" 
 
 Mr. Oram was very old-fashioned. The term "night- 
 club" signified to him something vaguely terrible, and 
 utterly disreputable. 
 
 "Oh, no, sir, there's nothing against her. On the 
 contrary, the story goes that, though the man under 
 suspicion was crazy about her, she only flirted with 
 him, so to speak. Mrs. Lexton, it seems, gave him 
 away, quite unknowingly, to the C.I.D. inspector who 
 is in charge of the case." 
 
 Finch smiled, "They say it's likely to be the most 
 important case of the kind there's been at the Old 
 Bailey for many a long day. The public are about ready 
 for another murder mystery." 
 
 "Not much mystery about it, if your information 
 is correct, Finch," observed Mr. Oram grimly. 
 
 "It's Mrs. Lexton — they say she is such a very 
 pretty, smart little lady — who will provide the mystery 
 and the sensation, sir. She'll be the principal witness 
 for the Crown." 
 
 Mr. Oram felt very much disturbed on hearing this 
 piece of information. 
 
 "I do not regard myself as being in any sense Mrs. 
 Lexton's legal representative," he said stiffly. "With 
 regard to this lady, I am simply acting as Mr. Miles 
 Rushworth's solicitor." 
 
 And now, just as he was reaching out for his hat 
 and coat, feeling more perturbed than he would have 
 cared to acknowledge, a client for whom he had a great 
 regard called to see him. Though John Oram was not 
 the kind of man who changes his mind lightly when 
 he saw whose name was engraved on the card which 
 
iqo THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 had been brought in to him, the lawyer at once made 
 up his mind that he must spare time for this visitor. 
 
 For one thing, her business must be serious, for she 
 lived in the country, and this was the first time she had 
 ever called on him without first making an appoint- 
 ment. Further, she was a widowed lady he had known 
 since he was quite a young man, and for whom he had 
 a very high esteem, and, it might almost be said, 
 affection. But he had despised her husband, and he did 
 not really like her son — though the son had none of 
 the faults which had brought his father to ruin. Lastly, 
 Mr. Oram was willing to see this client because she was 
 a woman of few words. She would tell him at once why 
 she wished to see him, and then she would go away. 
 
 "Show Mrs. Gretorex in," he said quickly. 
 
 "There is a young lady with her, sir." 
 
 "A young lady?" 
 
 Did that mean that Roger Gretorex was thinking 
 of getting married? If so, unless the girl had money, he 
 would be doing a very foolish and improvident thing. 
 Mr. Oram did not really think that this was at all 
 likely to be the reason for Mrs. Gretorex's unexpected 
 visit; but a solicitor is apt to consider every possi- 
 bility. 
 
 However, Mr. Oram's old friend and client came 
 unaccompanied through the baize door of his private 
 room. Mrs. Gretorex had left Enid in the waiting- 
 room, for there were certain things which she knew she 
 would have to say, and which she felt she could only 
 say when alone with the solicitor. 
 
 As she looked at her old lawyer's stern face, though 
 the expression on it was just a little softer than usual, 
 even her high courage faltered. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 191 
 
 "Perhaps you know, Mr. Oram," she said in a low 
 voice, "what it is that has brought me here this morn- 
 ing ?" 
 
 "No," he said, surprised, "I have no idea at all, Mrs. 
 Gretorex " 
 
 He could see she was very much disturbed, and he 
 drew forward a chair. After all, it wouldn't hurt that 
 frivolous little widow to wait for an extra half-hour or 
 so for the two thousand pounds Miles Rushworth was 
 so rashly presenting to her free and for nothing. Mr. 
 Oram's knowledge of human nature told him that 
 probably a very great deal more money was coming 
 Ivy's way from the same source as this money came 
 from. 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex bent a little forward. She fixed her 
 sunken eyes, for she had not slept at all the night be- 
 fore, on the lawyer's face. 
 
 "Roger has been arrested on the charge of having 
 murdered a man called Jervis Lexton " 
 
 "Roger arrested on a charge of murder? God bless 
 my soul !" 
 
 He took off his eyeglasses and began cleaning them 
 mechanically with a small piece of wash-leather which 
 he kept for that purpose. 
 
 Here was indeed a complication ! And a very trouble- 
 some as well as a painful complication, from his point 
 of view. His own connection with the Gretorex family 
 was hereditary. His grandfather had been, not only 
 the lawyer, but the very close friend and trustee, of 
 Mrs. Gretorex's father-in-law. As for the rich Rush- 
 worths, they were in Mr. Oram's estimation mere 
 upstarts compared to the ancient, if now impoverished, 
 county family. 
 
i 9 2 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "If you don't mind," he said suddenly, "I'll send 
 for Finch. In a case of this sort two heads are better 
 than one. Also Finch can take notes of any information 
 you can give me about the matter." 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex would much rather have told her 
 story to this good old friend alone. But she saw the 
 sense of his suggestion, and they both waited in silence 
 till the head clerk came in. 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex rose and shook hands with Mr. 
 Finch. She was well acquainted with him, and she had 
 always liked him. 
 
 "May I tell Finch what you have just told me?" Mr. 
 Oram asked. 
 
 She bent her head, overwhelmed with a passion of 
 agony and shame. 
 
 "Mrs. Gretorex has brought bad news, Finch. Her 
 son has just been arrested on the charge of having 
 caused the death, I presume by the administration of 
 arsenic, of Mr. Jervis Lexton. I take it" — and he 
 looked very straight into the younger man's face — 
 "that you had no notion of this fact, when you told me, 
 this morning, that you had heard that an arrest was 
 about to be effected in connection with the Lexton 
 affair?" 
 
 Alfred Finch prided himself on his self-control, and 
 wise lack of emotion, where anything connected with 
 business was concerned. But his face was full of dis- 
 may as he answered instantly, "No name at all was 
 mentioned, sir. I was simply told that an arrest was 
 imminent." 
 
 He turned to Mrs. Gretorex. "When was it that Mr. 
 Roger was arrested?" He had know "Mr. Roger" 
 from childhood. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 193 
 
 Tears welled up to her tired eyes. "Last evening," 
 she answered. 
 
 "I wish he'd sent for us at once," Finch exclaimed. 
 "It's always important to get one's blow in first, and 
 especially over a matter of this kind." 
 
 "My son was arrested at Anchorford House. I came 
 up by the night train, as the police inspector from Lyn- 
 chester said he would be brought to town the first 
 thing this morning. I suppose he is in London by now." 
 
 Finch looked at his employer. 
 
 "In that case, don't you think, sir, that I'd better 
 go off at once and try to find Dr. Gretorex ? Let me see. 
 Where would he be charged?" 
 
 Mentally he answered his own question. Then he 
 observed, "I hope he made no statement to the 
 police ?" 
 
 "He wished to make a statement, but the inspector 
 advised him not to do so." 
 
 "You think, Finch, that you'd better go off now, in- 
 stantly ?" 
 
 "I'm sure of it, sir. Even now, I fear I shall be too 
 late to stop his saying something he'd best keep to 
 himself." 
 
 "I feel quite sure he has nothing to hide," said Mrs. 
 Gretorex rather stiffly. But neither of the two men 
 made any comment on that. 
 
 Mr. Oram was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "Very well, Finch. You go off," he said. "Start at 
 once ! And of course no expense is to be spared ?" 
 
 He glanced at his client, and she quickly nodded. 
 
 "Meanwhile, I'll make rough notes of any informa- 
 tion that Mrs. Gretorex is good enough to give me. 
 But I don't suppose she really knows very much." 
 
194 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 And then in a serious tone he asked her, "Were 
 you yourself acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 He put the question just as the other man was 
 leaving the room, and Mrs. Gretorex saw Finch stay 
 his steps. It was clear that he wished to hear her an- 
 swer. 
 
 "Pve never seen Mr. Lexton ; but Mrs. Lexton 
 spent a week-end at Anchorford last winter." 
 
 Both men noticed the somewhat embarrassed way 
 in which Roger Gretorex's mother answered that 
 question. 
 
 At last, reluctantly, Finch shut the door. How useful 
 it would be, sometimes, to find oneself in two places 
 at once! 
 
 Being the manner of woman she was, Mrs. Gretorex 
 did not try to conceal anything of what was in her heart 
 from her old and trusted friend. 
 
 "I am absolutely certain, Mr. Oram, that Roger 
 had nothing to do with Mr. Lexton's death. On the 
 other hand, it would be dishonest to conceal from you 
 my conviction that he is in terrible danger." 
 
 "What makes you think that, if you are certain he is 
 innocent ?" 
 
 "Because," answered Mrs. Gretorex in a low tone, 
 "he loves this woman, Ivy Lexton, desperately. He 
 admitted as much to me last night, before we supposed 
 there was any fear of an immediate arrest, but after 
 he had already had an interview with someone from 
 Scotland Yard " 
 
 "Roger in love with a married woman. That's the 
 last thing I should have expected to hear!" 
 
 Mr. Oram got up. "I have a bit of business I must 
 attend to this morning, Mrs. Gretorex. But I suggest 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 195 
 
 that you wait here till a telephone message comes 
 through from Finch." 
 
 As they shook hands, "I beg you, I implore you," 
 she said in a stifled voice, "to try and believe Roger 
 innocent." 
 
 Mr. Oram said to himself, "I will — until he is 
 proved guilty." Aloud he exclaimed: 
 
 "Of course I believe him innocent! But, Mrs. 
 Gretorex, I have something very serious to say to you ; 
 that is, I feel that this is not the kind of case of which I 
 have the necessary experience, and I doubt if I should 
 be able to afford your son the kind of legal assistance 
 which he needs." 
 
 He saw a look of terror and of fear flash over her 
 face. 
 
 "Don't desert me in my extremity!" she exclaimed. 
 "You know as well as I do that I haven't a single man 
 relation in the world. You, Mr. Oram, are my only 
 hope." And he saw that tears were rolling down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "If you feel that, Mrs. Gretorex, then be assured 
 that I shall do my best for Roger." 
 
Chapter Fourteen" 
 
 While that, to both of them, woeful conversation 
 was going on between the mother of Roger Gretorex 
 and the old lawyer, Ivy Lexton sat in her drawing- 
 room, waiting impatiently for John Oram, and — his 
 cheque. 
 
 She felt quite differently from what she had felt the 
 day before, and happier from every point of view. For 
 fear, that most haunting of secret house-mates, had 
 gone from her. Indeed, after seeing Mr. Oram, she had 
 spent the rest of the afternoon at the establishment of 
 the dressmaker who was just then the fashion in her 
 set. Whilst there she had bought four black frocks "off 
 the peg/' and she had also ordered a splendid fur coat. 
 
 No wonder that she was now waiting feverishly 
 for the old lawyer to call and take her across to the 
 bank. Two thousand pounds? What an enormous lot 
 of money! It was the first time Ivy had had even a 
 quarter of such a sum absolutely at her disposal. In 
 the old days, when Jervis was still a man of means, she 
 had never had a regular allowance. She had simply run 
 up bills, and Jervis, grumbling good-naturedly, had 
 paid them. 
 
 But the moments, the minutes, the quarters of an 
 hour slipped by, and Mr. Oram dallied. What could 
 have happened? She had become uncomfortably 
 aware yesterday that Miles Rushworth's solicitor did 
 not like her, and that he thought Rushworth's interest 
 in her strange and inexplicable, so she began to feel 
 thoroughly "rattled," as she expressed it to herself. 
 196 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 197 
 
 At last she heard the lift stop outside the flat. What 
 did that portend? The longed-for coming of Mr. Oram 
 with his bountiful cheque, or more trouble for her, for 
 poor little Ivy ? 
 
 Then she gave a gasp — but it was a gasp of joy, for 
 she had heard the lawyer's frigid voice inquiring 
 whether she were in. Before the maid could open the 
 door of the drawing-room she had opened it herself 
 and exclaimed, "Is it Mr. Oram?" 
 
 She was too full of instinctive tact when dealing 
 with any man to utter even a light word of reproach, 
 though the solicitor was over an hour later than he had 
 said he would be. 
 
 Mr. Oram walked into the drawing-room, and then, 
 very deliberately, he shut the door behind him. 
 
 Again there came over Ivy a sick feeling of fear. He 
 looked stern, forbidding, and as a certain kind of man 
 looks when he is the bearer of bad news. 
 
 "I'm sorry I'm late," he said abruptly, "but I 
 couldn't help myself. I've brought the cheque, and we 
 will proceed in a few moments to the bank. But first 
 I would like to tell you, Mrs. Lexton, that circum- 
 stances have arisen that will make it impossible for me 
 to act as your lawyer with regard to any proceedings 
 that may arise in connection with your husband's 
 death." 
 
 He cleared his throat, and then went on : "As I can- 
 not act for you, I will find you a first-class man, who 
 will probably have far more time to devote to your 
 affairs than I should have been able to do." 
 
 She looked at him, wondering what this really 
 meant, and a tide of dismay welled up in her heart. 
 
 "But Mr. Rushworth," she began falteringly, 
 
198 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "again told me, in a cable that I received only this 
 morning, that you would do everything you could for 
 me, Mr. Oram?" 
 
 She had not meant to tell anyone of that long, 
 intimately-worded cable, the first in which Rushworth 
 had allowed something of his intense exultation at the 
 knowledge that she was now free to pierce through the 
 measured words. It seemed to her impossible that any- 
 one could disregard the wishes of so important and, 
 above all, so wealthy a man as Miles Rushworth. To 
 Ivy the sound of money talking drowned every other 
 sound in life. But this, to her discomfiture, was not the 
 case with John Oram. 
 
 "I know that," and this time he spoke more kindly. 
 "And I'm sorry I shall not be able to do what Mr. 
 Rushworth very naturally hoped I could do. But I have 
 
 discovered " and then he stopped for what seemed 
 
 to her a long time. 
 
 He was wondering whether she was yet aware that 
 Roger Gretorex had been arrested on the charge of 
 having murdered her husband. Already the fact was 
 billed in all the early editions of the evening papers. 
 
 "The truth is," he began again, and in a colder tone, 
 "not only I, but my father before me, and my grand- 
 father before him, acted in a legal capacity for the 
 Gretorex family." 
 
 The colour rushed into Ivy's face. She said defen- 
 sively, "But need that make any difference, Mr. 
 Oram?" 
 
 "Well, yes, I'm sorry to say that it will, Mrs. Lex- 
 ton. Roger Gretorex, as you are no doubt aware, was 
 arrested last night on a charge of having poisoned Mr. 
 Jervis Lexton. He has put his interests in my hands. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 199 
 
 It would not be to your advantage were you to employ 
 the same solicitor as the man who is accused of having 
 murdered your husband. I am sure," he cleared his 
 throat, "you are aware of what Dr. Gretorex's motive 
 is supposed to have been, assuming that he is guilty of 
 that of which he is accused ?" 
 
 Ivy looked so frightened that for a moment he 
 thought she was going to faint. 
 
 Then she hadn't known of Gretorex's arrest? Even 
 John Oram, who was already strongly prejudiced 
 against her, could not doubt that the horror and dis- 
 tress with which she heard his news were genuine. 
 
 She sank down into a chair. 
 
 "But this is terrible — terrible!" she moaned. 
 
 "It is terrible, Mrs. Lexton. And, incidentally, you 
 see, now, how I am situated ? When I came here to see 
 you yesterday, I naturally did not associate my friend 
 and client, Dr. Roger Gretorex, with the strange and 
 mysterious circumstances surrounding your husband's 
 death. I have not yet seen a copy of the statement you 
 appear to have made to the inspector who came to see 
 you from Scotland Yard; but I gather that you made 
 certain admissions that were very detrimental to my 
 client." 
 
 "The man pressed me so! I didn't want to hurt 
 Roger," she exclaimed, and thought she spoke the 
 truth. 
 
 Twenty minutes later, as the two came out of the 
 bank, Mr. Oram said quietly: 
 
 "With your permission, Mrs. Lexton, I am going 
 to put you in touch with an old friend of mine, a most 
 able lawyer named Paxton-Smith. He will not only 
 watch your interests in a general sense, but you can 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 trust him to give you the soundest advice. In your 
 place, I would make a point of being frank with him 
 concerning everything connected with your husband's 
 life as well as with his death." 
 
 It was strange what a feeling of repugnance, almost 
 of horror, this beautiful girl — for she looked a girl — 
 inspired in him. But that, so he told himself, for he 
 tried to be fair-minded, was no doubt owing to the 
 way Roger Gretorex's mother had spoken of Ivy Lex- 
 ton that morning. 
 
 "Tell Mr. Paxton-Smith, as far you know it, the 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," he 
 went on. "Many ladies, when in conference with their 
 legal adviser, are tempted to hold something back. 
 There can be no greater mistake. You can be ab- 
 solutely sure of Mr. Paxton-Smith's discretion; and 
 unless he knows everything you can tell him, it will be 
 impossible for him to advise you adequately." 
 
 She was gazing at him with affrighted eyes. Tell the 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? 
 Why, she couldn't even begin to think of doing that ! 
 But, even so, the old lawyer's words impressed her. 
 Why, oh! why, had she been tempted to tell the man 
 from Scotland Yard that half-truth as to Roger and 
 his love for her ? By now, when it had become clear to 
 her that no one suspected her, she had almost forgotten 
 what had brought about that dangerous admission. 
 
 "You are, I understand, going to be the chief wit- 
 ness for the Crown," said Mr. Oram solemnly. 
 
 "I didn't know that ! What does being that mean ?" 
 faltered Ivy. 
 
 "It means," he said drily, "that the prosecution is 
 counting on you to aid them in proving that Roger 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 201 
 
 Gretorex became that most despicable of human beings, 
 a slow, secret poisoner, in order that you might be free 
 to become his wife." 
 
 She unconsciously stayed her steps, and was staring 
 up at him as if hypnotised by his words. 
 
 He looked down fixedly into her face. What lay hid- 
 den behind those lovely eyes, that exquisite little mouth, 
 now spoilt, according to his taste, by a smear of scarlet 
 paint ? 
 
 "Only God knows the secrets of all hearts, Mrs. 
 Lexton. I have not asked you, and I do not propose to 
 ask you, if you believe that unhappy young man to be 
 guilty of the fearful crime of which he is accused, and 
 for which he is about to stand on trial for his life. But 
 if there is any doubt in your mind, and, far more, 
 if you believe him innocent, I beg you, earnestly, to 
 consider and weigh every word you utter from now 
 on." 
 
 But, even as he made that appeal, moved out of his 
 usual cautious self by his real regard for Roger 
 Gretorex and his intense pity for Roger's mother, he 
 felt convinced that Ivy Lexton would, in all circum- 
 stances and contingencies, only consider herself and 
 what was to her own advantage. 
 
 How amazing that such a man as was Miles Rush- 
 worth should be moved to passion by such a frivolous, 
 mindless, selfish woman! But that such was the case 
 John Oram had far too much knowledge of human 
 nature to doubt, even for a moment. He was, indeed, 
 by now as sure as was Ivy herself that, in due course, 
 Mrs. Jervis Lexton would become Mrs. Miles Rush- 
 worth. 
 
 Suddenly Ivy said something which very much 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 surprised her companion, and made him dislike her 
 even more than he already disliked her. 
 
 "Are you going to cable everything that has 
 happened to Mr. Rushworth?" she asked in a fright- 
 ened tone. 
 
 "Mr. Rushworth will learn precisely what the Cape 
 Town newspapers choose to publish, and what you 
 choose to cable to him. He has not asked me to 
 communicate with him, and I am not proposing to 
 do so." 
 
 He held out his hand. "And now I must say good- 
 bye, Mrs. Lexton. I will try to arrange that Mr. 
 Paxton-Smith shall ring you up before lunch. He will 
 then make an appointment to see you. I should like, if I 
 may, to give you one word of advice. It is this. Refuse, 
 however great the temptation, to disclose anything that 
 concerns your husband's death to anyone, excepting, 
 of course, to Mr. Paxton-Smith." 
 
 "Then shan't I see you again?" she asked. 
 
 Though deep in her heart she was glad to be seeing 
 the last of Mr. Oram, she knew him to be her only link, 
 in London, with Miles Rushworth. 
 
 "Should Mr. Rushworth cable me instructions to 
 do so, I shall of course transmit to you any money or 
 any messages he may choose to send through me. But, 
 apart from that, it is clear that in your own interest 
 Roger Gretorex's legal adviser should have no more 
 communication with you." 
 
 That same afternoon Philip Paxton-Smith had his 
 first interview with Ivy Lexton. Unlike John Oram, he 
 took an instant fancy to the prettiest client and most 
 attractive little woman, so he told himself, that a 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 203 
 
 Providence which was apt to be kind in that way to 
 the shrewd and popular solicitor had ever sent his 
 way. 
 
 So it was that, after a very few moments, Ivy found 
 herself chatting to him almost happily. 
 
 He listened with unaffected, indeed absorbed, inter- 
 est to her sentimental half-true, half-false, account of 
 her first meeting with Roger Gretorex. Of how the 
 young man had "fallen for her" at once, and how she 
 had seen coming, and tried to stave off, his declaration 
 of passionate love. 
 
 She also managed to convey to her new friend's 
 sympathetic ears what manner of man she now desired 
 Jervis Lexton to be supposed to have been. Easy- 
 going, good-tempered, devoted to her, and yet entirely 
 selfish, frightfully extravagant, and, when they were 
 not out together enjoying a good time, a great deal at 
 his club. 
 
 "Poor lonely little woman," said the lawyer to him- 
 self. "The real wonder is that she remained as straight 
 as she did." 
 
 Paxton-Smith and his partner did a very different 
 class of business from that associated with the firm of 
 which John Oram was now senior partner. They were 
 constantly associated with what are loosely called 
 "society cases," and Paxton-Smith himself, some- 
 thing of a gay bachelor, was seen a good deal in that 
 section of the London world which seems to live for 
 pleasure. He was well liked by men. As for women, 
 well, he liked women — and they liked him too. 
 
 During his first interview with Ivy Lexton, after he 
 had, as he believed, won her entire confidence, he 
 cleverly led her to give an almost verbatim report 
 
204 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 of the conversation which she had had with Inspector 
 Orpington. And though once or twice he shook his 
 head when he heard what she had admitted, he was 
 able to do to her what he failed to do to himself, that 
 is, make her believe that, on the whole, she had been 
 wise rather than unwise in her dealings with the man 
 in whose charge had been the preliminary inquiries 
 concerning her husband's death. 
 
 Philip Paxton-Smith was both a clever man and a 
 clever lawyer. But "this dear little woman," as he 
 already called her to himself, was more than a match 
 for him. How amazed would he have been could some 
 entity outside himself have been able to convince him, 
 at the end of the two and a half hours that he spent 
 with Ivy Lexton that afternoon, that she had, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, so completely deceived him as to make him 
 believe her everything she was not ! 
 
 True, he had begun by thinking her just a little 
 stupid ; but he had ended by realising that she was far 
 more intelligent than many of the women with whom 
 he was in contact. That, naturally, had made him like 
 her all the more, for there is nothing more tiresome or 
 annoying to any good lawyer than having to deal with 
 a dull and obstinate client. 
 
 As for Ivy, she was happier after Paxton-Smith had 
 left her than she had felt since the terrible moment 
 when the card of Inspector Orpington had first been 
 brought in to her. 
 
 Not only did the genial lawyer inspire her with 
 confidence, but she was naturally pleased and relieved 
 to feel that he believed everything she told him. It was 
 such a comfort, such a moral support, to feel that he 
 "liked" her, and that he was going to do his very best 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 205 
 
 to help her through what even she now realised was 
 going to be a dangerous and anxious time. 
 
 By the morning following the day of Ivy's first 
 memorable interview with her lawyer, it was obvious 
 to all those concerned with the case that what was 
 already called "The Lexton Mystery" was going to 
 develop into a cause ceUbre. 
 
 Already the personality of Jervis Lexton's young 
 widow was becoming of moment, indeed of absorbing 
 interest, to hundreds of thousands of newspaper 
 readers. And as the dark, early winter days slipped 
 by, men and women engaged in wordy combat as to 
 whether she was the sweet, wholly innocent, guileless 
 woman portrayed by her admirers, or a typical example 
 of the selfish, heartless, extravagant little minx old- 
 fashioned folk are wont to describe the modern girl 
 and young woman. 
 
 Very soon her exquisite face became as familiar to 
 the public as those of the more popular actresses. She, 
 not Roger Gretorex, emerged as the central figure of 
 this drama of love and death; this if only because she 
 was, to the mind of everyone interested in the story, 
 the one point of mystery. 
 
 Had she loved in secret the good-looking young doc- 
 tor who had almost certainly slowly, craftily, done to 
 death the man who was now described as having been 
 his best friend? Or was it, as she was said to aver, 
 the truth that Gretorex had adored her with no touch 
 of encouragement on her part ? 
 
 Here and there some were found ready to whisper 
 that perhaps "Ivy" had been "in it." But they were 
 a small minority of the vast public interested in such 
 
206 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 a story, and, for the most part, they kept their view to 
 themselves. It is a dangerous thing to libel the living 
 — especially a woman blessed with as many ardent 
 champions as was Jervis Lexton's widow. 
 
 And Ivy herself? For a little while Ivy remained 
 unaware of the amazing interest which was already be- 
 ing taken in her past thoughts, past secret emotions, 
 and past way of life. 
 
 She went through many anxious, troubled solitary 
 hours till, all at once, those acquaintances, both men 
 and women, who become friends at a moment's notice, 
 crowded round her, pleased and excited to be associated 
 with so terrible and mysterious an affair. 
 
 Their new mission in life, so they pretended to them- 
 selves and others, was to try to cheer up poor pretty 
 little Ivy in her solitude. It must be admitted that these, 
 for the most part, young friends, succeeded in their 
 laudable object to an extent that sometimes amazed 
 Paxton-Smith. 
 
 Those giddy, good-natured, carelessly heartless men 
 and women all took so absolutely for granted the fact 
 that Roger Gretorex had committed murder for love 
 of Ivy Lexton. Some of the men about her indeed 
 hinted with a half -smile that they could well under- 
 stand the poor chap's motive. 
 
 One of them, the well-to-do idle bachelor who had 
 been about with her so much this last autumn, and who 
 was acting as her cavalier at the theatre and supper 
 party on the evening of Jervis's death, actually said to 
 her, "I wouldn't back myself not to have done the same 
 thing in his place! After all, 'opportunity makes the 
 crime.' " 
 
 But, if comforted, she had also been stung by that 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 207 
 
 well-worn saying; for she knew, better than anyone 
 in the whole world just now, how great is the awful 
 truth embodied in those trite words. 
 
 The women who gathered round Ivy Lexton during 
 those days were not all inspired by morbid curiosity 
 and excitement. Especially was Lady Flora Desmond 
 very kind to her. 
 
 Lady Flora thought she' understood something of 
 what Mrs. Lexton must be feeling because she herself 
 had gone through such a terrible agony when her hus- 
 band had died. Lady Flora was a real support to Ivy 
 during those long days of waiting for the day when 
 she would be compelled to appear as chief witness for 
 the Crown at the trial of Roger Gretorex. 
 
 True, this kind friend wanted to take her away to 
 her country cottage, but Ivy refused with quiet 
 obstinacy. She knew that she would go melancholy 
 mad were she left with no one to talk to except one 
 affectionate, sympathising woman friend. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis Lexton had plenty of good excuses for 
 remaining in London, for, during the comparatively 
 short time which elapsed between Gretorex's arrest 
 and the opening of his trial, there took place the long- 
 drawn-out legal formalities of which the public are 
 only aware to an extent which whets, without satisfy- 
 ing, curiosity. 
 
 But at last everything was "in order" ; so Paxton- 
 Smith put it to the woman to whom he found himself 
 devoting far more thought, as well as time, than he had 
 ever done before to any client, however charming, in 
 his successful legal career. 
 
 The shrewd solicitor sometimes felt something like 
 angry contempt for the foolish, selfish, talkative men 
 
2o8 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 and women who buzzed round the young widow during 
 these, to him, anxious and tiring days. He supposed 
 himself, naturally enough, to be just now her only real 
 stand-by in life. 
 
 How amazed, how piqued, he would have been, had 
 some tricksy spirit whispered in his ear the news that 
 every morning, and sometimes in the evening too, Ivy 
 received a long cable of sympathy, support, and even, 
 as the days went on, of disguised passion! 
 
 Of that passion of love which can assume so infinite 
 a variety of shapes and disguises, Ivy Lexton had had 
 many an exciting experience, but none so satisfying 
 as that conveyed thousands of miles, and in a shadowy 
 form, from the man for whom, as she now dimly 
 realised, she had run at any rate the risk of a shameful 
 and horrible death. 
 
 Ivy, for once, was quite alone, lying down in the 
 drawing-room, reading a magazine, one evening, when 
 suddenly the door opened. 
 
 "Mrs. Gretorex wishes to see you, madam/' said the 
 maid in a nervous tone. 
 
 Ivy leapt up from the sofa, and by the shaded light 
 of the reading lamp which had stood close to her elbow, 
 she saw a tall, spectral-looking figure advancing into 
 the room. 
 
 But it was a firm and very clear voice that ex- 
 claimed: "I did not write and ask you to receive me, 
 Mrs. Lexton, as I feared you might say 'No/ I'm not 
 acting on Mr. Oram's advice in thus coming to see you, 
 but I know he doubts, as I do too, if you are really 
 aware in what deadly danger my son now stands ?" 
 
 "Do sit down," murmured Ivy. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 209 
 
 She felt a surge of angry fear of Roger Gretorex's 
 mother, but she had quickly made up her mind to be 
 what she called "sweet" to her unwelcome visitor. 
 When, always against her will, the thought of Gretorex 
 forced itself on her mind, there was coupled with it 
 the terrifying perception that by now he must be well 
 aware of who it was who had brought about the death 
 of Jervis Lexton. 
 
 "Appearances, " said Mrs. Gretorex in a low, quiet 
 voice, "are very much against Roger. His counsel is 
 thinking, we understand, of putting forward a theory 
 that your husband committed suicide. I have come to 
 ask you if you can advance anything to add even a 
 tinge of probability to that theory? Was there insanity 
 in Mr. Lexton's family? Did he, above all, say, even 
 once, that he might be tempted to take his life?" 
 
 These clear, passionless questions gave Ivy no op- 
 portunity for the display of her special gifts. She 
 asked herself nervously what she ought to say in an- 
 swer to these definite queries. 
 
 Would it be to her interest to allow it to be thought 
 that she, at any rate, believed it possible that Jervis 
 had done away with himself? Then she decided that, 
 no, it would not pay her to accept what everyone who 
 had ever come in contact with her husband, including 
 Nurse Bradfield, and the two doctors who had been 
 attending him, would know to be impossible. So : 
 
 "I never heard him say anything of that sort," she 
 answered regretfully, "except in fun, of course." She 
 added, as an afterthought, "But I know how much 
 Jervis hated to be poor, Mrs. Gretorex." 
 
 The older woman threw an imperceptible look 
 round the luxurious room. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "But he wasn't poor," she said quickly. "He had just 
 got, or so we understand, a good new post." 
 
 "I know he had. That's one of the things that makes 
 it all so dreadful " 
 
 And then Mrs. Gretorex, who was herself a very 
 honest woman, felt impelled to ask what was perhaps 
 a dangerous question. 
 
 "I need hardly ask you what you think? Whatever 
 be the truth, you do not believe, Mrs. Lexton, that my 
 son poisoned your husband ?" 
 
 Ivy did not answer for what seemed to Mrs. 
 Gretorex a long, long time. Then she exclaimed, twist- 
 ing her fingers together : 
 
 "It's no good asking me that sort of thing, because 
 I honestly don't know what to think. It's all so 
 strange !" 
 
 "But surely you know Roger to be innocent?" 
 Ivy let her eyes drop. 
 
 "Of course, I want to think that," she said in a low 
 tone. 
 
 "You want to think it, Mrs. Lexton? D'you mean 
 that you have any doubt about it?" 
 
 Again Ivy twisted her fingers together. 
 
 "It's all so strange," she repeated falteringly. "And 
 it's so unfortunate that Dr. Gretorex was the last one 
 to see my husband alone on the day he died." 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex got up. 
 
 "I see," she said in a dull tone. "Then you are half 
 inclined to believe that Roger did do this terrible thing 
 — for love, I suppose, of you ?" 
 
 And there flashed a look of awful condemnation 
 over the mother's worn face. 
 
 "Please don't say that, Mrs. Gretorex ! I never said 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 211 
 
 that I thought poor Roger really did it!" cried Ivy 
 hysterically. "Perhaps Jervis did commit suicide, but, 
 as nurse says, if he did poison himself, where did he 
 get the stuff to do it with ? Also Roger was so fearfully 
 gone on me. It's all so very, very strange !" 
 
 Oh, why had Mrs. Gretorex come here, just to tor- 
 ture her and frighten her ? It was too cruel ! 
 
 Then Roger Gretorex's mother did make to the 
 woman who stood before her, this woman whom her 
 son loved to his undoing, a desperate appeal, though 
 she worded what she had to say quietly enough. 
 
 "I understand that you're going to be the principal 
 witness for the Crown at my son's trial ?" 
 
 Ivy began to cry. 
 
 "Yes," she sobbed. "Isn't it dreadful — dreadful? 
 As if I hadn't gone through enough without having to 
 go through that too !" 
 
 "On what you say," went on Mrs. Gretorex firmly, 
 "may depend Roger's life or death. After ail, you and 
 he were dear friends?" 
 
 She uttered that last sentence in a tone she strove to 
 make conciliatory. 
 
 Ivy stopped crying. Then Roger hadn't given her 
 away, even to a very little extent, to his mother? It 
 was a great relief to know that. 
 
 "I implore you to guard your tongue when you are 
 in the witness-box," went on Mrs. Gretorex. 
 
 "I will! I will indeed " 
 
 "Can you think of no natural explanation with re- 
 gard to the utterly mysterious thing which happened ?" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed imploringly on the beautiful little 
 face of this frivolous — Mrs. Gretorex believed mind- 
 less — woman, whom Roger still loved so desperately. 
 
212 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "I've thought, and thought, and thought " whis- 
 pered Ivy. 
 
 And" then for the fourth time during this brief inter- 
 view she uttered the words, "It's all so strange." 
 
 As, a few minutes later, she walked down Kensing- 
 ton High Street, still full of bustling, happy people on 
 shopping intent, Roger Gretorex's mother was in an 
 agony of doubt, wondering whether she had done 
 well or ill in thus forcing herself on Mrs. Jervis 
 Lexton. 
 
 Again and again there echoed in her ear the silly, 
 vulgar little phrase: "Roger was so fearfully gone on 
 me." 
 
 Gone on her ? Alas, that had been, that was still, only 
 too true. Even now his one thought seemed to be how 
 to spare Ivy pain, and, above all, disgrace. 
 
 She stepped up into a crowded omnibus at the 
 corner of Chapel Street, and for a while she had to 
 stand. Then a girl gave up her seat to her, and heavily 
 she sat down. 
 
 Who, looking however closely at Mrs. Gretorex 
 sitting there, her worn face calm and still, would have 
 thought her other than an old-fashioned, highly bred 
 lady, leading the placid life of her fortunate class, that 
 class which even now is financially secure, and seems 
 to be so far apart from and above the sordid ills and 
 anxieties of ordinary humanity? 
 
 Yet there can be little doubt that Roger Gretorex's 
 mother was the most miserable and the most unhappy 
 woman of the many miserable and unhappy women in 
 London that night. To the anguish, which was now 
 her perpetual lot, was added a feeling that she had 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 213 
 
 done, if anything, harm, in forcing herself on Mrs. 
 Lexton. 
 
 "I've done no good!" she exclaimed as she walked 
 into the sitting-room of the lodgings in Ebury Street 
 where she and Enid Dent had taken refuge, after 
 spending two or three days with a kind friend who, 
 they had soon discovered though no word had been 
 said, considered Roger almost certainly guilty. 
 
 The girl looked dismayed, for it had been at her 
 suggestion that Mrs. Gretorex had gone to Duke of 
 Kent Mansion. 
 
 Enid Dent now felt convinced that Ivy Lexton held 
 the key to the mystery of Jervis Lexton's death. She 
 had never seen this woman whom she now knew that 
 Roger loved, but she had formed a fairly clear and true 
 impression of Ivy's nature and character. Hatred, as 
 well as love, has sometimes the power of tearing asun- 
 der the most skilfully woven web of lies. 
 
 And then there began for them all what seemed an 
 interminable time of waiting. And all those nearly con- 
 cerned with the case, apart from Ivy herself, felt 
 almost a sense of relief when the winter day at last 
 dawned which was to see Roger Gretorex stand his 
 trial at the Old Bailey. 
 
Chapter Fifteen 
 
 During the night which preceded the day when Ivy 
 Lexton was to appear as chief witness for the Crown, 
 she lay awake, hour after hour, dreading with an awful 
 dread the ordeal that lay before her. 
 
 Her chattering, excited circle of friends had all un- 
 wittingly terrified her with their accounts of how 
 Gretorex's counsel, Sir Joseph Molloy, was apt to deal 
 with a witness. And in the watches of the night, Ivy, 
 shivering, saw herself faced by that ruthless cross- 
 examiner. 
 
 What was this formidable advocate going to say to 
 her, to get out of her, by what one of her admirers had 
 laughingly called "his exercise of the Third Degree?" 
 
 For the first time the widow of Jervis Lexton 
 realised how insincere and how shallow were the 
 sympathy and the cloying flattery with which she was 
 now surrounded. Only two human beings seemed 
 really sorry at the thought of what was going to hap- 
 pen to her to-morrow — Lady Flora Desmond and 
 Philip Paxton-Smith. 
 
 The concern manifested by her solicitor made Ivy 
 feel sick with apprehension. He had spent hours with 
 her trying to teach her what she had to say; that is, 
 what to admit, what to deny, during her cross- 
 examination. 
 
 It was plain, dreadfully plain, to her, that Paxton- 
 Smith was very much afraid of how the great Sir 
 Joseph Molloy would treat her when he had her in his 
 
 power. 
 
 214 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 215 
 
 Again and again, during that long winter night, she 
 asked herself with terror whether Sir Joseph could 
 have found out anything with regard to her past rela- 
 tions with Roger Gretorex. 
 
 She knew Gretorex far too well to suppose, even for 
 a moment, that he had given her away. But the short 
 interview with Roger's mother, though she, Ivy, had 
 appeared to come out of it so well, had left a frighten- 
 ing impression. And she shivered as she recalled 
 the terrible expression which had come over Mrs. 
 Gretorex's face when making to her the appeal which 
 she had rejected with words implying that she, too, 
 believed the man who loved her had been guilty of a 
 terrible crime. 
 
 Ivy even asked herself with a kind of angry resent- 
 ment, in the darkness of the night, why Roger Gretorex 
 had not done this thing of which he stood accused? 
 
 Her own set, the men and women round her, all 
 seemed to think it natural, in a sense, that he should 
 have done it. And yet, though he had had many oppor- 
 tunities of ridding himself of Jervis Lexton, in the days 
 when he had been so much with them, and though the 
 only bar at one moment which had stood in the way of 
 his happiness had been the life of Jervis Lexton, the 
 thought of doing such a thing had evidently never even 
 occurred to his mind ! 
 
 Looking back, Ivy knew that there had been a time 
 last winter when, had she then become a widow, she 
 would have married Gretorex. She had been — how 
 curious to remember that time now, though it was less 
 than a year ago — infatuated with the splendid-looking 
 young man who loved her with so intense and passion- 
 ate a devotion. 
 
216 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 She remembered, also, how reckless she had been in 
 those old days. Anyone but Jervis would have sus- 
 pected the truth. Thank God, she hadn't known Miles 
 Rushworth, even slightly, during those mad weeks of 
 what she had called her love for Roger Gretorex. Rush- 
 worth would have guessed, nay more, he would have 
 known, what was going on. 
 
 Had Roger's mother suspected the truth? Almost 
 certainly, yes. If Mrs. Gretorex thought it would help 
 Roger, she would of course tell the famous advocate 
 who was now fighting for her son's life what she 
 believed had been the real relations between her son 
 and the woman who was to be the chief witness against 
 him. 
 
 Always it was to Sir Joseph Molloy, the man whose 
 name she had never heard till, say, a fortnight ago, that 
 Ivy's thoughts turned with dread, during those endless 
 hours of darkness when she tossed this way and that 
 through the long night. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield had had a terrible time in the 
 witness-box. Indeed, she had confessed to Ivy last 
 evening that Sir Joseph could have made her say black 
 was white and wrong right ! He had dwelt with sinister 
 insistence on the short time that she, Mrs. Lexton, 
 had been left alone with Mr. Lexton on that fatal last 
 afternoon ; nay, more, he had almost gone so far as to 
 imply that, had Nurse Bradfield been faithful to her 
 trust and had not gone out for those few minutes, 
 Jervis Lexton might be alive to-day. Also he had 
 called her "Woman!" She had even appealed to the 
 Judge to protect her — not that that had done her much 
 good. 
 
 The nurse's account of the ordeal she had been 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 217 
 
 through rilled Ivy with such foreboding that she would 
 have done anything, even gone back to the old black 
 days when she and Jervis lived in those poverty- 
 stricken Pimlico lodgings, if she could thereby have 
 wiped out all that had happened since. 
 
 When at last there came the morning, she got up, 
 pale and really ill. Then she waited, in an extremity 
 of nervous fear, till, at last, there came the moment 
 when Mr. Paxton-Smith, looking, so she told herself, 
 like an undertaker, and not at all like his usual jovial 
 self, called in his car to take her to the Old Bailey. 
 
 During their long drive in the crowded streets the 
 lawyer remained almost entirely silent. He had ex- 
 plained and made her rehearse yesterday, carefully and 
 kindly, everything she must say and refrain from 
 saying. 
 
 When passing the Piccadilly end of Bond Street, 
 for the chauffeur, chauffeur-like, had taken them the 
 longest way, a sob escaped Ivy. There had risen before 
 her a vision of care-free, happy nights, spent in danc- 
 ing, and in what old-fashioned people would have called 
 riotous living, within a few yards of where the car was 
 now being held up in the traffic. 
 
 After they had gone on again, her frightened eyes 
 caught glimpses of the newspaper placards. On each 
 one was blazoned forth her now notorious name : 
 
 LEXTON MYSTERY. 
 LEXTON MURDER. 
 NURSE IN THE BOX. 
 
 Though she was singularly unimaginative, Ivy 
 shuddered as she told herself that, in a couple of hours 
 
218 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 from now, maybe, there would be the words, "Mrs. 
 Lexton in the Box," or, worse by far, "Mrs. Lexton 
 Cross-examined." 
 
 At last, after what seemed both to Paxton-Smith 
 and to his client a long drive, the car drew up by a side 
 door of the great frowning building called by that name 
 of dread to every evildoer the Old Bailey. 
 
 What an awesome, and in some ways superb, specta- 
 cle is the scene presented by every British trial for 
 murder! And if this is always true, even in the hum- 
 blest country town Assize Court, how much more tense 
 and awe-inspiring is what takes place in the court- 
 house of the Old Bailey, when the prisoner in the dock 
 is the central figure in a murder mystery which has 
 suddenly become world-famous. Especially is this true 
 when the accused man is putting up a struggle, not 
 only for his life, but what to some men really does 
 mean more than life — his honour. 
 
 Since the war there has appeared in London a new 
 world of idle, luxury-loving human beings who live 
 for pleasure, and who, if their income is fluctuating 
 and uncertain, yet mysteriously appear always plenti- 
 fully provided with ready money to burn on what they 
 call "fun." 
 
 To the eyes of those composing this new world, 
 lovely Ivy Lexton, and good-humoured, popular Jervis 
 Lexton, had been familiar figures, especially during 
 the years when they were merrily engaged in running 
 through their capital. All these people regarded the 
 trial of Roger Gretorex as a spectacle produced and 
 staked for their special benefit, and while the more 
 enterprising and fortunate among them attended each 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 219 
 
 day the exciting proceedings at the Old Bailey, the 
 others all read with avid interest the full accounts of 
 the trial which appeared every morning in whatever 
 happened to be their favourite daily paper. 
 
 Although the case was called the Lexton Mystery, 
 none of the hundreds of thousands of Roger Gretorex's 
 fellow-countrymen and countrywomen, who were fol- 
 lowing each detail of the story as unfolded now day 
 by day in Court, considered that there was very much 
 mystery about it. What was of tense interest, and what 
 formed the real enigma, was the latest variant of the 
 eternal triangle — the story of the relations of the three, 
 wife, husband, and lover. 
 
 One doubt remained in many a mind. That doubt 
 concerned the relations of Ivy Lexton and of Roger 
 Gretorex. To what extent, if any, had that beautiful 
 young woman been involved in her lover's guilt? Was 
 it true that her own feelings, with regard to the young 
 man who had slowly done a husband to death so that 
 a wife should be free, had been simply those which 
 it was known she was going into the witness-box to 
 swear they had been ? Had they really been feelings of 
 kindly and indifferent, not to say tepid, friendship? 
 
 Another question which is always being asked by 
 every student of human nature was asked in this case 
 — that is, whether. a certain kind of exalted passion, 
 the passionate love of a man for a woman which leads 
 to crime, can exist without even a touch of secret en- 
 couragement ? 
 
 The more worldly-wise shook their heads, and said 
 that, whatever romantic poets and novelists may aver, 
 such entirely unrequited passion on the part of an 
 intelligent, educated man is impossible. Surely, before 
 
220 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 such a man as Roger Gretorex had set out to do that 
 awful thing, he must, at any rate, have had some cause 
 to believe that Ivy Lexton, when widowed, would be- 
 come his wife? 
 
 There was yet another point which made this judicial 
 drama appear, to use a phrase sometimes used in such 
 a connection, "a full-dress trial." Justice may be blind, 
 yet she can see the glitter of gold. No money had been 
 spared on either side. Indeed, judging by the array of 
 counsel engaged, there must have been limitless wealth 
 available for the defence. And, in a sense, there 
 was, for Mrs. Gretorex had thrown all the fortune 
 that remained to her into the struggle for her son's 
 life. 
 
 And now, on the fourth day, was approaching the 
 great moment of Roger Gretorex's trial for murder. 
 The highest peak of the fever chart of this drama, 
 which was being watched not only by those who were 
 present in Court, but Dy hundreds of thousands of 
 English-speaking people all over the world, was now 
 about to be reached. 
 
 There came a peculiar rustle through the Court, fol- 
 lowed by a moment of complete silence, as Ivy Lexton 
 stepped, with short, dainty steps into the witness-box, 
 and faced what appeared to her a myriad world of eyes 
 fixed on her pale countenance. In accordance with a 
 strong hint given yesterday by her solicitor, Ivy had not 
 made up her face at all to-day. 
 
 Paxton-Smith, as the tense moments flew by, felt full 
 of admiration for his beautiful client. 
 
 Ivy even remembered everything that he had 
 advised with regard to her behaviour when in the 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 221 
 
 witness-box, including certain things she might well 
 have been pardoned for forgetting. One of these had 
 been that, when answering counsel for the Crown, she 
 should hold her head well up. 
 
 This she obviously tried to do, and when, as more 
 than once happened, she threw what looked like a child- 
 like glance of fear and supplication at the kind, if 
 grave, face of the inquisitor whose only desire was to 
 learn the truth and nothing but the truth, a thrill of 
 sympathy went through her great, silent audience. 
 
 Again, when the flawless oval of her face appeared 
 framed in the tiny little pull-on black hat, and her star- 
 like eyes for a moment looked wild, many a man, 
 watching her, told himself that he could well under- 
 stand, indeed almost sympathise with, any crime being 
 committed by one who loved her, and who longed, as 
 only lovers long, to have the exquisite creature standing 
 there at bay entirely his own. 
 
 But one curious thing was observed by those who 
 note such things. This was that not once did Ivy Lex- 
 ton glance at the prisoner in the dock, during the long 
 examination-in-chief. 
 
 As for Gretorex, he on his side crossed his arms and 
 stared straight before him as if with unseeing eyes, 
 during the whole of the time the woman he had loved 
 with so devoted and trusting a love, remained in the 
 witness-box. 
 
 Sir Jonathan Wright, the leading counsel for the 
 Crown, to whom fate had assigned Ivy Lexton as his 
 principal witness, was very gentle with her, moved, no 
 doubt, by her evident, shrinking fear. But all those 
 present in Court were struck by the clear way she 
 answered the questions concerning her early married 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 life, the loss of Jervis's fortune, and his final, success- 
 ful, effort, to find work. 
 
 It was not until she was questioned as to her relations 
 — her "friendship," as counsel put it — with the prisoner 
 that Ivy's voice for the first time became inaudible, and 
 that the Judge had to admonish her to speak louder. 
 
 But at once she responded with pathetic submission 
 to the flick of the whip. 
 
 "I am sorry to have to press the question, Mrs. 
 Lexton" — and the distinguished man on whom had 
 fallen the, to him, painful duty of conducting the prose- 
 cution did feel really sorry for this lovely, pathetic- 
 looking, young creature — "but I put to you, and most 
 solemnly, the question : What were your real relations 
 to and with Dr. Gretorex?" 
 
 "We were great friends. All three of us were great 
 friends. My husband, too," she answered, in a tone 
 which, if clear, yet quivered with pain. 
 
 "Were your husband and Dr. Gretorex friends be- 
 fore you ever met Dr. Gretorex?" 
 
 Then came a whispered, "I don't know." 
 
 "Eh, what?" 
 
 The Judge, Mr. Justice Mayhew, was old, but none 
 the less keen and clear as regarded his mind, though he 
 was slightly deaf. 
 
 "She does not know, my lord," said Sir Jonathan 
 emphatically. 
 
 Then he turned back to his witness. 
 
 "Do you think they were already acquainted?" 
 
 "I really don't know." And then, perhaps because 
 she saw she was creating a less good impression than 
 had been the case with regard to her other answers, "I 
 think not," she said firmly. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 223 
 
 As the examination went on, it became clear that 
 Ivy Lexton was painfully anxious to say all that was 
 good of Roger Gretorex. More than once she managed 
 to bring into one of her answers to a short question the 
 fact that he had been kind to her — very, very kind. 
 
 And those who listened breathlessly to Ivy's artless 
 story of how the prisoner in the dock had come to love 
 her, were moved by her apparent surprise and grati- 
 tude that he should have been "so kind" to her. 
 
 With quivering lips, again and again, in no wise 
 checked by the man who was taking her, step by step, 
 through the story of these last few months, she said a 
 good Word for the now tragic lover with whom she had 
 been on those terms — peculiar, and yet how usual now- 
 adays — when a beautiful young married woman, while 
 enchanted to take all she can from a man, will yet give 
 nothing in exchange. 
 
 And with every word she uttered, with every 
 apparently spontaneous admission, Ivy threw a secret 
 thought over the sea to Miles Rushworth, and of what 
 he would think to-morrow of what she said, and left 
 unsaid, to-day. 
 
 How strangely drawn out. appeared that first portion 
 of her ordeal, to Ivy herself, and to the man now on 
 trial for his life! Not so to those who listened, with 
 ever-increasing curiosity and excitement, to her admis- 
 sions, omissions, and equivocations. 
 
 But it was generally agreed that, as a matter of fact, 
 the murdered man's wife had very little to reveal, after 
 all. Even the most mindless and stupid of those present 
 knew that the jury only had to look at her, standing 
 there in the witness-box, and then to look at the 
 prisoner in the dock, to know what must have been that 
 
224 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 young man's motive for the crime of which he stood 
 accused. 
 
 Ivy was so helpless-looking, so fragile, so appealing, 
 as well as so exceedingly lovely. She seemed, indeed, 
 to some of those watching her, like some poor little 
 delicate furry creature caught in a cruel steel trap. 
 
 Had she flirted dangerously, heartlessly, with Roger 
 Gretorex? Even that seemed doubtful to some of those 
 listening to her low-toned replies to counsel for the 
 Crown. 
 
 There were women now watching her intently who 
 had come into Court that day with the strongest pre- 
 judice against Ivy Lexton. Yet they were conquered by 
 what appeared to be her effortless, youthful charm, 
 as also by her evident suffering. And then her many 
 pitiful little efforts to say the best she could say for this 
 man who had loved her moved her own sex, in some 
 cases, to tears. 
 
 Many a woman there told herself that the witness 
 now in the box had once loved the prisoner in the dock, 
 even though she had not known it then, and though she 
 would deny it, no doubt, even to herself, now. 
 
 At last came the moment which Ivy had visualised 
 hundreds of times in the last few days — the moment, 
 that is, when Sir Joseph Molloy rose to begin his cross- 
 examination of the chief witness for the Crown. 
 
 The silence that there had been before was as a loud 
 noise to the silence there was now. But, as always hap- 
 pens, three or four people coughed nervously, and were 
 angrily hushed by those about them. 
 
 What was Sir Joseph going to do? One thing 
 certainly. It would be nothing less than his bare duty 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 225 
 
 to try to prove to the jury that, because she had taken 
 everything, and given nothing, the beautiful wife of 
 Jervis Lexton had goaded this young man, Roger 
 Gretorex, to the frenzy which leads to crime. 
 
 Not long ago Sir Joseph had caused two juries to 
 disagree over what, to the plain man, had been a clear 
 case of murder. That simply because he had been able 
 to prove that the prisoner in the dock, who was a far 
 from prepossessing type of bucolic lover, had been ren- 
 dered jealous to madness by the foolish girl whom he 
 had killed, and this though his act had been clearly 
 premeditated. That had been a very different case from 
 the Lexton case, and one not nearly so exciting to those 
 in Court. Still, there were many present to-day who 
 remembered the terrible cross-examination of the poor 
 dead girl's mother. It had been the way Sir Joseph had 
 dealt with the trembling woman, the admissions he had 
 forced out of her, which had saved his client's life. 
 
Chapter Sixteen 
 
 But even in a court of law, where everything, in spite 
 of what the more ignorant section of the public may 
 think, is arranged and pre-arranged, the unexpected 
 sometimes does happen. 
 
 To the amazement of everybody present, Sir Joseph 
 Molloy was almost as kindly, as courteous, as careful 
 of hurting her feelings, in his cross-examination of Ivy 
 Lexton, as his good friend Sir Jonathan Wright had 
 been during the examination-in-chief. Indeed Sir 
 Joseph, as a famous descriptive writer declared the 
 next morning, was positively dove-like in his gentle- 
 ness. When cross-examining Mrs. Jervis Lexton, his 
 object seemed to be simply that of proving that Roger 
 Gretorex, in everyday life, had been a considerate, 
 chivalrous, and extremely unselfish friend. And that 
 had already been freely admitted by the leading counsel 
 for the Crown. 
 
 True, there came a moment when Sir Joseph, who 
 found it painfully difficult to play the role he had 
 faithfully promised Roger Gretorex to play, pressed 
 Ivy just a little hard as to what form of words the 
 prisoner had used on the last occasion he had made love 
 to her. 
 
 The witness broke down, for the first time, over that 
 probing question, and it was sobbing that she asked : 
 "Must I answer that?' 
 
 The Judge explained to her, kindly, enough, "Yes, 
 prisoner's counsel is entitled to an answer to that 
 question. But if you cannot remember the exact form 
 226 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 227 
 
 of words which were used on that occasion, you are 
 entitled to say so." 
 
 And then she replied, uttering the words very clearly 
 this time : "I can only remember that he said he loved 
 me, and that were I free he hoped I would become his 
 wife." 
 
 Now those were the last words Sir Joseph had in- 
 tended Ivy Lexton to utter in answer to his question. 
 And the knowledge that this was so caused a murmur 
 of — was it amusement? — to run through the Court. 
 The public much enjoy hearing a witness score off 
 counsel. 
 
 "And what did you answer to that ?" he asked sharply. 
 
 And then, as Ivy again began sobbing, shrugging his 
 great shoulders he signified that his cross-examination 
 of the principal witness for the Crown was over. 
 
 Some of those present in Court were cruel enough to 
 regret that Sir Joseph had not been up to his usual 
 form. What would not such people have given to have 
 heard what had passed at an interview the great advo- 
 cate had had, only yesterday, with the man now stand- 
 ing rigid in the dock ! 
 
 Sir Joseph Molloy always insisted on seeing any man 
 or woman whom he was about to defend on a charge of 
 murder and, at his final interview with Gretorex, the 
 prisoner had begun by begging him most earnestly to 
 refrain from cross-examining Ivy Lexton. 
 
 But as to that, his counsel had refused to be guided 
 by the accused man's wishes. 
 
 "Do you expect me to put the hangman's rope round 
 your neck?" he had asked harshly. 
 
 Even so, he had promised that he would be very 
 gentle with her. And gentle he had been, all the more 
 
228 THE STpRY OF IVY 
 
 gentle, perhaps, because, at the very end of that pain- 
 ful, curious interview, Gretorex had said to him, gazing 
 right into his eyes : 
 
 "Treat Mrs. Lexton as you yourself would treat the 
 woman you love, or your own cherished sister, were she 
 in the witness-box and you her cross-examiner." 
 
 So it was that, to his bitter regret, Sir Joseph Molloy 
 had behaved, with regard to Ivy, in a way quite foreign 
 to his nature. What he had longed to do was to turn 
 this lovely little creature inside out, and to apply to her, 
 in his own inimitable, almost affectionately feline, 
 manner, that awful Third Degree before which even 
 the innocent trembled. 
 
 After a great deal of anxious thought, he had made 
 up his mind to plead, on his client's behalf, a fit of 
 temporary insanity. He hoped, that is, to persuade the 
 jury that, by some extraordinary combination of cir- 
 cumstances, Jervis Lexton had been suffering in very 
 truth from some commonplace digestive disorder up to 
 that last day when Gretorex, driven mad by jealousy 
 and love, had done the awful deed. Not, that is, as the 
 slow poisoner goes to work, but as a man takes out a 
 knife to stab his rival to the heart. 
 
 That had been, roughly speaking, the line Sir Joseph 
 had intended to take before he had seen his client. But 
 to do that he would have had to play with Ivy 
 Lexton as a powerful cat plays with a young mouse, 
 and that course of action had been absolutely forbid- 
 den by the man whom he now believed innocent, even 
 though reason whispered that he must be guilty. 
 
 Then was it all over — the ordeal she had so dreaded 
 at an end? Ivy felt suddenly as if everything were 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 229 
 
 whirling round her, and indeed she nearly fainted. But 
 she made an effort to pull herself together, and to those 
 who saw her leave the witness-box the expression on 
 her white face appeared deeply pathetic. 
 
 "Bravo! You did splendidly! I'm proud of you," 
 whispered Paxton- Smith. 
 
 And then he asked, "Would you like to stay on in 
 Court, or shall I take you home?" 
 
 He hoped she would say "Home." 
 
 For a moment she looked undecided, then, "I think 
 I would like to stay," she murmured. 
 
 Now that her part was done, and with her legal 
 adviser's "Bravo!" pounding in her ears, she felt she 
 would prefer to be here rather than alone in the flat. 
 Indeed, when Paxton-Smith had found her a comfort- 
 able seat among her friends, she began to feel a curious 
 sense of detachment, as if the drama of the trial being 
 played out before her scarcely concerned her personally 
 at all. 
 
 This strange feeling was really the measure of her 
 profound relief at having, so to speak, weathered the 
 storm of what everyone had told her would be such an 
 awful experience. Why, it hadn't been really terrible at 
 all ! There had been moments of her examination — not 
 of her cross-examination — which in a sense Ivy had 
 almost enjoyed. She had been able to make herself out, 
 to the great company of people about her, what she 
 believed herself to be — a sweet-natured, unselfish little 
 woman, whom everybody loved. . . . 
 
 The appearance of Dr. Berwick in the witness-box 
 gave her a momentary sensation of unease. He was 
 clear, unemotional, and not in the least nervous. 
 
 There was a little tiff between him and counsel when 
 
230 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 he told the story of how he had come in one day, and 
 found the prisoner prescribing for his, Dr. Berwick's, 
 patient. It was put to him as a fact that Gretorex had 
 not made out any form of prescription and that when 
 he was "caught" apparently doing so, he had only 
 been writing down the name of an ordinary gargle, to 
 be found made up in every chemist's shop. Also, at the 
 time he had written down the name of that proprietary 
 preparation, Gretorex was under the impression that, 
 Dr. Lancaster having had an accident, the sick man had 
 no one attending him, at any rate at that moment. 
 
 Even so, Dr. Berwick's evidence was regarded by 
 all those present as very damaging to the prisoner, and 
 Sir Joseph could do nothing with him, save to de- 
 nounce him angrily for not having insisted at once, as 
 soon as he became uneasy, on a second opinion. 
 
 And then Roger Gretorex's famous counsel flung by 
 far the greatest sensation of the trial on the Court. 
 
 In a quiet, toneless voice he observed, as if he was 
 stating the most natural thing in the world, "I do not 
 call any evidence." 
 
 There ran an excited murmur through the, till now, 
 still audience. Everyone had fully expected that the 
 prisoner would give evidence on his own behalf and, 
 to the great majority of those there, the fact that 
 Gretorex had refused to go into the witness-box, not 
 only signed his own death-warrant, but proved con- 
 clusively that Sir Joseph regarded his client as guilty. 
 
 At first Ivy did not understand what it was that 
 had happened. Then two or three of the friends by 
 whom she was surrounded excitedly explained the 
 exact meaning of Sir Joseph's apparently casual 
 remark. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 231 
 
 She, the woman in the case, said nothing in answer 
 to these eager, wordy explanations. Indeed, she seemed 
 hardly to take in all that was being told her. But in- 
 wardly she was feeling, oh! so thankful, so intensely 
 thankful, that Roger Gretorex had refused to give evi- 
 dence. She had been so horribly afraid that when in the 
 witness-box her one-time lover might, unwittingly, give 
 her away. 
 
 It was of Miles Rushworth that she was thinking, 
 ever thinking, deep in what she called her heart. He 
 had been to her the only audience that mattered, while 
 she had been examined and cross-examined as to her 
 relations with the prisoner. 
 
 "And now," whispered someone just behind her, 
 "comes the closing speech for the Crown. " 
 
 Ivy was not particularly interested in the closing 
 speech for the Crown. And, truth to tell, neither was 
 anyone else in Court, excepting, it must be hoped, the 
 jury. 
 
 Sir Jonathan sat down at the end of — was it twenty 
 minutes, or only a quarter of an hour ? 
 
 There was a short moment of breathing space, and 
 then all prepared to give their best attention while Sir 
 Joseph Molloy started what was afterwards described 
 as "his great speech for the defence." 
 
 But though it may have been a great speech, it was 
 a very short speech, for the famous advocate knew that 
 the only hope of saving Gretorex from the gallows 
 would be to make the kind of appeal to the jury which 
 is always made in France with regard to what is called 
 there a crime passionnel. 
 
 The fact that Sir Joseph had not elected to call 
 any evidence gave him, as all those instructed in the 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 law who listened to him were well aware, the last word. 
 And he made the most of his privilege. 
 
 More than once during the course of what was 
 simply a noble panegyric of Roger Gretorex, the 
 prisoner went from deathly pale to very red. He would 
 have given many of his few remaining days of life to 
 close his powerful advocate's mouth. Also, what was 
 the use of it all ? Gretorex knew as well as did the Judge 
 that the fact that he was high-minded, chivalrous, the 
 best of sons to a widowed mother, and a man whose 
 money affairs were in perfect order, had nothing to do 
 with the question as to whether he had committed the 
 murder for which he was being tried. Neither, for the 
 matter of that, would the fact that he had adored the 
 wife of Jervis Lexton, and had gone temporarily mad 
 for love of her, save him from the gallows. 
 
 One man, on whom by accident the prisoner's eyes 
 were fixed for a moment, actually shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, when Sir Joseph brought in a swift allusion to 
 the fact that one of the prisoner's great-uncles had died 
 in a lunatic asylum. 
 
 Now the Judge desired — indeed they all desired-^-to 
 finish the case that day. 
 
 "Do you wish to stay on for the summing-up and 
 for the verdict ?" whispered Paxton-Smith to his client. 
 
 Again he hoped that Ivy would — well? have the 
 decency to rise and say, "No, I will go home, now." 
 
 But instead of saying "No," she whispered, "Yes, I 
 think I should like to do that." 
 
 And then, in slow, impressive tones, the Judge be- 
 gan his summing-up. 
 
 Though Mr. Justice Mayhew took what seemed to be 
 a considerable time, his was one of the shortest 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 233 
 
 addresses to a jury ever delivered in an important 
 trial for murder at the Old Bailey. The story he had to 
 recapitulate was, in a sense, so very ordinary. It had 
 been unfolded, in all its stark simplicity, by a tiny 
 handful of witnesses, including of course the most 
 important of them all, the young wife of the murdered 
 man. 
 
 Even so, speaking himself with impressive clarity, 
 the Judge went over the now well-known tale step by 
 step. And finally his lordship directed the jury that 
 the fact that a man has been what is loosely called 
 "driven mad" by love does not mean that he is not 
 capable of keeping command over his faculties. Why, 
 at the very time this was supposed to have happened 
 to the prisoner, he was in charge of a large medical 
 practice, and carrying out all the responsible, anxious 
 duties attached to such a practice in an admirable 
 manner ! 
 
 "We have here the not uncommon case of a strong 
 man's infatuation for a beautiful woman who gives 
 him little, if any, encouragement, ,, he observed. 
 
 And there was a murmur of disapproval when one of 
 Ivy's women friends gave a sudden little cackle of 
 laughter, to the shocked surprise of everyone in Court. 
 
 The Judge brushed aside with relentless logic any 
 effect that might have been produced on the jury by 
 Sir Joseph Molloy's moving account of Gretorex as a 
 wise, unselfish physician, a devoted son, and within 
 the possible limit a generous landlord. No doubt all 
 that was true. But the whole history of crime was there 
 to prove that a person could be all these excellent 
 things, while being also a cruel, callous, secret mur- 
 derer. 
 
234 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 In this case, assuming Gretorex was guilty, the man 
 who had been slowly done to death had been the secret 
 poisoner's own familiar friend, his boon-companion in 
 many a party of careless pleasure. Further, the man be- 
 fore them, the prisoner in the dock, had not even dared 
 to go into the witness-box. The Judge pointed out in 
 solemn, measured tones that he had the right to com- 
 ment, and comment most seriously, on that omission. 
 
 As the afternoon wore itself away, every one became 
 very weary. Even Ivy began to wish that she had gone 
 away when Paxton-Smith had last suggested that she 
 should do so. 
 
 She stole a glance at Roger Gretorex. He was look- 
 ing straight at the Judge, with a thoughtful, measuring 
 glance. He looked far more himself, his reserved, 
 intelligent self, than he had done when Sir Joseph 
 was engaged in making that dramatic, useless appeal 
 to the jury. 
 
 Ivy Lexton gazed at the prisoner in the dock with a 
 strange feeling at hei heart. In a sense she was still 
 proud of this man who had been her devout, adoring 
 lover. He looked so brave, so cool, so completely self- 
 possessed. The majority of those who now and again 
 glanced his way to see how he was "taking it" thought 
 him revoltingly callous. 
 
 And, at the same moment that Ivy was doing so, 
 Roger's mother stole a look at him. Her heart was full 
 of such agony that she felt as if merciful death might 
 suddenly intervene and end it all for her. And her 
 agony was shared, one is tempted to say, almost to the 
 full, by the girl who sat beside her. 
 
 At last the summing up was over. The prisoner was 
 taken below, and then began the waiting for the verdict. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 235 
 
 To many of those in Court the jury seemed to be 
 away a long, long time. Yet as a matter of fact, it was 
 only a bare half -hour before all those who had gone 
 out to stretch their legs, and talk over for the hun- 
 dredth time the only real point of mystery in the story, 
 came swarming back into the Court. 
 
 Slowly, almost in a leisurely way, the nine jurymen 
 and the three jury women filed in. Some of those pres- 
 ent noticed that not a single juror looked at the 
 prisoner, who had been brought back to the dock and 
 now stood at ease between two warders. 
 
 Although the verdict was a foregone conclusion, 
 every human being there looked strained, anxious ; and 
 Ivy Lexton again felt sick and faint. For the first time 
 since she stepped into the witness-box no one was 
 looking at her, for everyone was looking at the 
 jury. 
 
 Everything being now ready, the Judge returned to 
 the bench, all those who were seated in Court rising to 
 their feet. 
 
 The Judge, having bowed to the Court, seated him- 
 self, and so, apparently, did everyone else there, ex- 
 cept the three men, the prisoner and his custodians, 
 standing in the dock. 
 
 Then the Clerk of the Court asked the fateful 
 question : 
 
 "Members of the jury, have you agreed upon your 
 verdict ?" 
 
 There was a pause, but at last the foreman of the 
 jury, a nervous, intelligent-looking man, who was 
 evidently intensely relieved that his responsible task 
 was now over, answered in a clear tone, "We have." 
 
 "Do you find the prisoner, Roger Kingston 
 
236 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Gretorex, guilty or not guilty of the wilful murder of 
 Jervis Lexton?" 
 
 There was a scarcely perceptible wait, and then came 
 the one word — "Guilty." 
 
 And it was as if there swept a great sigh through 
 the now lighted Court, followed by a sudden buzz of 
 talk. 
 
 But this was instantly quelled when the ushers cried 
 sternly, "Silence !" 
 
 All eyes were now fixed on the prisoner. He was 
 standing far more stiffly to attention than he had done 
 a moment ago, as the clear tones of the Clerk of the 
 Court rang out : 
 
 "Roger Kingston Gretorex, you stand convicted of 
 wilful murder. Have you anything to say for yourself 
 why the Court should not give you judgment according 
 tcr law?" 
 
 "Only that I am innocent." 
 
 The five words were uttered in a cool, firm tone. 
 
 It was the second time during the whole course of 
 the trial that anyone there had heard Roger Gretorex's 
 voice. 
 
 Ivy felt better now, and she watched everything that 
 went on with eager, excited interest. 
 
 Sitting near the Judge was a young man to whom no 
 one had before paid any special attention. But now 
 every eye was fixed on him, for it was he who lifted a 
 square of black cloth, and placed it, with careful de- 
 liberation, on the Judge's wig. 
 
 Then solemn, slow, emphatic tones of admonition 
 fell on the heavy air. They were not cruel words, for 
 the Judge felt deeply sorry for the young man before 
 him. He had heard, only last evening at a dinner-party 3 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 237 
 
 something of the quiet, kindly, useful life that Mrs. 
 Gretorex and her son had both led since the death of 
 the husband and father who had caused their financial 
 ruin. 
 
 And then came the awful words — 
 
 "Roger Kingston Gretorex, the jury, after a careful 
 and patient hearing, have found you guilty of the wilful 
 murder of Jervis Lexton. The sentence of the Court 
 upon you is that you be taken from here to a lawful 
 prison, and from there to a place of execution ; and that 
 you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead; 
 and that your body be buried within the precincts of 
 the prison in which you shall have been last confined 
 after your conviction ; and may the Lord have mercy 
 on your soul." 
 
 As Ivy Lexton, supported by a number of her 
 friends and acquaintances, left the Old Bailey by a 
 back way, she chanced in the passage to meet Mrs. 
 Gretorex face to face. The eyes of the two women 
 crossed — and a stab of horrible pain flashed across the 
 worn, yet even now calm, face of Roger Gretorex's 
 mother. 
 
Chapter Seventeen 
 
 "I took Mrs. Gretorex a nice cup of tea at seven 
 o'clock, for I heard her moving about even before then. 
 But the poor lady only just sipped it. She said her 
 throat seemed swollen, so she couldn't swallow. But 
 she's up now, and I do wish, miss, you'd go in and try 
 and persuade her to have just a little bit of breakfast. 
 Me and my husband — well — we both fairly broke down 
 and cried last night, when we thought of how we'd feel 
 if it was our boy that was going to be hanged by the 
 neck till he was dead." 
 
 "I hope she doesn't let her mind dwell on that," 
 Enid's pale face went a shade paler, as she looked into 
 the kind, pitying eyes of Mrs. Gretorex's landlady. 
 
 "How can she help hearing those awful words 
 a-ringing in her ears? Why they rings in mine, ever 
 since yesterday ! I'm sorry I did stay till the end. A 
 friend warned me, so she did. She says to me, 'Maria, 
 you'll enjoy every bit of it up to the jury coming back. 
 But if I was you I'd leave the Court before the Judge 
 puts on his black cap.' I wish I'd done that now !" 
 
 As Enid advanced into the sitting-room, and saw 
 Mrs. Gretorex's figure leaning back in the deep grand- 
 father's chair, she thought for one moment — and to 
 her it was a blessed moment — that her dear old friend 
 was dead, that she had died, literally, of a broken heart, 
 so rigid was the lonely looking figure, so calm and 
 white the face, so pale the lips. 
 
 But Roger Gretorex's mother was not dead, and 
 hearing Enid's footsteps, she opened her eyes. 
 
 238 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 239 
 
 "I want you to have something to eat, Mrs. 
 Gretorex. Mr. Oram told me yesterday that he thought 
 you might be allowed to see Roger to-day. You must 
 keep up your strength." 
 
 "I will," said the other quietly. "But it's an odd 
 thing, Enid, when that kind soul brought in my cup 
 of tea this morning I found I couldn't swallow. Per- 
 haps I can now. At any rate I'll try." 
 
 Enid came up a little closer to the big chair. 
 
 "I wonder if you would think it strange if I went 
 and had a talk with Mr. Finch?" she said a little ner- 
 vously. 
 
 "With Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Gretorex looked surprised. 
 
 "From something he said the other day, I gathered 
 that he has some theory which is not shared by Mr. 
 Oram. I should like to know what it is. Somehow I feel 
 that there must be something we could do " 
 
 There was such a fervour of revolt, of anguish, in 
 the steady voice, that the older woman for one moment 
 forgot her own agony. 
 
 She felt deeply moved; even she had not realised 
 how much Enid cared. The girl had kept an entire curb 
 over her feeling during the terrible days that the two 
 had sat next to one another in Court. 
 
 She got up from her chair, and came close up to 
 Enid Dent. 
 
 "I feel as if there was nothing left, for me at any 
 rate, to do but to endure." 
 
 "I feel," cried the girl, "as if there was a great deal 
 left to do! Mr. Oram is an old man, Mrs. Gretorex, 
 and though he's been so awfully good to us, I've had 
 the feeling " then she stopped. 
 
 "I know," replied Mrs. Gretorex in a low voice. 
 
240 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "I realise, too, that he believes that Roger did that 
 awful thing." 
 
 "But Mr. Finch," said Enid eagerly, "knows that 
 Roger is innocent! Would you mind my going and 
 seeing him? He's always at the office long before Mr. 
 Oram arrives there in the morning." 
 
 "You can do exactly what you think best. I trust you 
 entirely; so, I know, does Roger." 
 
 Twenty minutes later Enid Dent was sitting in the 
 rather drab-looking waiting-room, lined with steel- 
 bound boxes, where she had spent, during the last few 
 weeks, many dreary, anxious minutes. But this time she 
 had not long to wait, for Mr. Oram's head clerk soon 
 appeared, a look of surprise on his face. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll think I've come very early," she 
 said nervously. "But the truth is, Mr. Finch, I wanted 
 to have a short talk with you. And I was anxious to see 
 you before Mr. Oram arrived here this morning." 
 
 "You come up now, at once, to Mr. Oram's room, 
 Miss Dent. He won't be here to-day, at all." 
 
 A feeling of relief swept over Enid Dent. She had a 
 regard for Mr. Oram, but she was also rather afraid of 
 him. And she resented keenly a fact which had become 
 at once apparent to her — that he was convinced, even 
 if most unwillingly, of his client's guilt. 
 
 Enid had a direct, honest nature, as have so many 
 people who yet do not wear their hearts upon their 
 sleeves. So it was that when the two were together in 
 Mr. Oram's room, she began without any preamble: 
 
 "From something you said the other day, Mr. Finch, 
 I understood that you believe there's some as yet quite 
 unsuspected mystery behind this story of Jervis Lex- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 241 
 
 ton's death. If I am right, will you tell me what it is 
 you do think? Also whether anything can be done to 
 bring the truth to light before — " And then once 
 more she repeated that word "before," which may 
 mean so very much or so very little in life. 
 
 Alfred Finch felt and looked uncomfortable. To 
 make a remark in a casual way is very different from 
 being pinned down, and asked what it is exactly that 
 you meant by saying what you did. But the girl was 
 looking at him with such anxious, appealing eyes, and, 
 after all, if he was a fool, he was being a fool in good 
 company, that of the great Sir Joseph Molloy himself. 
 
 Mr. Oram's head clerk and the famous counsel had 
 •become friends over the Lexton case, and what Mr. 
 Finch was about to expound to Enid Dent as his own 
 theory was really Sir Joseph Molloy's theory. Not, as 
 he intended carefully to explain, as to what had cer- 
 tainly happened, but as to what might conceivably have 
 happened, to provide an explanation of what seemed 
 inexplicable — how, that is, Jervis Lexton had come by 
 his death. 
 
 "You may be aware," he began a little nervously, 
 "that there is a section of the public, including whom 
 I may call our most noted amateur criminologists, 
 who are convinced that we needn't go further than 
 Mrs. Lexton herself. Their view is that, apart from 
 Mr. Roger, no one else, except the lady who is now 
 his widow, can have had the slightest motive for getting 
 rid of poor Lexton. Now I don't share that view at 
 all !" 
 
 "Neither do I," said Enid quickly. "We all know 
 that Mrs. Lexton had every reason for wanting her 
 husband to remain alive." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "But what I do believe," and a queer expression 
 came over Alfred Finch's shrewd face, "is that Mrs. 
 Lexton knows a good deal more than she admitted 
 yesterday in the witness-box. I can't help suspecting 
 that there is some man, a stranger to the case, but well 
 known to her, who had some vital interest in compass- 
 ing Jervis Lexton's death. Far stranger things happen 
 in real life than any novelist would dare to put in a 
 story, Miss Dent. Men, aye, and women too, are more 
 unscrupulous than any ordinary person would im- 
 agine. Even Mr. Oram would agree to that. If we can 
 find among Mrs. Lexton's admirers — and she has a 
 goodish few — some wealthy man who is in love with 
 her, and who has easy access to any form of arsenic, 
 we might have something like new evidence to offer 
 when the case comes up on appeal." 
 
 "But if that is true," said Enid quickly, "then the 
 nurse must have known that Mr. Lexton had some 
 other visitor within a few hours of his death — and the 
 parlourmaid who gave evidence as to admitting Dr. 
 Gretorex the afternoon before Mr. Lexton died must 
 have known it too." 
 
 Alfred Finch looked straight into the girl's now 
 flushed, anxious face. 
 
 "What is it," he asked impressively, "that rules the 
 whole world to-day?" 
 
 And, as he saw she looked bewildered, he snapped 
 out the one word, "Money ! What Mrs. Lexton and her 
 lot call 'the ready.' " 
 
 What did he mean? In what way could money have 
 played a part in this sinister business? 
 
 His next words enlightened her. 
 
 "Money can do anything nowadays, for everybody 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 243 
 
 wants money, and spends money as they never did 
 before. Believe me, Miss Dent, no one, in these days, 
 is incorruptible. " 
 
 "What a terrible thing to say — even to think !" ex- 
 claimed Enid. 
 
 "It may be terrible, but it's the truth, Miss Dent! 
 And it's particularly true when one considers the peo- 
 ple who were mixed up in this affair. All women, and 
 poor themselves, mark you. I don't mean to imply for 
 a moment that they meant to connive at murder. My 
 view is that their mouths, maybe, were shut with gold 
 before they had any idea what it was that they were 
 going to be asked to stay 'mum' about. But then ? Well, 
 then, they wisely, in their own interest, continued to 
 keep their mouths shut!" 
 
 "I see," said Enid slowly. 
 
 "I was very much struck by the demeanour of that 
 Nurse Bradfield in the witness-box," he went on 
 eagerly. "Sir Joseph reduced her to a drivelling state 
 of terror. Now, why was that ? You remember, maybe, 
 how he pressed her as to who else came to the flat 
 besides Mr. Roger; and how at last she had to admit 
 that several ladies and gentlemen came there, and that 
 often she really didn't know who they were ! Now, isn't 
 that a singular thing? We have the master of the house 
 lying ill — not ill enough to have a night nurse, but still, 
 ill enough to have a nurse all day. And yet a lot ofj 
 people come and go — to lunch, to play bridge, and to 
 take Mrs. Lexton out in the evening! Now that, to me, 
 sounds very odd, not to say suspicious." 
 
 "I quite agree that it does seem strange and heart- 
 less," said Enid in a troubled tone. "But I liked Nurse 
 Bradfield. I thought her a truthful woman, though it 
 
244 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 was plain she was awfully frightened of Sir Joseph." 
 
 "I never can understand why an honest witness 
 should feel frightened when in the witness-box," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Finch in a tone of contempt. 
 
 "Oh, I can understand it so well !" cried the girl. 
 "I know I should be terrified, especially if Sir Joseph 
 were cross-examining me as he cross-examined that 
 poor woman." 
 
 "Well, be that as it may, Miss Dent, my point is 
 that it came out very clearly that a certain number of 
 men, all friends and admirers of that pretty little lady, 
 came in and out of the flat during the poor chap's 
 illness." 
 
 "And you actually think that Mrs. Lexton " and 
 
 while she was seeking for the right word he broke in 
 with: 
 
 "If my theory is correct, I am inclined to think that 
 Mrs. Lexton must have a shrewd suspicion as to who 
 the man was who did that terrible thing — and I shan't 
 be at all surprised if she makes what is commonly 
 called a good marriage before the year is out!" 
 
 "But what an awful thing — to allow an innocent 
 man " 
 
 Again he cut across her words : "She's a thoroughly 
 selfish woman, and only thinks of herself. But capable 
 of murder?" he shook his head. "Oh no, Miss Dent! 
 The folk who are inclined to think that of her know 
 but little about human nature. I don't claim to know 
 more of the set Mrs. Lexton lives in than one can 
 gather from the newspapers, and perhaps I ought to 
 say from proceedings in the Bankruptcy Court. But, 
 though they'll do almost anything for money, those 
 sort of people stop short at murder, believe me." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 245 
 
 "Still, you do think it possible that Mrs. Lexton may 
 be shielding a murderer?" 
 
 Mr. Finch hesitated. "That's it exactly. I think she 
 may be shielding a murderer. How did she strike you 
 in the witness-box ?" 
 
 "I thought her very clever," said Enid Dent slowly. 
 "Her one object was to produce a good impression, 
 and she succeeded." 
 
 Instinctively Mr. Finch lowered his voice. 
 
 "I watched her very carefully, and listened even 
 more carefully, while she was in the witness-box, and I 
 made up my mind that she believes Dr. Gretorex to be 
 an innocent man. Did I say believe ? I think she knows 
 he is innocent." 
 
 "I think another thing," said Enid, and she, too, al- 
 lowed her voice to drop. 
 
 "What's that, Miss Dent?" Mr. Finch bent forward. 
 
 "I feel quite sure" — and suddenly her pale face 
 became red — "that Roger suspects who did it. I think 
 that's why he wouldn't give evidence." 
 
 "God bless my soul," exclaimed Mr. Finch, "I never 
 thought of that ! You may be right, after all. But if it's 
 true, well, then he's " 
 
 "Very quixotic?" 
 
 "No, Miss Dent. Saving your presence, I was going 
 to say he's a damn fool." 
 
Chapter Eighteen 
 
 That same morning, the morning after the con- 
 clusion of Gretorex's trial, Ivy awoke late. For a mo- 
 ment she remembered nothing, for she had gone 
 through a very terrible strain the previous day, a 
 greater strain than she herself had been aware of, at 
 the time. 
 
 And then, all at once she remembered — remembered 
 everything, and a sense of something akin to ecstasy 
 flooded her heart. She flung her white arms above her 
 head and stretched herself out luxuriously. Then — for 
 it was very cold — she snuggled down into bed again. 
 
 How marvellous to know that her ordeal was over. 
 All over — all over! That from now on she need never 
 see any of the people who had been connected with this 
 awful episode in her life. Perhaps, though, she would 
 make an exception as to Paxton-Smith, for he had been 
 so awfully kind to her, and he admired her so much ! 
 His description of how brave and plucky she had been 
 in the witness-box would surely delight Miles Rush- 
 worth. Yes, Paxton-Smith should remain her friend. 
 
 Meanwhile she would follow his advice. She would 
 go away, that is, to the country for a few days, to the 
 delightful cottage near Brighton belonging to Lady 
 Flora Desmond. She could not go to-day, unluckily, 
 for Lady Flora had lent the cottage to some tiresome 
 people. But they would be leaving soon, and then she 
 would go down there and have a thorough rest. 
 
 Ivy felt she wanted what some of her friends called 
 ''a rest cure," after all she had gone through. 
 
 All at once there came a knock on the bedroom dooi 
 
 -246 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 247 
 
 — a knock, and a quick whispered conversation outside. 
 Something, too, very like a giggle. 
 
 She called out sharply "Come in," and the day maid 
 came in with a broad grin on her young face. 
 
 "Cook thought maybe that you'd like to see the 
 paper she takes in, ma'am. There's such a beautiful 
 picture of you in it!" 
 
 And on the pink silk eiderdown the maid put down 
 two picture papers, the one that Ivy always glanced at 
 every day, and another paper. 
 
 Why, yes — there was the picture, and a very good 
 one, too. Ivy had been snapped by a Press photogra- 
 pher just as she had stood on the doorstep of Duke of 
 Kent Mansion, a moment before she got into Paxton- 
 Smith's car. She gazed with pleasure at all the details 
 of her becoming costume. What a good thing that she 
 had bought that charming little model hat just before 
 poor Jervis's death. She had soon discovered that what 
 is called "mourning headgear" is apt to be singularly 
 unbecoming. 
 
 "It does look nice, ma'am, don't it? Cook says as 
 how you looked bewitching while you was giving evi- 
 dence," ventured the girl. 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of how I was looking," said Ivy. 
 
 And indeed this was the truth. As she had stood 
 up there, the target of all eyes, she had only thought 
 of her coming cross-examination by Sir Joseph Molloy. 
 
 And then the girl made a mistake, and she knew 
 that she had done so as soon as she had said the words. 
 
 "It does seem sad about that poor Dr. Gretorex, 
 don't it ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 For at once Ivy burst into tears — angry, frightened 
 tears. It was too bad, too bad, when she herself had 
 
248 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 succeeded this morning in entirely banishing Roger 
 from her mind, that he should be thus stupidly, cruelly, 
 thrust into it again. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!" 
 And the tactless young woman almost ran out of the 
 room. 
 
 Nurse Bradfield came in to see what was the matter. 
 She looked wan and worn. Unlike Ivy, she had not 
 slept the previous night ; unlike Ivy, the face of Roger 
 Gretorex, especially his expression as he had uttered, 
 in answer to the awful question, the quiet words, "Only 
 that I am innocent," rang in her ears. 
 
 She had felt then, and she still felt now, a most 
 painful sensation of doubt. 
 
 Was it possible, was it conceivable, that Gretorex 
 was innocent after all, and that her patient had secretly 
 done himself to death? 
 
 Every nurse comes across strange and most unex- 
 pected happenings in the course of her work. And 
 Nurse Bradfield, though in a sense she had had an 
 uneventful career, had yet been more than once very 
 much startled and surprised by the astonishing things 
 people will sometimes do. 
 
 She sat down, now, on the bed, and put her arms 
 round the slender figure, still shaken by angry, 
 frightened sobs. 
 
 "I know how you're feeling, Mrs. Lexton," she 
 whispered. "I, too, can't get Dr. Gretorex out of my 
 mind. But there's still a chance, you know, that some- 
 thing may be found out, even now. I mean between 
 now and his appeal. Mrs. Berwick told me last night 
 that she knows some great friends of Sir Joseph Mol- 
 loy, and that he honestly does believe Dr. Gretorex to 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 249 
 
 be innocent. She says that Sir Joseph is going to leave 
 no stone unturned to try to prove his innocence. He's 
 in a terrible state about it all, and he was very dis- 
 tressed at Dr. Gretorex refusing to give evidence on his 
 own behalf." 
 
 "But you think he did it, don't you, nurse?" 
 
 Ivy lifted her tear-stained eyes and gazed at the 
 older woman. 
 
 "I did think so," muttered Nurse Bradfield. "And 
 even now I can't see any other explanation. You and I 
 know quite well that Mr. Lexton was not the sort of 
 man to do away with himself." 
 
 "Of course he wasn't !" exclaimed Ivy, with a touch 
 of indignation. 
 
 The nurse sighed. "Such extraordinary things do 
 happen in life," she observed. 
 
 "What is it Sir Joseph Molloy thinks he can find 
 out? Did Mrs. Berwick tell you that?" asked Ivy. 
 
 She put the question in a careless tone, but she 
 really wanted to know; indeed she was very, very 
 anxious to discover what it was that Sir Joseph Molloy 
 meant to do. 
 
 "What he says he means to find out," said the nurse, 
 "is whether there wasn't some other person in the 
 world who had a motive for getting rid of Mr. Lexton, 
 besides Dr. Gretorex. He's got a sort of an idea that 
 there must have been someone else — someone who's 
 not been thought of yet — someone whose name didn't 
 appear in the case." 
 
 And then was heard a hesitating knock on the door, 
 and the maid came in agairi, looking very much subdued. 
 
 On the silver salver lay what had become Ivy's daily 
 cable from South Africa. 
 
250 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 She saw a curious look flash over Nurse Bradfield's 
 face. As a matter of fact, those daily cables were a 
 source of much interest and speculation to the house- 
 hold, now composed, apart from Ivy, of three women. 
 It was the more mysterious as Mrs. Lexton never left 
 those thick telegrams lying about. The daily cable al- 
 ways disappeared within a comparatively short time of 
 her receipt of the buff-coloured envelope. 
 
 Ivy did not open the envelope. She put it on a little 
 table by the side of her bed, and went on talking and 
 listening. 
 
 "Everyone in Court admired the way you gave your 
 evidence, Mrs. Lexton. Mr. Paxton-Smith told me you 
 were the best witness he had ever had. Indeed, he said 
 that you were just perfection ! Not too shy, and not too 
 bold. So clear, too! Every word you said could be 
 heard, even where I was sitting." 
 
 And then the speaker added, with considerable 
 heat, "Some of the people there seemed to me like 
 hyenas! Blood — blood — blood — that's what they 
 wanted, the horrid ghouls! Why, there was a man just 
 behind me who said he hoped that Sir Joseph would 
 make mincemeat of you " 
 
 "I know that some of them wanted that," mur- 
 mured Ivy. 
 
 "The story goes," went on Nurse Bradfield, "that 
 Dr. Gretorex begged Sir Joseph to leave you alone." 
 "I wonder if he did?" 
 
 That had not occurred to Ivy. But now, of course, 
 she knew this to be almost certainly the reason Sir 
 Joseph had been so — so unlike what everyone had ex- 
 pected him to be. 
 
 And then there did come over her a little glimmer 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 251 
 
 of gratitude. Yes, Roger certainly loved her. No one 
 would ever care for her as he cared. She remembered, 
 now, his having once said that he would go through ary 
 torture in order to save her a moment's pain. Well? 
 Poor Roger hadn't really gone through torture exactly 
 — that sort of thing has been given up long ago, luckily. 
 Still, it was very touching that, even in his own time of 
 danger, he had thought of her and of her reputation. 
 
 After Nurse Bradfield had left the room, and after 
 Ivy's light breakfast had been brought in and arranged 
 on the bed-table, she broke open Rushworth's cable. 
 
 My sister died yesterday. Sailing for home the day after 
 to-morrow. Will keep you advised by wireless of exact date 
 of my return. I have been thinking of you night and day. 
 
 Rushworth coming back now, almost at once ? Small 
 wonder that a feeling of ecstasy flooded Ivy Lexton's 
 whole being. She had gone through a terrible ordeal, 
 but that which was already in sight would make up 
 for everything. 
 
 She jumped out of bed and locked her door. Then 
 she went over to the fireplace, and watched the flimsy 
 sheets curl up and become thin and black in the flames. 
 After the first, she had always burnt each of Rush- 
 worth's cables as soon as she had read it through. 
 Somehow it seemed to her safer to do so. 
 
 Unlocking the door, she rang for the maid to put on 
 her bath, for she wanted to go out and telegraph to 
 Miles Rushworth. 
 
 It was half -past ten when Ivy came back to the flat. 
 "There's a young lady to see you in the drawing- 
 room, ma'am," said the maid. 
 
252 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Ivy walked into the room smiling, for she expected 
 to see waiting for her one of the many women belong- 
 ing to her old, idle, easy life. Why shouldn't they go 
 out together shopping, and then come back to lunch ? 
 
 But the smile froze on her face, for it was a stranger 
 who rose and confronted her. Certainly a stranger, 
 and yet somehow she had a disturbing feeling that 
 she had seen her visitor before, and in disagreeable 
 circumstances. 
 
 Then all at once, with a feeling of sharp annoyance, 
 she realised that this was the girl who had been sitting 
 with Mrs. Gretorex during the concluding hours of 
 Roger's trial yesterday. And when she, Ivy, and 
 Roger's mother had met face to face in a corridor of 
 the Old Bailey, the stranger had been there too. 
 
 "I hope you'll forgive my coming in this way withv 
 out having first asked if you would see me," said Enid 
 Dent. "But the matter is very urgent, Mrs. Lexton, 
 and the time is short, very short, between now and 
 Roger Gretorex's appeal, otherwise I feel sure Mrs. 
 Gretorex would have come herself. Unfortunately, she 
 is ill to-day." 
 
 As Ivy still said nothing, only looked at her with an 
 expression of fear, and yes, of dislike, on her lovely 
 face, Enid exclaimed desperately, "I am sure you 
 would do anything to help Roger Gretorex, Mrs. 
 Lexton ?" 
 
 And then Ivy did what all through her life she had 
 often done, when in doubt. She burst into tears. 
 
 "Of course, I'd do anything," she sobbed, "any- 
 thing I could do ! But what can I do? I've gone through 
 such an awful time. No one knows what I've gone 
 through, or how miserable I've been. No one thinks of 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 253 
 
 me!" she ended hysterically. "I feel as if I hadn't a 
 
 friend in the world " 
 
 Enid went up close to her, and touched her on the 
 arm. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said in a troubled tone. "I know 
 how terrible it must have been for you yesterday." 
 
 She felt ashamed of what she had been led to believe 
 by Mr. Finch an hour ago. It seemed incredible to her 
 that the poor little creature before her, now trembling 
 with emotion, could have acted the cruel part Alfred 
 Finch and Sir Joseph believed she was acting, shielding 
 the real murderer of her husband, and condemning 
 an innocent man to a frightful death. 
 
 Ivy saw that she had made a good impression, and 
 she became gradually calm. 
 
 Her one object was to get rid of this tiresome girl 
 quietly. It had been stupid, very stupid, of the maid to 
 allow a stranger to come in and wait, without 
 knowing anything of her business. After all, this girl 
 didn't look in the least like one of her, Ivy's, smart 
 friends. Enid looked, to her critic's practised eyes, a 
 country bumpkin dressed in a plain and by no means 
 expensive, if well-cut, coat and skirt. 
 
 "I suppose," she said politely, "that you're poor 
 Mrs. Gretorex's companion?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Enid, "I am her companion. I've 
 known her all my life; and I'm very, very sorry for 
 her." And then her voice, too, broke. 
 
 "What is it that Mrs. Gretorex thinks I can do?" 
 asked Ivy in a timorous voice. 
 
 As the girl, who was struggling with her tears, an- 
 swered nothing to this: "Of course I'd do anything if 
 I thought it could be of any good," she concluded. 
 
254 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 And then, suddenly, she had an inspiration. 
 
 "People seem to forget all about poor Jervis," she 
 said in a hurt tone. "After all, he was my husband, and 
 I was very fond of him, Miss ?" 
 
 "Dent," said the other quietly. "My name is Enid 
 Dent." 
 
 And then she moved a little farther away from the 
 still fur-clad little figure, for those words, uttered in so 
 pathetic a tone, had suddenly brought Roger before 
 Enid Dent. Roger, God help him, had loved, perhaps 
 still loved, this woman. 
 
 "Well, Miss Dent, no one ever thinks now about 
 poor Jervis, do they?" 
 
 That had been a remark made to Ivy by Paxton- 
 Smith a few days ago, and she had been struck by the 
 truth of it. 
 
 Enid felt a tremor of discomfort flash across her 
 burdened heart. It was quite true that though his 
 mysterious death had formed the subject of a great 
 and searching inquiry, none of them, now, gave any 
 thought to Jervis Lexton, the unfortunate young man 
 who had certainly been poisoned by someone mas- 
 querading as a friend. 
 
 "I do know how you must feel about that," she said 
 in a low voice. "But it's only natural for Mrs. Gret- 
 orex, and the friends of Roger Gretorex, to be think- 
 ing of him rather than of your husband, Mrs. Lexton. 
 You see, we who have known Roger all his life, are 
 absolutely convinced that he is innocent." 
 
 And then Ivy, whose nerves were on edge, suddenly 
 made, in her own immediate interest, a mistake. 
 
 "Everyone / see," she said quickly, defensively, 
 "feels quite sure that Roger Gretorex did do it. You 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 255 
 
 must know that, Miss Dent, though of course I 
 wouldn't say so to his mother." 
 
 "Does that mean that you" — Enid Dent took a step 
 forward, and the other instinctively stepped back as 
 she met the accusing look in the girl's eyes — "yourself 
 are convinced of his guilt, Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 "I don't think you have a right to ask me such a 
 question !" She uttered the rebuke lightly, pettishly. 
 
 Why, oh! why, didn't this tiresome, disagreeable 
 girl go away? She had no business here. Besides, she 
 was only a paid companion. Ivy had a great contempt 
 for any woman earning her own living in a quiet, hum- 
 drum way. 
 
 A tide of anger was rising up in her heart, making 
 her what she seldom was, really angry. 
 
 "It's a hideous misfortune for me that I ever met 
 Roger Gretorex!" she exclaimed. "And yet you heard 
 what I said in the witness-box ? I did try, indeed I did, 
 to help Dr. Gretorex. What is more " 
 
 Enid had moved away again. She was standing still 
 now, a look of despair on her face. 
 
 " — Mr. Paxton-Smith told me I oughtn't to say a 
 word, and I promised him that I wouldn't say a word 
 to anyone ever, unless he was there too !" 
 
 Anger is very catching, as most of us know, and 
 wrath had also risen up in Enid Dent's heart. How 
 agonising it was to know that it was this cruel, foolish, 
 selfish, silly woman who had stolen the man she, Enid, 
 loved, and who, she believed in her heart, had loved 
 her, before some malign fate had thrown him in Mrs. 
 Lexton's way. 
 
 So it was that, when she saw Ivy begin sidling to- 
 wards the door, with a quick movement she flung 
 
256 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 herself across the room and stood with her back against 
 it, barring the way. 
 "Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 She uttered the other's name calmly, though she 
 was now shaking all over. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dent? I'm sure no good can come of our 
 going on talking " 
 
 "Not only do I believe, but certain people, whose 
 opinion you no doubt would value far more than mine, 
 believe too, that you know Roger Gretorex to be in- 
 nocent !" cried Enid. "They are convinced that you 
 are well aware who it was who craftily, cruelly, secretly 
 poisoned your husband. I warn you here and now, that 
 if that is true, the truth is going to be discovered !" 
 
 She stopped, ashamed of, and frightened at, her own 
 emotion. She felt now, as if it were someone else who 
 had uttered that passionate warning. 
 
 Ivy Lexton suddenly gave a stifled cry. Tottering 
 forward she sank down on a chair, and, moaning, 
 covered her face with her hands. 
 
 All at once, she could not have said why, perhaps 
 it was a glimpse she caught of Ivy Lexton's convulsed 
 face, there flashed into the girl's mind a certain dread 
 suspicion ; and much that had seemed inexplicable sud- 
 denly became clear. 
 
 Ivy slipped off the chair on to the floor, and lay 
 there quite still. 
 
 Enid Dent opened the door. 
 
 "I am afraid," she said quietly to the maid who had 
 been in the hall obviously listening to what was going 
 on inside the drawing-room, "that Mrs. Lexton has 
 fainted." 
 
 As the scared-looking young woman went to call 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 257 
 
 Nurse Bradfield, who was then packing, for she was 
 about to go on to a new case, Enid left the flat and, 
 without waiting for the lift, she ran down the stairs . 
 
 Hailing a taxicab she threw the driver her address in 
 Ebury Street. She felt extraordinarily excited, carried 
 out of herself. Consciously she longed for the man who 
 was driving her to go faster — faster ! At last he drew 
 up ; she paid him off, put the latchkey in the lock, and 
 then, shaking with excitement, she walked straight into 
 the room where Mrs. Gretorex was still lying back in 
 the big arm-chair. 
 
 "I think I know now," she said in a stifled voice, 
 "who poisoned Jervis Lexton, and you and I, Mrs. 
 Gretorex, must try and think of a way in which we 
 can get proof, proof — proof !" 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex looked up at the girl. 
 
 "Who is it you now suspect ?" she asked slowly, "of 
 having poisoned Jervis Lexton ?" 
 
 Enid hesitated for a moment, then she said in a 
 low voice, "His wife." 
 
 "I have felt almost sure, from the first, that Ivy 
 Lexton poisoned her husband," said Mrs. Gretorex 
 quietly. 
 
 Then she rose and, coming quite close up to the girl, 
 she added : "What is more, I am convinced that Roger 
 knows the truth now. That is the real reason why 
 he begged Sir Joseph Molloy to be very careful as to 
 what questions he put to Mrs. Lexton in his cross- 
 examination." 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex took Enid's hand. 
 
 "You and I believe this terrible thing of Ivy Lexton. 
 But it can do Roger no good to say what we believe. 
 It would, even, probably, do him harm." 
 
258 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "Does Mr. Oram know that you think her guilty?" 
 
 "Yes," said Roger's mother, and she sighed. "I told 
 him just before the trial opened. He begged me most 
 earnestly to put any idea of the kind but of my mind, 
 as he felt convinced I was wrong. He pointed out to me 
 that there was not what he called an iota of evidence 
 connecting Mrs. Lexton with the crime. In fact, I saw 
 that I dropped very very much in his estimation as a 
 sensible woman when I told him of my more than 
 suspicion, of my absolute conviction, that Mrs. Lexton 
 had had some all-powerful motive for wishing her hus- 
 band dead." 
 
 "Surely we can discover what that was?" 
 
 Mrs. Gretorex shook her head. "She certainly did 
 not wish to marry Roger — of that I feel quite sure. I 
 hoped against hope that something might come out 
 while Sir Joseph Molloy cross-examined her. But, of 
 course, nothing did come out, and it is my conviction, 
 Enid, that nothing ever will." 
 
 That same day the fact that Roger Gretorex had 
 made up his mind not to appeal appeared in the late 
 editions of the evening papers. "It will only prolong 
 the agony for my mother," he had said to Mr. Oram. 
 "And as for me, I am sufficiently a coward to long for 
 it to be all over." 
 
 And so they all — those who loved Roger, and she 
 who feared him, together with the myriads of men and 
 women who regarded him as a callous murderer, and 
 who hoped that he would finally confess his crime — 
 waited for the end. 
 
Chapter Nineteen 
 
 And now there were but two clays — to be accurate ; 
 but two nights — to the date fixed for Roger Gretorex's 
 execution. All those to whom the matter was of grave 
 moment had given up hope, and, to the great relief of 
 each member of what may be described as the outside 
 circle of those concerned in the still mysterious story, 
 there was something stoic in the resignation and self- 
 control of both the mother and the son. 
 
 But Enid Dent showed many signs of the strain and 
 agony she was enduring, and Sir Joseph Molloy felt 
 quite unlike his powerful, jovial self. Even against his 
 better judgment he still felt convinced that an awful 
 miscarriage of justice was going to be enacted. His 
 conviction actually affected the nerves of Sir Edward 
 Law, the Home Secretary, who happened, unfortu- 
 nately for himself, to be one of Sir Joseph's oldest 
 friends. 
 
 Sir Edward hoped most fervently that Gretorex 
 would make a last-moment confession. Not that the 
 Home Secretary really doubted the fact of the young 
 man's guilt. But he felt the kind of anxiety which must 
 possess any sensitive, conscientious human being who 
 has the onerous gift of life in his hand, if he knows 
 that the mind of a friend he trusts as deeply as he 
 did trust Sir Joseph's powerful mind, is convinced of a 
 condemned man's innocence. 
 
 The execution had been fixed for a Thursday. De- 
 liberately Sir Joseph arranged to cross to Calais on the 
 Wednesday in order to meet his wife, who was coming 
 back the next day from the south of France. 
 
 259 
 
26o THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Though Lacly Molloy was an invalid, a tiny, fragile 
 little body, and no longer young, her husband adored 
 her, and when he was parted from "the woman who 
 owned him," as he sometimes oddly expressed it, he 
 seemed at times only half himself. His Eileen, so he 
 told himself now, would know how to heal the ache at 
 his heart. 
 
 For one thing, Lady Molloy was deeply religious 
 in a happy childlike way. Heaven seemed to her a beau- 
 tiful place, just hard by, and so she would naturally 
 view Roger Gretorex's terrible mode of exit from life 
 as the certain gateway to a happier existence than he 
 could have hoped for on this earth. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow — the day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Those four words seemed to beat themselves on 
 Enid Dent's brain. Sometimes would come a variant — 
 "What can be done, surely something can be done, 
 before the day after to-morrow ?" 
 
 Early on the Tuesday morning she wandered out of 
 doors and walked for miles in the cold, still empty 
 streets. At last she went into Westminster Abbey for a 
 while, and then into the vast Catholic Cathedral. But 
 she found she could not pray. She felt as if abandoned 
 by God, as well as by man. 
 
 Reluctantly, she at last turned her feet towards 
 Ebury Street. She shrank from seeing Mrs. Gretorex. 
 To Enid there was something horribly unnatural in the 
 calmness and appearance of strength shown by Roger's 
 mother. It was, as the girl knew, by Roger's plainly 
 expressed desire that they were going home to-morrow 
 down to Sussex. By his wish, also, they would be in 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 the parish church, which was actually an enclave in 
 the grounds attached to what was still his house, 
 when nine o'clock struck out his hour of doom on 
 Thursday. 
 
 As Enid came in to their sitting-room Mrs. Gretorex 
 held out an open letter. 
 
 "This has just reached me— sent on from Mr. 
 Oram's office this morning. It's from the old woman 
 who used to look after Roger." And as the other took 
 it from her, "Rather a touching letter, but I don't feel 
 I can bring myself to go to Ferry Place, my dear. I 
 went there once, and spent such a happy, happy day 
 with Roger. This Mrs. Huntley waited on us. Perhaps 
 you will go instead of me ? See what she says." 
 
 Enid took the letter, and this is what she read : 
 
 6 Ferry Place. 
 Dear Madam, Tuesday. 
 
 I don't know what to do about the doctor's things, 
 and I should be glad if you could spare time to come here. 
 Also there is something on my mind that I'd like to tell you, 
 Mrs. Gretorex. But I gave my word, I even swore my oath 
 to the doctor not to. So perhaps I oughtn't to. 
 
 I've tried to keep everything tidy, but the police pulled 
 everything about so. 
 
 Yours respectfully, 
 
 Bertha Huntley. 
 
 "I wonder what she wants to tell you?" 
 "I can form a shrewd guess," said Mrs. Gretorex in 
 a low voice. 
 
 The girl looked at her with eager eyes. "It may be 
 something tremendously important," she exclaimed. 
 The older woman shook her head. 
 
262 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "It might have had a certain importance before the 
 trial, but it would have no importance now. I have no 
 doubt that what Mrs. Huntley wants to tell me is M 
 
 Then she hesitated, for Mrs. Gretorex was an old- 
 fashioned gentlewoman, who considered that certain 
 things which unfortunately do happen in life should 
 not be dwelt on, much less mentioned, by "nice" 
 women. 
 
 "What do you mean, Mrs. Gretorex? Do tell me!" 
 
 The girl was looking at her with perplexed, unhappy 
 eyes. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to tell her the 
 truth ? It might cause her to forget Roger more quickly 
 than she could otherwise do. 
 
 "I have very little doubt, Enid, that Mrs. Lexton, 
 at one time, often went to Ferry Place. Naturally 
 Roger bound the old woman to silence. He may have 
 even made her swear that she would never reveal a fact 
 so damaging to Ivy Lexton's reputation. I don't know 
 if a knowledge of what I feel sure was the truth would 
 have made any difference, one way or the other, at the 
 trial. In any case, it won't make any difference now." 
 
 "May I go off to Ferry Place now?" asked Enid 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Do, if you like. But be careful what you say, child." 
 She gazed into the girl's flushed face. "I think we 
 ought to do what we know Roger would wish us to do 
 — and not to do." 
 
 And then, with a slight break in her even voice, she 
 quoted the fine line — "For silence is most noble to the 
 end." 
 
 As Enid Dent walked with what, to one passing her, 
 would have appeared to be the happy, eager steps of 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 263 
 
 youth towards Ferry Place, she more than once felt 
 strongly inclined to turn back. 
 
 The thought of going to the house where Roger 
 Gretorex had lived and worked during the months 
 when he and she had become so entirely estranged 
 was bitter to her. Also, she now had to endure the in- 
 cessant talking and the kindly meant, but to her almost 
 intolerable, sympathy of the landlady of Mrs. 
 Gretorex's lodgings. The thought that she would now 
 endure more sympathy, and more garrulous talk, on the 
 part of Mrs. Huntley was well nigh unendurable. Why 
 not go back and write a nice letter to the old woman, 
 explaining that Mrs. Gretorex was ill, but wished Mrs. 
 Huntley to know how deep was her gratitude for 
 everything she had done for her dear son ? 
 
 And then, just as she was going to turn around, Enid 
 felt ashamed of her strained nerves. If this old woman 
 had been fond of Roger, then she must be very un- 
 happy now. 
 
 She had to ask the way twice to Ferry Place, and 
 each time she asked the question she saw a peculiar 
 look come over the stranger's face, showing, plainly 
 enough, that he had recalled the fact that this was where 
 Roger Gretorex had lived, the man who had committed 
 murder for the sake of the woman he loved. The 
 name of the obscure thoroughfare had been constantly 
 mentioned, bandied to and fro, during Gretorex's trial. 
 
 Enid soon found the double row of shabby little 
 houses. It was strange to remember that Roger had 
 lived for over a year in this sordid-looking place. 
 
 She walked slowly down the middle of the roadway 
 till she reached No. 6. It looked just a little cleaner and 
 "better class" than the houses on each side of it. 
 
264 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 She knocked, and the door was opened almost at 
 once, revealing a grey-haired, sad-faced old woman, 
 who, before the visitor could speak, said sharply, 
 "You've made a mistake. No one lives here now." 
 
 "I've come from Mrs* Gretorex," said Enid in a low 
 voice. 
 
 And then the door, which had been nearly closed in 
 her face, was opened widely. 
 
 "Come in, miss. Come in, do !" and the old woman 
 opened a door to the left, and showed the visitor into 
 what had been Roger Gretorex's consulting-room. It 
 was bare and poor-looking, but the girl, with a stab of 
 pain, saw at once a small piece of furniture which had 
 always stood in what was still called "the day nursery" 
 at Anchorford Hall. 
 
 "Mrs. Gretorex is ill, or she would have come her- 
 self. But she has given me a message for you, Mrs. 
 Huntley. She wishes me to tell you how grateful — how 
 grateful " 
 
 And then all at once Enid Dent broke down, and 
 burst into a storm of tears. 
 
 She had not so "let herself go," at any rate not in 
 the day-time, since the end of Roger Gretorex's trial. 
 But somehow now, with this stranger, she didn't care. 
 It was such a comfort to have a good cry, and some- 
 thing seemed to tell her that this sad, anxious-looking 
 old woman would understand, and sympathise with, her 
 grief. 
 
 Mrs. Huntley pushed the sobbing girl gently down 
 into the worn leather arm-chair in which Gretorex 
 would sometimes put a delicate-looking woman 
 patient — the sort of patient who did not care to go into 
 the surgery. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 265 
 
 "I suppose," said Mrs. Huntley in a troubled voice, 
 "that you was the doctor's young lady, miss ?" 
 
 It somehow comforted Enid to hear those simple 
 words, uttered in so quiet, if pitying a tone. 
 
 "I think I was," she sobbed. "Indeed, I am sure I 
 was — though that was a long time ago, Mrs. Huntley." 
 
 "I know," came the low-toned answer. And the 
 old woman did know, perhaps better than anyone else 
 in the world, why Roger Gretorex had left off thinking 
 of the girl who now sat, the picture of despair, before 
 her. 
 
 Enid suddenly got up. She dabbed her eyes with her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "And now," she said, "let me deliver the rest of my 
 message, Mrs. Huntley. Mrs. Gretorex knows how 
 good vou were to her son, and she wants me to tell you 
 lhat a little later on she would like you to come down 
 to Anchorford, for she does want to see you." 
 
 "Later on?" echoed the old woman in a strange 
 voice. "But that would be too late, miss. I has to see 
 Mrs. Gretorex to-day for it to be of any good. Can't 
 you take me to her ? Not that I likes to leave the house 
 alone. I never do leave it — not since I got the message 
 from Mr. Oram that I was to regard myself as care- 
 taker, that is." 
 
 "I am afraid you can't see Mrs. Gretorex to-day," 
 said Enid firmly. "But I'll give her any message, and — 
 and you can trust me, Mrs. Huntley, you really can!" 
 
 "I wonder if I can? I wonder if I dare?" 
 
 "Have you anything to say that we don't already 
 know ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I have, miss But in telling it I may be doing 
 wrong." 
 
266 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "D'you mean something about Dr. Gretorex? Some- 
 thing that might, even now, make a difference?" 
 
 "I don't know. I can't tell. I fear me it may be too 
 late." 
 
 "Let me judge of that," said Enid Dent. 
 
 She had become quiet, collected, though she was 
 filled with a feeling of suspense and, she dared not call 
 it "hope." 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" said Mrs. Huntley as if asking 
 herself the question. And then, all at once, she an- 
 swered it, "Yes, surely I will !" 
 
 Alfred Finch was reading a copy of an old compli- 
 cated will. But though he was trying to concentrate 
 on the business in hand, he found his mind straying 
 persistently to the prison cell where Roger Gretorex 
 sat waiting for the morning of the day after to- 
 morrow. For one thing, he had heard by a side wind 
 that the warder who had Gretorex in his special charge 
 believed him innocent, and this made a great impression 
 on him. That warder had had charge of over thirty men 
 condemned to death, and this was the first time he had 
 ever believed one of them to have been innocent of the 
 crime for which he was to suffer death. 
 
 The telephone bell at his elbow rang. 
 
 "Miss Dent is on the line, Mr. Finch. Can you speak 
 to her ? She says it's very urgent." 
 
 "Put her through at once." 
 
 And then he heard an eager, quivering voice, "Is 
 that Mr. Finch? Can you come at once, Mr. Finch, to 
 6 Ferry Place? I believe I've got some new evidence." 
 
 "New evidence?" 
 
 Mr. Finch, though he was alone, shook his head. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 267 
 
 Had he not himself done everything that was in the 
 power of mortal man to procure new evidence in the 
 last three weeks, and had he not entirely failed ? 
 
 "I don't wish to say more over the telephone, but 
 can you come now, at once, to take a statement from 
 Dr. Gretorex's day maid, Mrs. Huntley?" 
 
 Mrs. Huntley? Why, that was the old caretaker 
 woman ! He remembered distinctly reading over the 
 record of her short, colourless, unimportant interview 
 with Inspector Orpington. 
 
 Mrs. Huntley could have nothing new to say of the 
 slightest value. Stop, though — she probably knew certain 
 facts which might have been regarded as greatly to Mrs. 
 Lexton's discredit, had they come out at the trial. Facts 
 which would certainly have added pungency to Sir 
 Joseph Molloy's speech for the defence. But Mrs. 
 Huntley could have nothing to reveal that could make 
 any real difference, now, to the fate of Roger Gretorex. 
 
 However, if only because he had come to like and 
 respect Mrs. Gretorex's young friend, Mr. Finch made 
 up his mind he would do what Enid Dent desired. 
 
 "I'll be with you within twenty minutes," he called 
 out. 
 
 "Be as quick as you can. I'm so frightened, Mr. 
 Finch." 
 
 "Frightened?" he repeated, surprised. 
 
 "Yes." The voice dropped. "Supposing Mrs. Hunt- 
 ley were to die, suddenly, before you've heard what 
 she's got to say ? I dare not tell you what it is over the 
 telephone. But it is very important " 
 
 Now Mr. Finch thought so little of what he was 
 going to do, and, presumably, hear, that he simply left 
 word for Mr. Oram that he had had to go out. And 
 
268 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 when he reached Westminster, he did not dismiss his 
 taxicab ; he left it at the end of Ferry Place. 
 
 Enid Dent stood waiting for him at the open door 
 of the little house, and he noted at once the strained, 
 excited look on her face. 
 
 Had she been a young man, and not a young woman, 
 Alfred Finch would have exclaimed, "Come, come! 
 What's all this pother about ?" But as it was, he looked 
 at her very kindly, and made up his mind that he would 
 "let her down" as gently as might be. 
 
 "I hope she'll tell you all she told me," murmured 
 Enid as he shut the door. "Mrs. Lexton told a lie when 
 she said she had never been here but once, and then 
 with a woman friend. Mrs. Huntley swore to Roger 
 Gretorex that she would say nothing about that, and 
 she feels that she is breaking her oath. But I don at if 
 she realises herself the fearful importance of some- 
 thing else she told me, something Roger may suspect, 
 but which only she actually saw." 
 
 And then she opened the door of the consulting- 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Huntley was sitting all in a heap in a chair, 
 staring before her. She looked up when the two came 
 in, but she did not get up. 
 
 "Here is Mr. Finch. I want you to tell him exactly 
 what you told me." 
 
 "You tell him, miss," muttered the old woman. 
 "I've told you everything and — and I feels very 
 upset." 
 
 "Mrs. Huntley is ready to swear," said Enid quietly, 
 "that she once found Mrs. Lexton alone in the surgery 
 here, with a jar labelled arsenic standing on the table 
 before her." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 269 
 
 Alfred Finch, startled, looked hard at the old woman. 
 Was she telling the truth, or had she invented this in- 
 genious story? 
 
 "When did that happen ?" he asked quietly. "Is there 
 any way in which you can fix the date of that occur- 
 rence, Mrs. Huntley?" 
 
 She looked up at him. "Yes," she said dully. " 'Twas 
 the last time Mrs. Lexton ever had supper here. The 
 doctor got a messenger boy, and sent him up to a grand 
 shop in Piccadilly for some cold fish — sole, I thinks it 
 was — done up in a newfangled fashion. Also there was 
 a game pie, likewise an ice." 
 
 "But how does that fix the date in your mind?" 
 asked Alfred Finch rather impatiently. 
 
 "I can't fix it. But you could, sir, from the messen- 
 ger boys' office. I heard one of them boys once tell the 
 doctor that they kep' all their receipts. 'Twas early last 
 summer when that happened." 
 
 He felt suddenly convinced that she at least believed 
 she was telling the truth. 
 
 "The last time Mrs. Lexton had supper here?" It 
 was that statement which in a sense impressed him. 
 And had he been another kind of man he would un- 
 doubtedly have explained, "But you yourself signed a 
 statement declaring that Mrs. Lexton had never been 
 here, at 6 Ferry Place, excepting on one occasion to 
 tea ?" 
 
 But, instead of saying that, he observed encourag- 
 ingly, "Now listen to me, Mrs. Huntley. You say, I 
 notice, 'the last time.' Would Mrs. Lexton have been 
 here to supper as many, say, as three or four times?" 
 
 "Much oftener than that !" exclaimed the old woman, 
 rousing herself. "At one time, Mrs. Lexton was here 
 
27o THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 constant. She'd come in just for ten minutes. 'Nother 
 time, maybe, for a couple of hours. She'd 'phone first, 
 to see if the doctor'ud be in. Mostly I couldn't help 
 knowing about it, though the doctor always made an 
 excuse to get me out of the place before she come." 
 
 "And on that last occasion, what exactly was it that 
 happened ? Are you sure this jar of arsenic was on the 
 table, in front of Mrs. Lexton?" 
 
 In his eagerness he came and flung himself across a 
 chair, close to the old woman. 
 
 "I'm sure 'twas there, though I don't know how 
 it come there, excepting that the doctor had maybe 
 some medicine to make up. I come in to clear up, and 
 as I puts my key in the surgery door — that's our back- 
 way in, sir — she didn't hear me. When she did, she was 
 awfully put about. I begged her pardon, and I went 
 away. And when I come round to the front of the 
 house, I saw the doctor letting a man out. That was 
 why Mrs. Lexton was alone, then, in the surgery. She 
 was waiting for the doctor, maybe to get her a cab. He 
 often did that." 
 
 "I suppose you can give me nothing that would 
 afford any corroboration as to what you have just told 
 me? I mean that would make anyone know that you 
 are now telling the truth? / believe you, Mrs. Huntley, 
 but you know that, in a matter of this sort, belief 
 doesn't go very far. People want proof." 
 
 "I knows that. But I can't say no more than I have 
 said." 
 
 "Is there nothing? Think, Mrs. Huntley!" ex- 
 claimed Enid Dent. "Did you never tell anyone out- 
 side that you'd found Mrs. Lexton in the surgery under 
 such curious circumstances?" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 271 
 
 "I give the doctor my word I'd never tell on either 
 of them. He said I could do a great thing for him in 
 doing that, and I've kep' my word till to-day." 
 
 And then Alfred Finch had something like an in- 
 spiration. 
 
 "Of course, I know the police made a thorough 
 search of this house," he observed. "But I ask myself, 
 Mrs. Huntley, if they overlooked anything — anything 
 in the way of a letter or letters?" And he looked very 
 hard at the old woman. 
 
 Mrs. Huntley blinked at him, and for the first time 
 she looked uneasy and ashamed. 
 
 "I've got summat," she said in a low reluctant voice. 
 "Summat I've no business to have. It's two love-letters 
 Mrs. Lexton wrote to the doctor. As was his way, poor 
 young gentleman, he tore them up in little pieces, 
 and " 
 
 "You pieced them together," observed Mr. Finch 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Enid Dent gave a gasp, as he went on : 
 
 "If you can produce those letters, I think I can pro- 
 mise you, Mrs. Huntley, that Dr. Gretorex will not 
 hang the day after to-morrow. They, together with a 
 sworn statement made by you before a Commissioner 
 of Oaths, will provide what is called 'new evidence.' 
 I want you to go with me now into the surgery, to tell 
 me exactly where Mrs. Lexton was standing when you 
 surprised her. You are sure that she was alone?" be 
 added quickly. 
 
 "She was quite alone," said Mrs. Huntley positively. 
 "I come in softly like, and there she was ! I can show 
 you exactly where she was standing." 
 
 She got up and led the way down the passage, and 
 
272 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 through the two doors which shut off the surgery from 
 the house. 
 
 "Is everything here just as it was?" asked Mr. Finch 
 quickly. 
 
 "No, sir. They took away everything as was in that 
 cupboard, but they left the books." 
 
 He glanced up at the row of shabby volumes in the 
 hanging bookcase, hut made no comment. 
 
 "Is that the same table where stood the jar labelled 
 arsenic ?" 
 
 Mrs. Huntley put her work-worn hand on a certain 
 spot on the deal table. 
 
 "The jar was here ; the light was full on it, and I saw 
 it plain as plain." 
 
 And then she acted, or, rather, enacted, the scene 
 with some spirit, making Enid Dent stand exactly 
 where Ivy Lexton had stood. 
 
 'T noticed particular how she was dressed," she went 
 on eagerly. "She always dressed very dainty-like, lovely 
 clothes they was ! And she had the most peculiar look- 
 ing bag I ever did see. 'Twas exactly like mother-of- 
 pearl. Lovely it was ! I noticed it when she turned 
 round. Says she, 'Why, Mrs. Huntley, how you did 
 startle me,' or something like that, sir." 
 
 Alfred Finch was writing down every word that 
 came out of her mouth. He was one of those men who 
 never lose a chance, and he had invented a kind of 
 shorthand for himself. Everything the woman had said 
 since he had come into the room had been put on record 
 by him. 
 
 "And now," he said quietly, "I'll trouble you to show 
 me those two letters." 
 
 Finch noticed that Mrs. Huntley gave just an im- 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 273 
 
 perceptible glance towards the girl who stood a little 
 aside, gazing into vacancy, as if her thoughts were far 
 away, as indeed they were — with Roger Gretorex in his 
 prison cell. 
 
 ''Yes, sir, I'll go and get the letters, but I do hope 
 Dr. Gretorex won't ever know I did such a thing as 
 that, sir? I was very attached to the doctor, and that 
 made me feel curious, I suppose. I oughtn't to have 
 acted so, sir; I knew I was doing wrong." 
 
 "All I can say now is, thank God you did do wrong, 
 Mrs. Huntley ! But don't you worry — we won't let him 
 ever know you did what you did. After all, anyone who 
 found those pieces might have put them together, eh? 
 Why people don't burn compromising documents al- 
 ways beats me ! I've got a cab at the end of the street, 
 and I want you to come along this very minute to a 
 Commissioner of Oaths. I've got all you've told me in 
 black and white. You'll only have just to repeat word 
 for word what I've got down here before the gentle- 
 man, and then swear it's true." 
 
 "But do you think I ought to leave the house, sir?" 
 
 "We can leave Miss Dent here, while I go on to 
 your place to get those letters." 
 
 When, within a quarter of an hour, the three were 
 standing outside the queer little office of a Commis- 
 sioner of Oaths, with whom Alfred Finch happened 
 to be acquainted, Mrs'. Finch said something which sur- 
 prised Enid Dent. I think you'd better not come in 
 here with us," he muttered. "You see, it's better, in 
 such a case, to have the witness alone. Prevents her 
 being nervous." 
 
 She did not guess the truth, which was that, in the 
 few minutes he had been away with the old woman, she 
 
274 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 had spoken more freely than she had cared to do before 
 the girl whom she regarded as Gretorex's "young 
 lady." And some of the things she had then told him 
 Alfred Finch determined should be embodied in her 
 statutory declaration. Mr. Finch was keenly alive to the 
 value of prejudice. He was aware that the Home Secre- 
 tary was a man of rigid, some would have said too 
 rigid, moral principle. 
 
 So it was with considerable satisfaction that he had 
 exclaimed, after reading through the two letters, "My 
 word! Mrs. Lexton's what / call a hot cup of tea. Eh? 
 Mrs. Huntley?" 
 
 Solemnly she had nodded her head. She had always 
 known that such was the fact, though she wouldn't per- 
 haps have put it in just those words, for she was a 
 refined, delicate-natured old woman. 
 
Chapter Twenty 
 
 The morning after these events had taken place, the 
 Home Secretary, Sir Edward Law, was moving about 
 his fine room in Whitehall. He felt restless and thor- 
 oughly ill at ease, and that, although he was a states- 
 man noted for his calm and cool temperament. 
 
 Within a few moments from now he expected his 
 door to open and three persons to be shown in. First 
 there would be a solicitor named John Oram, whose 
 name he vaguely knew as that of a man of the highest 
 standing in his profession, and who, the year before, 
 had been President of the Law Society. Mr. Oram was 
 the legal adviser of Roger Gretorex, a man convicted 
 of murder, whose execution had been fixed to take 
 place the following morning at nine o'clock. Then Sir 
 Joseph Molloy, the most famous advocate of the day, 
 known by the cynically minded as "the murderer's 
 friend," who had defended Roger Gretorex at the Old 
 Bailey would accompany Mr. Oram, though his pres- 
 ence could not be regarded as being quite in order. 
 However, Sir Joseph was a very old friend of the 
 Home Secretary, and he had pleaded urgently to be 
 allowed to come this morning. The Judge, Mr. Justice 
 Mayhew, who had tried Roger Gretorex, was the third 
 visitor expected, his presence at the forthcoming con- 
 ference being, very properly, regarded as essential. 
 
 An odd thing had happened only the previous day 
 in connection with this Gretorex case. Sir Edward Law 
 had received an envelope, marked "Private," and con- 
 taining a letter signed "Roger Gretorex." With it, a 
 
 275 
 
276 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 plain piece of paper bore the following words: "The 
 enclosed was written to Mrs. Lexton only last Novem- 
 ber, after the beginning of Jervis Lexton's illness. It 
 reads like the letter of an innocent man." 
 
 That touching, in its way noble, love-letter had much 
 impressed him, and had added a note of real mystery 
 to a story with all the details of which he was by now 
 painfully familiar. 
 
 At last Sir Edward stopped in front of his writing- 
 table. There, in a place by themselves, stood five white 
 cards. Each was marked with a name and a date; and 
 they formed a perpetual reminder that four men and 
 one woman were now lying under sentence of death. 
 For the date on each of those death-cards was the day 
 on which the person named was to suffer the last pen- 
 alty of the law. 
 
 The Home Secretary's eyes became fixed on the card 
 bearing the name of Roger Gretorex, the young man 
 of gentle birth who had been sentenced to death at the 
 Old Bailey for the murder of one Jervis Lexton. And, 
 as he gazed at the rather unusual name, the Minister, 
 in whose hands the fate of these men and one woman 
 still reposed, asked himself, with a tightening of the 
 heart, whether Sir Joseph Molloy might not be right 
 after all in his belief that there had been a grave mis- 
 carriage of justice. 
 
 Sir Edward Law was a man with a high sense of 
 duty. At first he had naturally accepted the verdict at 
 the trial as conclusive of Gretorex's guilt, and he had 
 daily expected to hear the news that there had been a 
 full confession, especially after he learnt that the 
 condemned man had refused to enter an appeal. But 
 he had been unwillingly impressed by Sir Joseph 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 277 
 
 Molloy's strong conviction of his client's innocence, 
 and now he understood that certain extraordinary new 
 evidence was to be laid before him this morning, at 
 what was indeed the eleventh hour. 
 
 That was why, as late as the day before, the Home 
 Secretary had conscientiously read once more all the 
 documents, and they were many, connected with what 
 had been called "The Lexton Mystery." He had felt 
 it to be his plain duty thus to prepare himself for the 
 critical examination which it would be his business to 
 apply to this new evidence. 
 
 And yet? And yet, he could not imagine what new 
 evidence could possibly be adduced of a nature strong 
 enough to upset the apparently conclusive case built up 
 against Roger Gretorex at the trial. 
 
 The door opened, and Sir Edward's principal private 
 secretary came in. 
 
 "Sir Joseph Molloy to see you, sir, by appointment. 
 And there is another man with him." 
 
 Thus announced, Sir Joseph Molloy, who was fol- 
 lowed by Alfred Finch, entered the room and, after 
 greeting his old friend, the Home Secretary, came at 
 once to business. 
 
 "Mr. Oram is unfortunately ill, so I have ventured 
 to bring in his stead his head clerk, Mr. Finch, who has 
 had all the threads of the Gretorex case in his hands. 
 Indeed, it is to Mr. Finch that I believe we owe the 
 proof of a fearful miscarriage of justice. I hope he will 
 be able to convince you, Sir Edward, of the innocence 
 of his most unfortunate client, Roger Gretorex. 'Mur- 
 der, though it hath no tongue, will speak !' " added Sir 
 Joseph in a dramatic tone. 
 
278 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 The Home Secretary slightly raised his eyebrows. 
 Sir Joseph was going just a little bit too fast, as he 
 sometimes did, especially when he had any kind of 
 audience. But the famous advocate realised that he was 
 not going quite the right way to work, for quickly he 
 changed his tone : 
 
 "I think, Sir Edward, that after you have seen the 
 statutory declaration made by a certain person who was 
 closely connected with Gretorex's London life, as well 
 as other new evidence which Mr. Finch is about to lay 
 before you, you will agree that there is a strong case 
 for, at any rate, the postponement of Roger Gretorex's 
 execution." 
 
 And then the door of the room opened again, 
 and the Judge who had tried the Lexton case 
 
 came in. 
 
 Mr. Justice Mayhew appeared outwardly his usual 
 calm and dignified self. But within he was full of inter- 
 est, and even a certain excitement. Unlike the Home 
 Secretary, he thought nothing of Sir Joseph Molloy's 
 belief in his client's innocence; what had profoundly 
 impressed him had been the condemned man's refusal 
 co appeal. 
 
 A few moments later the three men — for Alfred 
 Finch was standing a little aside, he had done his 
 part and he knew the documents which he had brought 
 with him almost by heart — were gazing with intense 
 curiosity at Mrs. Huntley's statutory declaration. Each, 
 in turn, read the pasted-up fragments of Ivy Lexton's 
 two passionate love-letters. They belonged to an early 
 period of her friendship with Roger Gretorex, and each 
 letter proposed a meeting at Ferry Place. On each 
 occasion she had chosen an evening, or rather a night, 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 279 
 
 when her husband was to be with an old friend who 
 had a fishing place some way from London. 
 
 And then the Home Secretary took out of a drawer, 
 and handed to the Judge, Gretorex's own piteous letter 
 to Ivy Lexton, the letter which had remained so long 
 hidden in Mrs. Berwick's desk. 
 
 It took quite a little while for Sir Edward Law and 
 Mr. Justice Mayhew to make themselves fully ac- 
 quainted with what had been laid before them. And 
 then they looked at one another in silence for a mo- 
 ment. As for Sir Joseph, he wisely said nothing, though 
 he was longing intensely to express something of the 
 triumph and exultation which filled his heart. 
 
 "I read a full report of the case over again yester- 
 day," said the Home Secretary. "There seemed to me, 
 then, no doubt as to the guilt of Roger Gretorex. But 
 this Mrs. Huntley's report of what she swears she saw 
 the very day before, it is now ascertained, Jervis Lex- 
 ton had his first attack of illness, does, I admit, entirely 
 alter the complexion of everything. But I should not 
 have attached very great importance to a statement 
 which rests on the word of one person, who, if she tells 
 the truth now, certainly lied before, had we not also 
 these three letters. They prove that Mrs. Lexton has 
 committed gross perjury." 
 
 As the two men he was addressing remained silent, he 
 went on : "I suppose the police made a thorough search 
 of the flat in which Jervis Lexton met his death?" 
 
 And then all at once Alfred Finch took a hand. 
 
 "No, Sir Edward, the flat was not searched," he 
 answered deferentially. 
 
 "Are you sure of that ?" 
 
 "Quite sure. It is not usual to institute a search 
 
280 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 unless there is cause for suspicion against a person 
 actually living in the house or flat where the murder has 
 been committed. Now, the first C.I.D. man, who was 
 in charge of the preliminary inquiries, undoubtedly 
 formed the definite opinion that Roger Gretorex had 
 poisoned Jervis Lexton. From his point of view there 
 was no need to go further, the more so as his view was 
 confirmed by a conversation he had with Gretorex just 
 after he had taken a statement from Mrs. Lexton. The 
 inspector, a day or two later on, interviewed Mrs. 
 Huntley. You have that first statement of hers, gentle- 
 men, in that bundle of papers I have laid down over 
 there, marked T.' Mrs. Huntley then perjured herself, 
 apparently because she had made a solemn promise 
 to Dr. Gretorex to reveal nothing as to his association 
 with Mrs. Lexton. She was, of course, quite unaware, 
 at the time, of the fearful injury she was doing her 
 employer." 
 
 The Home Secretary opened the bundle marked "I." 
 He read through first the notes which Inspector 
 Orpington had made during his first interview with 
 Ivy Lexton — that interview during which she had gone 
 out of her way to volunteer the fact that Roger 
 Gretorex entertained for her a hopeless, unrequited 
 passion. 
 
 Sir Edward next read most carefully again Mrs. 
 Lexton's two letters to Gretorex, as well as the letter 
 which had reached him anonymously only yesterday. 
 
 "This Mrs. Lexton appears to be, in any case, a most 
 hypocritical and abandoned woman," he observed tartly. 
 
 Sir Joseph Molloy laughed a merry, hearty, boyish 
 laugh, and Mr. Justice Mayhew looked round at him 
 with an expression of shocked disgust on his stern face. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 28,1 
 
 But "divil a bit," as he said to himself, did Sir Joseph 
 care for that. 
 
 "Do you agree," said Sir Edward Law, looking at 
 the Judge, 4 'that these various documents provide suffi- 
 cent reason for further inquiries?" 
 
 Mr. Justice Mayhew waited for what seemed a very 
 long time, both to Sir Joseph and to Alfred Finch. 
 Then reluctantly he answered: 
 
 "Yes, I think we have certainly cause here for the 
 execution to be postponed, and for further inquiries to 
 be made." 
 
 "Now that we are on what I may term the right 
 track," exclaimed Sir Joseph, "I trust that my unhappy 
 friend Roger Gretorex will not be allowed to languish 
 in the cell of a condemned felon a moment longer than 
 is absolutely necessary?" 
 
 The great advocate felt that he had now done all he 
 could, and he was well aware that he had only been 
 admitted to this conference by favour. And so, after a 
 word of thanks to his old friend, and a sly look of tri- 
 umph at the Judge, he went away, taking Alfred Finch 
 with him, and leaving the Home Secretary and Mr. 
 Justice Mayhew alone together. 
 
 Inspector Orpington looked not only serious but also 
 very grim, as, early that afternoon, and accompanied 
 by the same colleague as had been with him here be- 
 fore, he rang the bell of Mrs. Lexton's flat. 
 
 He felt extremely incensed for, turn the facts round 
 in his mind as he might, there was no doubt that the 
 childishly simple-looking, lovely little woman had com- 
 pletely taken him in. She had certainly, as he put it to 
 himself, bamboozled him to the top of her bent. 
 
282 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Yet, even now, he found it almost impossible to 
 believe that Ivy Lexton had poisoned her husband. 
 Even so, he had been very much startled and impressed, 
 not so much by Mrs. Huntley's new statement, for he 
 knew her to be a liar. No, what had astounded him had 
 been Ivy's letters to Roger Gretorex. Though these 
 two letters had been written at a time when the writer 
 was passionately in love with her correspondent, they 
 revealed quite a different type of woman from what 
 .everyone connected with the case had taken her to be. 
 
 Inspector Orpington had also been unwillingly im- 
 pressed by the letter written by Gretorex to Ivy in evi- 
 dent answer to one in which she had begged him to 
 leave off coming to see her. The date, that of Novem- 
 ber the 6th, inscribed on Gretorex's letter, proved that 
 she had written the note to which it had been the 
 answer after she had started her cruel work of poison- 
 ing her husband, if indeed she had poisoned her hus- 
 band. The inspector realised that the letter was what 
 might have been called a bull point in the writer's 
 favour. It breathed sincerity in every line. 
 
 It seemed a long time, to the two men standing there, 
 before the door of the flat was opened by the cook. 
 She looked surprised when she saw the inspector stand- 
 ing there, and then she smiled amiably. 
 
 "Want to see Mrs. Lexton?" she inquired. And, as 
 he nodded, "Then want will be your master! She's 
 away in the country, and not coming back yet awhile." 
 
 Orpington had already walked through into the 
 hall. 
 
 "All alone in the flat ?" he asked casually. 
 "I am this minute. There don't seem any reason for 
 keeping a young girl here all day just to do nothing," 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 283 
 
 said the woman tolerantly. "She works pretty hard 
 when Mrs. Lexton is at home, that I will say." 
 
 "Where is Mrs. Lexton staying?" 
 
 "I've got it down on a bit of paper. It's near 
 Brighton. A place belonging to the Lady Flora some- 
 thing or other. I'll go and get it." 
 
 "Wait a sec. We've come on what isn't a very 
 pleasant job, cook. We've got to search this place of 
 yours." 
 
 "Search this place?" Cook looked taken aback. 
 "Whatever for?" 
 
 As no answer was vouchsafed to that question, "I'll 
 just go and tidy my room then," she exclaimed. "I've 
 been taking things easy since Mrs. Lexton went away. 
 Where will you begin? How about the dining-room 
 just here?" 
 
 "All right. We'll begin with the dining-room, and 
 work down towards the kitchen." 
 
 He added in a perfunctory tone, "No need to tell 
 you to hide nothing, eh, cook?" 
 
 "There's nothing to hide !" she exclaimed with some 
 heat. "Everything's always left open. Mrs. Lexton 
 isn't a lady to lock up her jewellery, like some do. She 
 trusts us, and we are worthy of the trust, same as 
 everyone is who is trusted." 
 
 "If that's so 'twill make our job easy. Then there's 
 no lock-up at all ?" and he looked at her rather hard. 
 
 "I keeps my box locked up, but you're welcome to 
 the key!" 
 
 "Don't you be afraid. We'll let your box alone. I 
 meant, is there no lock-up this end of the flat ?" 
 
 She waited a moment. "There's half the big hanging 
 cupboard in Mrs. Lexton's bedroom always kept 
 
284 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 locked, just because there's nothing in it. She keeps all 
 her fine clothes — my, and she has got a lot, fit to stock 
 a shop with! — in a little room that no one uses, next 
 door to the bathroom." 
 
 "Have you got the key of that part of the hanging 
 cupboard ?" 
 
 "I've never even seen it. But I expect it's about 
 somewhere. Maybe in the dressing-table drawer." 
 
 It takes a long time to search a room thoroughly, 
 and by the time the two men had done with the dining- 
 room and the drawing-room, they felt tired. 
 
 "Perhaps we'd better do Mrs. Lexton's room next? 
 Not that I expect to find anything there. The room in 
 which that poor chap died was searched, and thor- 
 oughly too, though not till after the post-mortem." 
 
 Cook brought the bit of paper on which Ivy had 
 written down her country address. Then she went off 
 again into her kitchen. 
 
 The two men walked, in a rather gingerly way, into 
 Ivy Lexton's charming bedroom. 
 
 There the searchers had an easy task, for everything 
 was unlocked, as the cook had said it would be. 
 
 But suddenly Orpington exclaimed, "Why, this must 
 be the room where, according to that good old soul, 
 there's a lock-up? I'd forgotten that! It's the half of 
 this big cupboard. Seen any keys about?" 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 Orpington, stepping back, looked dubiously at the 
 big handsome inlaid piece of furniture. It was a fine 
 bit of early Victorian cabinet work, and had belonged 
 to the mother of the Miss Rushworth whose room this 
 was. Though it was not in modern taste, Inspector 
 Orpington thought it a beautiful object. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 285 
 
 "I wonder if we've any call to force this lock?" he 
 muttered to himself. "I wouldn't like to hurt that cup- 
 board in any way. It's a good piece " 
 
 "I bet you I can open it all right without doing it a 
 bit of harm," said the other man confidently. 
 
 He went up to the cupboard. Then he did something 
 to the lock with a bit of wire he happened to have in 
 his pocket, and — the big door swung open. 
 
 Orpington came forward quickly. He peered into the 
 mahogany-lined cavity. It was empty, save for a 
 shabby-looking red-leather despatch-box, on which, so 
 faded as to be practically indecipherable, were em- 
 bossed three gilt letters. 
 
 "That's a rummy looking thing! One wouldn't 
 expect Mrs. Lexton would have such an object as 
 this about," and he lifted the despatch-box out or the 
 cupboard. 
 
 It was surprisingly light. 
 
 "I wonder if she kept Gretorex's love-letters in 
 there," said the other with a laugh. "If so, we may find 
 something useful, eh?" 
 
 Orpington shook the box. Though it was so light he 
 could feel that there was something in it which rolled 
 about. 
 
 "You won't find it as easy to open this box as you 
 did that cupboard," he observed, "but it has to be 
 done." 
 
 "The only way we could open this," said the ser- 
 geant, decidedly, "would be with a kitchen knife, unless 
 they've got a chisel." 
 
 "You go and get what you can from the old woman." 
 
 A minute or two later the man came back. "She's 
 in her room tidying up," he said with a grin, "so I 
 
286 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 just took this without saying 'by your leave.' " And he 
 held up a short stout kitchen knife. 
 
 "You just lock that door," said Orpington quickly. 
 
 And then, the two men, by exerting a great deal of 
 strength, managed to prize open the hinges of the old 
 despatch-box which had belonged to Ivy's father. The 
 lock stayed fast. 
 
 The inspector felt a pang of disappointment, for 
 there only lay on the rubbed green velvet lining a lady's 
 fancy handbag. 
 
 And then Orpington suddenly remembered Mrs. 
 Huntley's sworn statement. In that statement was 
 actually a description of the bag Ivy had had with her 
 when the old woman had found her alone in the sur- 
 gery with the jar of arsenic on the table before her. A 
 bolster bag that "looked like mother-of-pearl." This 
 was the same one without doubt. 
 
 He took the odd little bag out of the despatch-box 
 and pressed the jewelled knob — to find nothing in it but 
 a cable from South Africa. The signature, "Rush- 
 worth," meant nothing to him, though of course he 
 knew of the famous Rushworth Line. 
 
 Then he opened the little white leather-lined, inner 
 pocket of the bag. It, too, was empty. A faint scent, 
 that of a popular face powder, rose from it. 
 
 And then, suddenly, he noticed, with a queer quick- 
 ening of his pulse, that a few grains of what looked 
 like kitchen salt clung to the white leather sides. 
 
 Moistening his finger, he put it against the leather, 
 and a few grains stuck on to his wet finger. Face pow- 
 der? No, not face powder. He touched his finger with 
 his tongue, and then the colour rushed up all over his 
 face. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 287 
 
 "I'd like Sir Bernard to have a squint at that!" he 
 exclaimed, holding up the open bag. 
 
 "D'you mean you've found something?" the other 
 cried excitedly. 
 
 "Hush !" 
 
 Carefully Orpington put the rather absurd-looking 
 mother-of-pearl bolster into a big black bag which he 
 had brought with him. Then he put the empty despatch- 
 box back into the cupboard. 
 
 "Let's get out of this," he murmured, "before the old 
 woman sees us. Can you manage to shut the cupboard 
 as cleverly as you opened it ?" 
 
 "I think I can," said the other. And sure enough he 
 did shut it, though it took him longer to lock up the 
 half of the great early-Victorian cupboard than it had 
 done to unlock it. 
 
 Orpington took a card out of his notebook. He wrote 
 on it: "We've seen everything we wanted. Shan't be 
 troubling you any more," and left it in a prominent 
 place on the hall table. 
 
 Then he shut the front door rather loudly behind 
 him, and, together, the two men went down the stairs 
 by the side of the lift. 
 
 When they were safely out of the Duke of Kent 
 Mansion, the inspector stayed his steps. 
 
 "I've got her!" he said exultingly. "Little Ivy will 
 live to be sorry she bamboozled 'yours truly,' my boy !" 
 
Chapter Twenty-one 
 
 With a sudden CRY of fear Ivy Lexton sat up in the 
 Jacobean four-post bed, where she had spent a broken 
 night. 
 
 She was still plunged in sleep, but anyone standing, 
 say, by the large half-moon window of the delightful 
 old-world country bedroom would have thought her 
 awake, for her violet-blue eyes were wide open and 
 dilated, as if with terror. 
 
 How lovely she looked; how childlike was the pure, 
 delicate contour of her face, and the droop of her little 
 red mouth. Her dimpled shoulders rose from what she 
 called a "nightie" of flesh-coloured crepe de Chine. 
 The sleeveless bodice was edged with a deep band of 
 real lace, and, to the eyes of the old-fashioned maid 
 who waited on her in this, her friend's, Lady Flora 
 Desmond's, country cottage, it looked more like a ball- 
 dress than a nightgown. 
 
 There were tens of thousands of human beings who, 
 had they been privileged to see Ivy as she was now, 
 this morning, would have felt their hearts contract 
 with intense pity for the woman they regarded as hav- 
 ing been the innocent victim of an extraordinary set 
 of ironic circumstances. There were also tens of thou- 
 sands of other human beings who, though they had had 
 strong ' doubts as to the part she had played in the 
 singular story, would have told themselves that their 
 suspicions had been cruelly unjust, could they have 
 looked into that flower-like face, and heard the words 
 now escaping from her half-opened mouth. 
 
 288 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 289 
 
 Those words were uttered in an appealing, broken 
 tone, "Don't hurt him! Please don't hurt him!" And 
 then : "Oh, Roger, I am so sorry for you !" 
 
 Ivy's soul was not here in this delightful country 
 bedroom. It had travelled a long long way, to a prison 
 situated on the outskirts of London. 
 
 She seemed to be gazing through the door of a small, 
 bare room, which she knew to be now occupied by one 
 on whom judgment of death was to be executed that 
 morning. 
 
 There stood by the pallet bed the tall, sinewy figure 
 of a man who had loved her with a passionate and ab- 
 sorbing love, and whom she, in her own fashion, had 
 also loved. By his wish, at his trial, not a word concern- 
 ing what she had called their "friendship," had beer 
 uttered in extenuation of anything he, Roger Gretorex, 
 had done, or left undone. 
 
 There he stood, the man whose arms had so often 
 cradled her, on whom she had made the limitless de- 
 mands that a woman only makes on the man she loves. 
 Never once, in great or in little things, had he failed 
 her. 
 
 This morning he looked strange indeed, for though 
 dressed, he was collarless, and clad in an old tweed suit 
 — a suit which Ivy remembered well, and which she had 
 once told him caressingly she liked to see him wear. 
 
 He held himself upright, with his head thrown back 
 in what had been a characteristic attitude. 
 
 In Ivy's vision two men were pinioning Roger's 
 arms, and it was to them that, living through this ter- 
 rible nightmare, she had just addressed her piteous 
 plea. And then with slow steps the chaplain, together 
 with the governor of the prison, walked in. . . . 
 
290 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 It was all happening exactly as Ivy had once seen 
 something happen, in what had then appeared to her 
 just a thrilling scene in a play, in London about a year 
 ago. 
 
 And now Roger left the cell and began walking, with 
 steady steps, his head still thrown back, down a narrow 
 way. . . . 
 
 And then the woman in the bed gave a stifled shriek, 
 for suddenly she saw the gallows through an open door 
 at the end of the passage. 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, yet something 
 seemed to force her to peep through her fingers and 
 — for a fleeting moment — Roger Gretorex turned and 
 looked at her. . . . 
 
 So had the condemned man turned and looked at the 
 woman in the play. 
 
 But Roger's face was so charged with mute, terrible 
 reproach that, with an anguished cry of protest, Ivy 
 awoke — awoke to the blessed reality that she was sixty 
 miles from the place where that awful drama was to be 
 enacted this morning. 
 
 Her shaking hand felt for her diamond-circled watch 
 on the Chippendale table standing by her bed. Having 
 found it, she held it up close before her eyes. 
 
 It was only eight o'clock. She sighed heavily, for 
 that meant that there was another hour of misery and 
 suspense to be lived through. Nay, maybe even as much 
 as an hour and a half — for the morbid-minded woman 
 pal of hers who intended to stand near the prison gate 
 till the death notice was put up, and had promised 
 faithfully to telephone to her from a house near by, 
 had thought it unlikely she could get a trunk call 
 through before half-past nine. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 291 
 
 The tears began rolling down Ivy Lexton's cheeks; 
 yet it was not for Roger Gretorex, and his awful fate, 
 that she was weeping. It was for pity of herself, for 
 all she had gone through, and for what remained for 
 her to go through, till she knew for certain that Roger 
 Gretorex had died, as he had lived, silent. 
 
 She was well aware, deep down in her heart, that 
 not only his counsel, Sir Joseph Molloy, who believed 
 him innocent, but also that Roger's mother, would hope 
 up to the last moment of his sentient life that he would 
 clear himself by shifting the burden of guilt on the one 
 who was guilty. 
 
 Ivy had written the condemned man a letter three 
 days ago, and she had made so many rough copies of 
 that short letter that she knew it, now, by heart. 
 
 She repeated that touching letter over to herself, 
 rocking her slight body this way and that in the large 
 bed. 
 
 Sunday night. 
 
 Dear Roger, 
 
 I am ill, so I cannot come to you. Otherwise I would 
 do so. You know that I believe you innocent, and I want 
 now to tell you how grateful I am for all your kindness to 
 me, and for the love, however wrong it may have been, that 
 you lavished on me. Ivy. 
 
 She hoped that letter had given poor Roger pleasure 
 and, above all, that he had read between the lines and 
 seen how really, truly sorry she was — how dreadfully 
 grieved that everything had fallen out as it had fallen 
 out. Indeed, she had twice underlined the word 
 "grateful." 
 
 And then she suddenly felt that she could not go 
 on remembering any more. It was too horrible — too 
 
292 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 horrible ! So she took a bottle off the little table, where 
 her watch was lying, and measured out a small dose 
 into a medicine glass. Lady Flora would wake her, she 
 knew, when that secretly longed-for message came 
 through. 
 
 Soon she was once more plunged into uneasy slum- 
 ber. But alas ! again there came that hideous, hideous 
 nightmare. 
 
 Once more she seemed transported to the con- 
 demned cell. But this time, in addition to the warders, 
 the governor of the prison, and the chaplain, there was 
 the horrid, cruel, fat-faced man, Sir Joseph Molloy, 
 who had cross-examined her. True, he had dealt with 
 her gently, kindly, but only because he had been 
 adjured to do so, and, as well she remembered, with 
 now and again a tigerish glare in his blue Irish eyes. 
 
 She listened with a feeling of indignation and pitiful 
 dread to his voice uttering the words : "I adjure you, 
 Gretorex, to tell the truth, now, for the sake of your 
 poor mother who has always believed you innocent!" 
 
 There was a pause. Ivy clasped her hands together 
 in supplication. But the collarless prisoner had turned 
 his sunken eyes away from her pleading face. Was he 
 going to obey Sir Joseph Molloy ? Yes ! For she heard 
 Roger's deep voice answer: ''It is as you have always 
 thought it was, Sir Joseph. I die innocent. Ivy Lexton 
 poisoned her husband." 
 
 Outside that quiet bedroom Lady Flora, already on 
 her way down to breakfast, heard a fearful cry — "No! 
 No ! No! — that isn't true !" 
 
 She opened the bedroom door and saw that Ivy was 
 asleep. "Poor child," she murmured. "No wonder she 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 293 
 
 talks in her sleep. Thank God ! that unhappy man is to 
 be hanged this morning." 
 
 And, being the manner of woman she was, she 
 offered up a silent prayer for the murderer, that he 
 might make his peace with God. 
 
 There came a sharp knock on the bedroom door, 
 and Ivy woke with a stifled cry. She jumped straight 
 out of bed and stood, her hands clasped together, 
 waiting. 
 
 There came another knock, and then, "Come in !" 
 she cried shrilly, and Lady Flora's old parlourmaid 
 entered the room. 
 
 Ivy had never liked the woman, and the woman had 
 never liked her. She did not understand, and she never 
 quite knew how to treat, those of her own sex whom 
 she regarded as inferior to herself ; yet some of the 
 kindest letters written to her in the last few weeks had 
 been from domestic servants, warmly sympathising 
 with the heroine of their favourite Sunday paper. 
 
 ''Mrs. Doghill is on the telephone, ma'am. Her lady- 
 ship is holding the line till you come." 
 
 Ivy snatched up her periwinkle-blue satin dressing- 
 gown and wrapped it about her. Then she thrust her 
 little white feet into slippers that matched the dressing- 
 gown, and ran downstairs, telling herself, not for the 
 first time, how stupid it was to have the telephone in so 
 public a place as the hall. 
 
 Lady Flora was standing, the telephone receiver to 
 her ear. But when she saw Ivy she silently handed her 
 the receiver and, turning into the dining-room, shut 
 the door. 
 
294 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "Is that you, Millicent? Yes — yes! I can hear quite 
 well " 
 
 She waited in an agony of mingled hope and fear 
 till, with startling distinctness, came the measured 
 words that were being uttered sixty miles away. 
 
 "There's been a reprieve. The story goes that import- 
 ant new evidence was laid before the Home Secretary 
 yesterday. 
 
 Ivy remained silent. She felt stunned. New evi- 
 dence ? 
 
 At last she managed to get out, in a low, strangled 
 voice, "I — I don't quite understand." 
 
 But instantly she heard a cross voice interject, 
 "You've had six minutes — can't allow you to have any 
 more now." 
 
 "Indeed I haven't! I've only just come to the tele- 
 phone," she said pleadingly. 
 
 "I can't help that. The call was put through six min- 
 utes ago " And ruthlessly she was cut off. 
 
 Ivy turned towards the room where she knew her 
 hostess was waiting, full of sympathy. She opened the 
 
 door, and then she cried, "He's been — he's been " 
 
 and before she could say the word "reprieved" she had 
 fallen fainting at the other woman's feet. 
 
 Lady Flora would not have believed an angel, had 
 an angel come and told her, that her dear little friend 
 Ivy Lexton had fainted, not from relief, but from 
 sheer, agonising fear. 
 
 Ivy spent the rest of the morning in bed, a prey to 
 frightful anxiety and terror. 
 
 New evidence? What could that mean? Had Roger 
 really failed her at last ? 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 295 
 
 At twelve o'clock the parlourmaid came in with a 
 telegram. 
 
 Hope to be with you to-morrow evening. 
 
 Miles Rushworth. 
 
 The telegram had been sent from Paris the day be- 
 fore, and delayed in transmission. 
 
 "There is no answer," said Mrs. Lexton in her soft 
 voice. And then she lay back, feeling much less 
 unhappy. 
 
 Whatever the mysterious reprieve might portend, 
 Rushworth would very soon, in fact to-morrow, be 
 here to help and to protect her. 
 
 As she read the telegram over for the third time, Ivy 
 told herself how noble, how generous, how devoted the 
 sender had proved himself. Also, what a wonderful life 
 lay before her as his cherished, sheltered wife! Rush- 
 worth was all-powerful. New evidence? There could be 
 no "new evidence" for the simple reason that nothing, 
 nothing, nothing had ever happened — that could possi- 
 bly be found out. 
 
Chapter Twenty-two 
 
 As he walked up the gangway of the cross-Channel 
 boat at Calais, Miles Rushworth's heart was full of two 
 women. The one was his dead sister, the other Ivy 
 Lexton, the woman to whom he was hastening, and 
 whom he expected to see to-day. Every fibre of Rush- 
 worth's being longed consciously, hungrily, thirstily, 
 for Ivy. 
 
 It was a source of real grief to him that these two 
 could never now meet and love each other. He had been 
 painfully aware that his sister hoped he would marry 
 her own dearest friend, Bella Dale, and he had not 
 dared to speak to her of Ivy. 
 
 During his long, dreary journey home he had often 
 asked himself if all she had gone through had changed 
 her from the deliciously pretty, kind-hearted, rather 
 irresponsible little creature he remembered her as be- 
 ing, into a more serious woman. Not that he wanted 
 Ivy different. To him she was already absolutely per- 
 fect. But her letters had grown shorter, as his had 
 grown longer, and vaguely they had disappointed him. 
 
 Roger Gretorex? How often had Rush worth tried 
 to visualise the young man who had committed so 
 dastardly a crime in order to set free the woman he had 
 loved hopelessly, and without return, from the deg- 
 radation of being tied to such a waster as had been 
 Jervis Lexton. 
 
 Though even the South African papers had been full 
 of the wretched fellow's photographs, proving that he 
 had a singularly handsome face, Rushworth had no 
 296 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 297 
 
 clear vision of him. Also, Ivy had never once men- 
 tioned him in any of her letters. 
 
 Suddenly that fact, Ivy's absolute silence concerning 
 Gretorex, struck him as being strange. He also realised, 
 what he had not realised till now, that poor lovely Ivy 
 could not but be ( , all her life long, even after she changed 
 her name, a marked woman. She would be always 
 pointed at, and that wherever she went in English- 
 speaking lands, as the heroine of a great cause celebre. 
 
 Yet stop ! In the circumstances, would it not only be 
 right, but reasonable, that she should marry him, Miles 
 Rushworth, almost at once ? He would beg her, entreat 
 her, to consent to an immediate marriage. And then he 
 would take her away in his yacht to the South, to some 
 quiet place where they two could be hidden in a trance 
 of love, while people forgot the sordid story of the 
 murder of which she had been the innocent cause. 
 
 It was a fine winter day, though bitterly cold, so the 
 home-coming traveller found himself a comfortable 
 spot in a sheltered place, on the upper deck of the 
 steamer, where was just room for three. 
 
 Two deck-chairs were already occupied, one by a big 
 man with whose powerful, humorous face Rushworth 
 felt he was vaguely familiar, the other by a delicate, 
 fragile-looking, little grey-haired lady. The third chair 
 was unoccupied, and so he sat down in it. 
 
 Perhaps because he was in a sentimental mood to- 
 day, he felt queerly moved when he saw that, under 
 their rug, the big man was holding the hand of the 
 grey-haired little lady. They were talking together 
 eagerly, happily ; obviously, so Rushworth told himself, 
 an old-fashioned husband and wife, never so happy as 
 when they were together. 
 
298 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 His heart swung back to Ivy Lexton, and to the bliss 
 of their coming meeting. 
 
 Poor, precious darling! What a terrible ordeal she 
 had been through ! He would regret all his life, all their 
 joint life, that he had been far from her during the 
 weeks that had followed the strange death of Jervis 
 Lexton. 
 
 And then — for a moment he thought his ears had 
 misled him — he heard that very name of "Lexton" 
 uttered aloud by the man sitting one from him. 
 
 "That Lexton affair? Come now. If you really read 
 your loving husband's letters — I sometimes suspect that 
 you don't, you naughty little thing — well, there'd be 
 nothing left to tell you ! It's hunting I should be to-day, 
 instead of coming to meet an ungrateful woman." 
 
 "I want to know what's happening now, joe. x\lso, 
 most of all, what led to the extraordinary reprieve on 
 the very day this man was to have been hanged ?" 
 
 A reprieve? Miles Rushworth felt a sudden rush of 
 anger and surprise. He was, of course, aware that Roger 
 Gretorex, the man whose name and personality he 
 loathed, and for whom he felt he would ever feel an 
 intense, retrospective horror, was to have been hanged 
 this very morning. That fact had been stated in both 
 the daily papers which are published in English in Paris. 
 
 If it was true that there had been a reprieve that 
 morning, how had this stranger already become aware 
 of the fact? 
 
 "You know I told you, Eileen, long ago, that the poor 
 chap had refused to appeal?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember that," she murmured. 
 
 "Well, there seemed nothing left to be done! I was 
 in despair, and it was only the day before yesterday 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 299 
 
 that by — well, I suppose old-fashioned folk like you 
 would call it an intervention of Providence, some 
 astounding new evidence was produced. And what's 
 more, I've been proved right !" 
 
 And there was a tone of triumph in the, now low, 
 organ-like voice. 
 
 "D'you mean that what you half suspected was true 
 all along, Joe?" 
 
 She had turned her head round, and was gazing up 
 into her husband's face. 
 
 Rushworth saw the big man bend his head as 
 jovially he exclaimed, "Bedad ! I think we've got her 
 cold!" 
 
 A tremor ran through the lady. "What a horrible 
 expression," she murmured. 
 
 "Still, so far there's something lacking, me dear, and 
 it's causing me a bit of anxiety." 
 
 "What's that, Joe?" 
 
 "Motive!" the man exclaimed, in a voice that had 
 become suddenly grave. And then he went on : "I don't 
 mind telling you that everything fair and — well, a bit 
 near the wind, also, was done to try and find out if our 
 lovely, clinging Ivy had another man in tow. She is 
 a" — the speaker sought for something in place of the 
 Biblical word trembling on his lips, but he gave it up, 
 and said instead : 
 
 "We heard that there was one chap who went about 
 with her a good deal last autumn, and who was far 
 more often at Duke of Kent Mansion than Gretorex 
 ever was. But though we ran him to earth and gave him 
 — at least I hope so — a pretty bad quarter of an hour, 
 it was clear that he would never have married her, not 
 if she had been a hundred times free ! Also, though he's 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 a gay bachelor, and manages to give his lady friends a 
 scrumptious time, he's not a rich man, and our practical 
 little Ivy wants money, money, money all the time." 
 
 "Then what's going to be done now ? You don't want 
 your man, if he's really innocent, to languish in prison 
 half his life," observed the little lady shrewdly. 
 
 "I do not," he answered, in his rich, Irish voice. 
 "What's more, I want to shift that noose. Once we get 
 her in the dock I'll see there's no recommendation to 
 mercy ; trust me for that ! The woman's a double-dyed 
 murderess. She poisoned her husband, and she as good 
 as hanged her lover." 
 
 "You haven't got her in the dock yet, and maybe 
 you never will," said his wife calmly. 
 
 "Hold on ! Hold on ! Did you ever see me miss a kill 
 I'd set my heart on? There's another woman whose 
 neck I'd like to wring — that of an old charwoman, who, 
 if she'd told the truth when Gretorex was first arrested, 
 might have made all the difference, for there would 
 still have been time, then, to find out something." 
 
 "Has that poor, pretty woman had a chance of 
 saying anything for herself ?" asked his wife slowly. 
 
 "That artful little Jezebel is staying with a woman 
 friend in the country at present, and the police are 
 determined that everything is to be O.K. this time. It's 
 
 for hell she's making " and he laughed a jolly 
 
 laugh. "Ivy's held all the cards in her hand up to now, 
 but she's going to lose the rubber." 
 
 "I do wonder, Joe, what her motive can have been 
 — her husband had just got a good job, hadn't he?" 
 
 For a few moments the speaker remained silent, then 
 he said in a singular voice : 
 
 "If Gretorex had hanged this morning, I'd have 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 301 
 
 betted a hundred to one that within a year we should 
 have seen, in all the papers, a paragraph announcing 
 that the beautiful Mrs. Lexton, whose husband had 
 died in such tragic circumstances, was about to be mar- 
 ried very quietly to Mr. Dash, a gentleman of great 
 wealth and considerable position !" 
 
 Rushworth moved slightly in his seat. He felt as if, 
 within the last few minutes, the whole world, his 
 world, had stopped going round, and that when it 
 began again it would be in quite a different world that 
 he would find himself. 
 
 "Then you think it will come out, now, that Mrs. 
 Lexton was in love with some man ?" 
 
 "I don't think anything of the kind ! My view is that 
 among the innumerable young fools who have made 
 love to her in the past year or two, she marked down 
 some rich man as a possible husband, were she only 
 free. One thing we learned only the other day. This was 
 that two or three years ago she did her best to persuade 
 that rotter Jervis Lexton to consent to an arranged 
 divorce. He refused, unluckily for himself, for, though 
 he was a poor mutt, he adored his wife. She's the sort 
 of woman over whom men go fantee " 
 
 "It's unlucky that you can't put a name to the happy 
 man, Joe ! Eh, my dear ?" 
 
 "Unlucky? I should think it is unlucky! Still, some- 
 one's been supplying pretty Ivy with plenty of money 
 during the last few weeks." 
 
 "It's strange she wasn't suspected." 
 
 "Of course she was! But not by the right people. 
 My word, Eileen, she is a clever little woman! You 
 should have seen her in the witness-box! Why, butter 
 wouldn't melt in her mouth. But she overplayed her 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 part. I think a good many people found it difficult to 
 believe that she's been what she made herself out to be 
 — a kind of plaster saint." 
 
 'Ts there any evidence to show that she was not 
 that?" asked Lady Molloy quietly. 
 
 "There you go ! Hate to believe anything of a certain 
 sort about a woman! You're a regular suffragette. A 
 cold-blooded poisoner, yes — but naughty? Oh dear no, 
 not that, if you please." 
 
 Half to himself, he added, "She wrote Gretorex two 
 letters the poor chap's servant got out of his paper- 
 basket and pieced together. The minute I'd read 'em I 
 knew there'd be a reprieve !" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because Eddie Law is a highly moral man. He 
 loathes the sins he's not inclined to." Sir Joseph added 
 candidly, "Most of us do, me dear." 
 
 As Rushworth walked down the gangway at Dover 
 two or three of his fellow-passengers nudged one 
 another and smiled. They thought he was "a sheet in 
 the wind," for he did not seem to know quite what he 
 was doing, or where he was going. 
 
 The moment Mr. Oram received the wire informing 
 him that the execution of Roger Gretorex had been 
 postponed, he hurried back to London, full of surprise 
 and curiosity. 
 
 What an amazing — he almost felt it to be, even now, 
 an unbelievable — story, was that told him with defer- 
 ential clearness and dryness by Alfred Finch. 
 
 "God bless my soul !" he repeated at intervals. 
 
 And then at last, with some magnanimity, he ob- 
 served, "Then you were right, Finch, and I wrong, 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 303 
 
 all along. Though I thought her a vain little fribble, 
 murder is the last thing I'd have suspected that young 
 woman capable of." 
 
 "I didn't suspect her either, sir. I was looking for a 
 man — the successor to Dr. Gretorex in the lady's 
 affections. The police believe they're on the track of 
 what may be styled Mrs. Lexton's motive. It's a man, 
 right enough ! Orpington wouldn't tell me his name. 
 He simply said he was very rich, and seemingly in- 
 fatuated with her." 
 
 He gave the old solicitor a rather odd look. But that 
 gentleman did not take up the challenge, though all 
 Rushworth's cables, both to Ivy and to the lawyer him- 
 self, had been traced. And Mr. Oram had just become 
 aware of the fact. 
 
 "Well—well— well " 
 
 "I suggest, sir, that you appeal to Sir Edward Law 
 to consider the release of Dr. Gretorex on licence. The 
 letter which he wrote to Mrs. Lexton — you have a 
 copy of it here — which someone, I suspect one of the 
 maids at the flat, sent anonymously to the Home Secre- 
 tary, though one can't exactly call it evidence, makes 
 it clear to any impartial mind that our man was 
 absolutely innocent of the whole business. As soon as 
 she got busy, Mrs. Lexton wanted him out of the way. 
 That's as plain as a pikestaff. After all, he is a doctor, 
 and he might have spoilt her game. Also he must have 
 known, if he stopped to think a bit, that she had had 
 access to the poison." 
 
 "More fool he to go to the flat on that last day," 
 said Mr. Oram crustily. 
 
 It was that fact which, as soon as he had learnt it, 
 had seemed to fix the guilt definitely on Gretorex. 
 
304 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "He was dotty about her! When a chap's in that 
 peculiar condition, sir, it's as if he can't keep away," 
 murmured Mr. Finch. 
 
 And then, it might have seemed irrelevantly, he 
 observed: "Mr. Rushworth will be back in London 
 in a day or two. Earlier, if he travels overland from 
 Marseilles." 
 
 But even Alfred Finch felt a thrill of surprise when 
 that same afternoon he was told that Mr. Rushworth 
 was closeted with Mr. Oram. Indeed, he made a quick 
 mental calculation. Either this must mean that their 
 important client had come to Mr. Oram's office straight 
 from Victoria Station, or that he had flown from Paris. 
 
 Mr. Finch would have given a good deal to have 
 been present at the interview which was taking place 
 within a few yards of where he was working on a tire- 
 some right-of-way case. 
 
 Mr. Oram's head clerk had never much liked Miles 
 Rushworth, and he could not help smiling to himself, 
 as he considered the very awkward position in which 
 that gentleman would find himself, if he was called as 
 a witness for the Crown, as he most certainly would 
 be if Mrs. Lexton were ever put on trial for the mur- 
 der of her husband. 
 
 Alfred Finch knew that something of a most in- 
 criminating nature had been found in Ivy's bedroom, 
 when the flat in Duke of Kent Mansion had been 
 searched yesterday. He thought it probable that this 
 consisted of a series of letters between Mrs. Lexton 
 and Miles Rushworth. Even a man of huge wealth 
 does not give something for nothing to an attractive 
 woman. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 305 
 
 Lawyers are apt to overlook the exception which 
 proves the rule in life. 
 
 Had Mr. Finch been able to look through a blank 
 wall, he would have seen Mr. Oram sitting at his 
 writing-table, and looking across it straight at Miles 
 Rushworth. And could he have heard what was being 
 said, he would have realised that his employer was 
 speaking in a tone that was, for him, oddly hesitant and 
 uneasy. 
 
 "I'm sorry to say, Rushworth, that I've no doubt at 
 all but that there's been a terrible miscarriage of justice. 
 I take it that you knew comparatively little of Mrs. Jer- 
 vis Lexton, even though her husband was in your em- 
 ployment ?" 
 
 Miles Rushworth made a conscious effort to appear 
 calm and unconcerned. But he failed in that endeavour, 
 and was aware that he failed. 
 
 "I knew them both fairly well," he answered at last. 
 
 Mr. Oram began playing with a paper knife. He was 
 wondering how much the man who sat there, with 
 overcast face, and anxious, frowning eyes, was con- 
 cerned with this horrid business. 
 
 " What's going to be the next move, Oram ? I take it 
 that you've been informed ?" 
 
 "Well, yes, I have been informed, though quite un- 
 officially. The — ahem! authorities are very naturally 
 perturbed. An innocent man was very nearly hanged. 
 It was, in fact, a matter of hours " 
 
 Should he tell this old friend and client the truth? 
 All his life long John Oram had cultivated caution, and 
 technically he was now bound to silence. But he made 
 up his mind that he owed the truth to Rushworth. 
 Even now the solicitor had no suspicion of how really 
 
306 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 close had been the relations between the woman he now 
 believed to have been a cold-blooded murderess, and 
 this man whom she had so completely deceived. He was 
 aware of how carelessly generous Rushworth could be 
 and often was. 
 
 Still, a glance at his client's face, now filled with a 
 painful expression of suspense and acute anxiety, 
 showed that this matter was of great moment to him. 
 
 "Mrs. Lexton," he said in a low voice, "is going to 
 be arrested, I understand, this evening, or to-morrow 
 morning. The Criminal Investigation Department of 
 Scotland Yard are completing what they consider a 
 very strong chain of evidence against her. I have here 
 copies of three letters which have come into their 
 possession. You had better glance over them. Rush- 
 worth." 
 
 He got up and, leaning across his table, handed a 
 number of typewritten sheets to his client. 
 
 How strange looked those burning words of love 
 and longing, transcribed on a bad old typewriting ma- 
 chine! But the man now reading them could visualise 
 Ivy's pretty flowing handwriting, and, as he read on, 
 he turned hot and cold. 
 
 Then he started on Gretorex's letter; the letter 
 acquiescing in Ivy's decision that there should be a 
 break between them. 
 
 "That was written, 1 ' observed the solicitor, "after 
 Lexton's mysterious illness was well started. I think 
 you will agree that it is the letter of a man who was 
 certainly unaware of what was going on ?" 
 
 He waited a moment, then he added: "They've 
 unluckily traced all your cables to the lady, Rushworth, 
 as well as yours to me. I fear that you are certain to be 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 307 
 
 called as leading witness for the Crown, if Mrs. Lex- 
 ton is sent for trial, as seems now inevitable." 
 
 "That would be monstrous ! What is my connection 
 with this case?" exclaimed Rushworth. "Surely I had 
 the right to give all the help in my power to the wife 
 of one of my own people?" 
 
 "They will call you in order to prove that Mrs. 
 Lexton had a strong motive for wishing to get her 
 husband out of the way," returned Mr. Oram in a 
 doleful tone. "I hope you refrained from writing to 
 her? If you did, I trust she had the sense to destroy 
 your letters." 
 
 "It is this man Gretorex, if, as you seem to think, 
 he is entirely innocent, who should be called, not I," 
 said Rushworth in a hard voice. 
 
 "Roger Gretorex will certainly refuse to give evi- 
 dence against her. They'll try to make him. But they'll 
 fail. He worshipped Ivy Lexton, and I fear he still 
 loves her." 
 
 Then the old man sighed. "It's an awful story, Rush- 
 worth," he observed, "however you look at it." 
 
 The other threw the typewritten sheets of paper 
 back on the table. He rose, and rather blindly he felt 
 for, and found, his hat and stick. 
 
 "I must be going now," he said shortly. "If I'm 
 wanted, you know where to find me, Oram." 
 
 He felt humiliated to the depths of his being. His 
 passion for Ivy Lexton had turned to bitter hatred. 
 Yet he knew that their fates were linked together, and 
 that through what had been his mad infatuation for 
 this woman, a name which was known and honoured all 
 over the world, was not only going to become a laugh- 
 ingstock, but also to be smirched and befouled for ever. 
 
308 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 As he went down the fine staircase of the old house, 
 he exclaimed wordlessly, "By God, that shall not 
 be!" 
 
 He waited a moment in the hall, and in that moment 
 he thought of a way out. 
 
 It was a way made possible by the fact that an un- 
 pleasant experience at the beginning of August, 191 4, 
 had taught him the value of gold. Since the Saturday 
 which had preceded the outbreak of war, he had always 
 kept a thousand pounds in gold, and a thousand pounds 
 in Bank of England ten-pound notes, in the private 
 safe of his London office. 
 
 He walked quickly to the corner of a quiet street 
 where he had left his car, and threw the chauffeur the 
 address. 
 
 Then he looked at his watch. If what old Oram had 
 said was true with regard to the probable arrest of Ivy 
 Lexton, there was just time to accomplish that which 
 he had planned to do in what had seemed but one flash- 
 ing second. 
 
 "Stop at the nearest telephone box," he called out. 
 And the chauffeur drew up at a tube station. 
 
 Rushworth was in the telephone box for a long time, 
 for he had to a certain extent to speak in parables. But 
 the young man whom he had called up, and had had the 
 good fortune to find at home, at last understood exactly 
 what was wanted of him. He was an airman to whom 
 Rushworth had once been magnificently generous. 
 
 "Right-ho !" came the young voice down the line. 
 "I'll be quite ready. I understand you want me to take 
 my wife, too, and that you'll motor her down here from 
 town. Her passport's always O.K. You can trust me. 
 \fraid? Not much!" 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 309 
 
 Rushworth's face looked strained and white as he 
 came out of the telephone box. 
 
 He was well aware that he was inciting that lad to 
 do, from pure gratitude, a very wrong thing. Well? If 
 it "didn't come off," he, Rushworth, would take all the 
 blame, of course. But he felt pretty sure that the plan 
 he had made would succeed, for it had the two essen- 
 tial qualities which spell success. His plan was bold 
 and his plan was simple. 
 
 True, he wondered uncomfortably if the police had 
 traced that last wire of his from Paris. He was glad 
 indeed that Ivy had had the wit to telegraph her coun- 
 try address. And then, as he evoked her lovely face, her 
 beckoning eyes, his own darkened, and filled with wrath 
 and pain. 
 
 He did not go himself into his London office. In- 
 stead he sent in his chauffeur, with the key of his 
 private safe, and armed with minute instructions as to 
 what he was to take out of it. 
 
 Then, when the man had brought him the heavy 
 little canvas bag, and the envelope containing a hun- 
 dred ten-pound notes, he threw him the address of some 
 lodgings in a quiet street off Piccadilly, where he knew 
 Lady Dale and her daughter were staying just now. 
 His sister had made him promise that he would see 
 Bella the moment he reached London, and he was ful- 
 filling that promise. 
 
 When he was told that her ladyship was out, but 
 that Miss Dale was in, and alone, he suddenly felt as if 
 his luck was holding, after all ! 
 
 Ivy had insisted on coming back to London before 
 luncheon. 
 
3io THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Not only was her mind now full of vague, un- 
 substantial fears, but she was aware that Miles Rush- 
 worth would call at her flat some time this evening. 
 That, indeed, was a fact to which she clung and con- 
 stantly returned with a feeling of reassurance and hope. 
 Even so she had not allowed Lady Flora to telephone 
 the fact that she was returning unexpectedly to the 
 flat. She felt, somehow, that she wanted no one to know 
 about her movements just now. She was beginning to 
 feel that most terrifying of sensations — that of being 
 hunted. 
 
 Even when settled comfortably, and alone, in a first- 
 class carriage of the train taking her to town, she found 
 she could not rest, and she actually got up and began 
 moving about. 
 
 It was such an awful sensation — that of feeling that 
 human hounds might be hot on her scent. . . . 
 
 She had bought her favourite picture paper at the 
 station, and then she had had a shock, for a large 
 photograph of Roger had confronted her on the front 
 page. 
 
 Underneath the picture ran a long paragraph, stat- 
 ing that Dr. Gretorex, who was to have been hanged 
 this morning for the murder of Jervis Lexton, had had 
 his execution postponed on the very eve of its being 
 carried out. Such a thing had not taken place in Eng- 
 land for close on eighty years. But important new evi- 
 dence had been placed before the Home Secretary at 
 the eleventh hour. . . . 
 
 "New Evidence" — Ivy turned those two ominous 
 words over and over again, in her troubled, anxious 
 mind. They now forced her to do what she had believed 
 she would never, never have to do — live over again, 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 311 
 
 in imagination, a certain fortnight of her life, the first 
 fortnight of last November. . . . 
 
 She found herself imagining, suspecting, wild, crazy 
 things. For instance, the existence of minute peepholes 
 in the ceilings of certain rooms in the flat? Even that 
 seemed more likely than that Roger Gretorex should 
 have "given her away" with regard to the fact that 
 she had been once left alone by him with a jar of 
 arsenic on the table of his surgery. 
 
 Besides, even if he had done such a cruel, despicable 
 thing, what he had it in his power to reveal proved 
 nothing, and could prove nothing. She knew herself to 
 have been not only very clever, but also very very 
 careful. 
 
 And yet, as the train sped nearer and nearer to 
 London, she became more and more afraid. 
 
 The old cook was quite pleased to see "the missus," 
 and volubly she described the visit of Inspector 
 Orpington and of his sergeant. 
 
 "No, they didn't find nothing. How could they — 
 when there was nothing there?" 
 
 This Ivy believed to be nothing but the truth, and 
 yet the fact that the two men from Scotland Yard had 
 come to search the flat, filled her with a terrible fore- 
 boding. 
 
 And then, suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Huntley! 
 With a sensation of sick fear she recalled how 
 Gretorex's servant had surprised her on what she now 
 perceived to have been the most dangerous day of her 
 life. 
 
 Vile, wicked, cruel old woman ! However, she, Ivy, 
 had already replaced the cap on the jar labelled 
 "Arsenic" when Mrs. Huntley had crept into the sur- 
 
312 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 gery so slyly and softly behind her. But the jar had 
 been there, on the table before her, and no doubt the old 
 fox had noticed it. 
 
 Yes ! It was probably some sort of gossip traced to 
 Gretorex's day-servant which had been the cause both 
 of the reprieve, and of the presence yesterday of the 
 Scotland Yard inspector here, in the flat. But, thank 
 God, there was nothing — nothing — nothing that could 
 be found, and for the best of reasons, that there was 
 nothing to find. 
 
 Even so, all this was very frightening, as well as 
 very annoying, if only because it meant new trouble and 
 worry, just at a time when she, Ivy, would be wanting 
 to pick up the old, and create the new, links, between 
 herself and Rushworth. 
 
 She went into her bedroom feeling a little reassured. 
 It is always better to know the worst, and Ivy Lexton 
 thought she did know the worst now. And it was not 
 so bad as she had feared. 
 
 Already she was mentally preparing the tale she 
 would tell. And it ran somewhat like this : She had gone 
 just for a moment to see Gretorex on the evening Mrs. 
 Huntley had seen her in the surgery, with a message 
 from Jervis, who was waiting for her hard by Ferry 
 Place in a taxi. They two were on their way to a dance, 
 and Jervis had suggested that Gretorex should come 
 with them. But the fact had made so little impression 
 on her mind that she had forgotten all about it, when 
 asked if she had ever been to Ferry Place alone. If Mrs. 
 Huntley mentioned the supper, she would simply deny 
 that she had been the lady entertained by Gretorex. 
 Mrs. Huntley had not actually seen her with her host. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 313 
 
 She had only seen her for that moment or two in the 
 surgery. 
 
 But, even so, Ivy's nerves were so far upset that she 
 made an involuntary and violent movement of recoil, 
 when she heard a sudden loud knock on the front door 
 of the flat. 
 
 There followed a moment of delay, and then she 
 heard the cook waddling down the passage. She told 
 herself that it was probably Inspector Orpington, and 
 she mentally prepared her story, the explanation, that 
 is, of that unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Huntley. 
 
 And then her heart leapt with joy in her bosom, for, 
 "Is Mrs. Lexton at home?" was uttered in Miles Rush- 
 worth's voice. 
 
 "I don't know that Mrs. Lexton can see you, sir." 
 
 "I think she'll see me. Will you kindly say Mr. Rush- 
 worth has called to see her?" 
 
 Ivy heard him go into the drawing-room, and, after 
 a few moments spent before her dressing-table in mak- 
 ing up her face, she followed him. 
 
 Miles Rushworth was standing in the centre of the 
 room, and when the door opened, and Ivy came 
 through it, she looked so innocent and so appealing, 
 as she advanced towards him in her plain black dress, 
 that suddenly he felt as if all that had happened to-day 
 had been only an evil dream. Almost he held out his 
 arms. 
 
 And then he took a step backwards, for alas ! he 
 knew all that had happened to-day was no dream, but 
 stark reality. 
 
 In silence she held out her hand, and perforce he 
 took it in his, for a moment. 
 
314 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 "I felt so sad, even in the midst of my own troubles, 
 when I heard about your sister," she murmured. 
 
 "Don't speak of her!'' he exclaimed violently. And 
 involuntarily she shrank back. 
 
 She had put down that terrible, stern, sorrow-laden 
 expression on his face to grief for his sister. But all at 
 once she saw that he was gazing at her with an alien 
 look — the look of a stern judge — on his sunburnt face. 
 
 What had he heard ? What did he know ? As she met 
 that awful, accusing shaft of contempt, and yes, of 
 loathing, a sensation of icy despair began slowly to 
 envelop her. 
 
 "Do you remember Bella Dale?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 She answered in a faltering voice, "The girl on the 
 yacht? Of course I do." 
 
 "She was my sister's dearest friend," his voice sank. 
 More strongly he said, "I went to see her this morning, 
 and — and now we are engaged." 
 
 And then he could not but admire her, for Ivy threw 
 back her head, and in a hard, clear tone she exclaimed : 
 
 "I wish you joy, Mr. Rushworth ! Also I do want to 
 thank you from the bottom of my heart, for all you 
 have done for me." 
 
 She knew now why he looked "like that." He was 
 ashamed, and well he might be. 
 
 Quickly she told herself that he wasn't married yet. 
 The fact that he was so moved showed the power she 
 had over him. It had been foolish of her to suppose, 
 as she had done for a moment, that he had heard some- 
 thing to her disadvantage — why, there hadn't been 
 time ! 
 
 But what was this he was saying ? 
 
 "I'm the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Lexton." 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 315 
 
 His voice had become almost inaudible. She moved, 
 timorously, a little nearer to him. 
 
 "Bad news ?" she echoed uncertainly, and once npre 
 terror rilled her burdened, fluttering heart. 
 
 "You are to be arrested to-morrow morning on the 
 charge of having caused the death of your husband by 
 poison. The police claim to possess ample evidence to 
 ensure a conviction ; so you are in frightful danger. " 
 
 Arrested? In one fleeting moment she saw herself 
 a prisoner in the dock where Roger Gretorex had stood. 
 She visualised the Judge, the jury, the lawyers in the 
 well of the Court, even the pitiless crowd of sightseers. 
 The lifting of the black cap on to the Judge's wig — his 
 awful words of admonition — the condemned cell . . . 
 the gallows. . . . 
 
 She who now had always fainted so easily, why did 
 she not faint now ? Because she was tasting the bitter- 
 ness of death. 
 
 Yet she made no sign, though she was staring at 
 Rushworth with dilated eyes. But for those large, ter- 
 ror-filled eyes, he would have thought that she had not 
 understood the purport of his awful revelation of 
 what now awaited her. And something like a spasm of 
 pity shook him to the depths of his being. 
 
 "I think, nay, I'm sure, I can save you," he ex- 
 claimed confidently. 
 
 Then he went on, speaking in low, quick tones : 
 "I've arranged with a friend of mine who has got an 
 aeroplane — you remember Jack Quirk, on the yacht ? — 
 to take you by air now, at once, to-day, to Spain. You 
 will travel as his wife, on her passport. I've brought 
 you a thousand pounds in gold, and another thousand 
 in notes. From Spain you ought to be able to get a 
 
316 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 passage to South America without too much trouble. 
 Quirk will arrange it all for you, and he will give you 
 an address, where, if in need of help, you can write 
 to me, once you are safe, far, far away." 
 
 His voice broke. He was remembering a moment — 
 an immortal moment — in their joint lives, when Ivy 
 had certainly loved him, in her fashion. 
 
 He saw her lips, which were quivering under the 
 dab of lipstick rouge, try to form the words, "Thank 
 you." 
 
 "I'm afraid there's no time to be lost. We'd better 
 not be seen leaving the flat together. I'll say good-bye 
 to you in the hall, and you'd better follow in about five 
 minutes. My car is in Palace Row. Don't bring any- 
 thing with you. The front door may be watched, but I 
 think not, as you are believed to be in the country." 
 
Epilogue 
 
 For the first few moments, spent alone by her in 
 her bedroom, Ivy could only feel relief — sheer, sobbing 
 relief. 
 
 Then there came over her a sensation of utter, numb 
 despair. 
 
 She had lost everything that makes life worth the 
 living to such as she . . . 
 
 But there was no time left her, now, to remember 
 the past, or dread the future. She must hurry — hurry. 
 
 So it was that, in less than five minutes after Rush- 
 worth had left her, she was standing outside the flat, 
 clad in a small pull-on black hat and a big fur coat. 
 
 The lift came up, and then, just as she was going 
 to step into it, she remembered suddenly the bolster 
 bag Rushworth had bought for her at Dieppe. On the 
 morning of Jervis's death she had shaken out of the 
 inner pochette the two or three pinches of — of "stuff" 
 which remained in it, into the fire, and then, hardly 
 knowing what she was doing, she had put it back in the 
 red despatch-box. It would be all right, there, till she 
 went out of her widow's mourning. 
 
 She couldn't leave that behind. Why it was worth a 
 lot of money ! Besides, she would give up wearing black 
 as soon as she reached the place of safety Rushworth 
 had promised her. 
 
 "Wait a minute," she said to the porter. "I've for- 
 gotten something. I won't be a second !" 
 
 She put her key in the lock, and rushed back to her 
 bedroom. 
 
3i8 
 
 THE STORY OF IVY 
 
 Meanwhile there began an insistent ringing for the 
 lift from the bottom of the shaft, in the hall of the 
 Mansion. 
 
 The porter knew pretty Mrs. Lexton's ways. He 
 felt sure that when she had said: "I won't be a sec- 
 ond !" she meant probably five minutes, maybe even 
 longer than that, especially if she had forgotten some- 
 thing. 
 
 The bell was ringing continuously now, and with a 
 shock the man remembered that the agent for Duke of 
 Kent Mansion was coming to see a leak in the roof 
 this very afternoon. 
 
 Quickly he pulled the cable, and the lift slid down. 
 
 Meanwhile Ivy had run back into her bedroom, turn- 
 ing up the electric light as she walked through the 
 door. Quickly she took the three keys she always carried 
 about with her in her embroidered black vanite case, 
 and, unlocking the half of the great cupboard, she 
 seized the despatch-box. 
 
 The lid fell back the wrong side, queerly. Someone 
 failing to force the lock had prized open the hinges, 
 and the bag with its beautiful emerald and pearl clasp 
 was gone — gone ! 
 
 She threw a wild look round her. What could she 
 take with her? Then she remembered what Rushworth 
 had said. No, she mustn't take anything. Nothing, 
 apart from that little bolster bag, was of any real value. 
 . . . She turned out the light, and, running blindly 
 through the dark hall, opened the front door of the 
 flat. She hadn't been more than two or three minutes, 
 after all. 
 
 She was trembling now ; she felt strung-up and ter- 
 rified, hardly conscious of what she was doing. 
 
THE STORY OF IVY 319 
 
 She opened wide the lift gates. They were already 
 ajar, and then — her little feet stepped through into the 
 void. 
 
 The man below heard a terrible scream, followed by 
 an awful thud, thud, on the iron top of the lift. 
 
 And, at once, with a fearful sensation of dismay, he 
 knew what he had done. He had omitted to shut the 
 gates for the first time since he had been on this job. 
 
 For one thing, apart altogether from that little mat- 
 ter of the agent's visit, he, too, was excited — he, too, 
 had been wondering what was going to happen. Every- 
 one in Duke of Kent Mansion had been thrilled by the 
 news of the reprieve. And, in his excitement at seeing 
 the heroine of the Lexton Mystery, and in his certainty 
 that he would be up again in less than a minute, he had 
 left the lift gates ajar. 
 
 In one rushing moment, while on his way to the 
 house-telephone to ring up the engineer, he visualised 
 with dreadful clearness the Coroner's court, the cen- 
 sure passed on him by the jury, his dismissal from this 
 good situation, and the consequent angry despair of his 
 wife. 
 
 Poor, pretty, pleasant-spoken "Ivy," as he, in the 
 company of thousands of other men of all ages, con- 
 ditions, and kinds, had fallen into the way of secretly 
 calling her — she had brought bad luck on everybody 
 who came in touch with her. Well ! Now she wouldn't 
 be able to harm anybody, man or woman, any more. 
 
 THE END 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 The Case in Court i 
 
 I. "Eighteen Months Ago " .... 24 
 
 II. "A Very Competent Lady " ... 34 
 
 III. "By Chance to Swanmere " ... 48 
 
 IV. "The Pair Seem to Have Been on Fairly 
 
 Good Terms " 60 
 
 V. "The Huge Bill Run Up . . . With 
 
 Madame Domino" 72 
 
 VI. "He Consulted His Mother " . . 81 
 
 VII. "He Came Straight Back to Swan- 
 mere " 92 
 
 VIII. "In the Company of Colonel Mint- 
 law " 101 
 
 IX. "A Violent Quarrel . . ." . 112 
 
 X. "Under Cover to Mrs. Strain" . . . 122 
 
 XI. "The Judge Took a Sip of Water . . 133 
 
 XII. "Birtley Raydon That Same Morning 
 
 . . . Telephoned " .... 143 
 
 XIII. "Mrs. Raydon by Her Own Admission 
 
 Met " 153 
 
 V 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIV. "As Hungry as a Hunter " . . * 164 
 
 XV. "What Happened After . . . Din- 
 ner " 173 
 
 XVI. "Some Hours Later " .... 183 
 
 XVII. "Mysterious Factors in the Case " 196 
 
 XVIII. "The One Pathetic Figure " . . 204 
 
 XIX. "Dr. Durham Was also Extremely 
 
 Averse " 215 
 
 XX. "The Further Facts " .... 225 
 
 XXI. "The Facts That Followed " . . 236 
 
 XXII. "Not in Dispute " 248 
 
 XXIII. "A Woman of Education and Intelli- 
 gence" 264 
 
 The End of the Trial 277 
 
What Really Happened 
 
 THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 WHAT THE PUBLIC THOUGHT 
 
 IT WAS a dark afternoon in early December, but 
 not so dark as to obscure what was printed in 
 big letters on the contents bills of the evening 
 papers: 
 
 SWANMERE DRAMA: 
 STARTLING STORY 
 
 RAYDON MYSTERY: 
 STRANGE DEVELOPMENT 
 
 The men and women who scanned these placards 
 might be divided roughly into two sections. The 
 larger section felt an eager interest in a case which 
 was undoubtedly going to take its place among the 
 noted murder mysteries of the twentieth century. 
 The other, far smaller, section felt both annoyed and 
 disgusted at the fact that their favourite evening 
 paper should pander, as they thought, to an un- 
 healthy curiosity. But even these people, if honest, 
 would have had to admit that all the elements which 
 
 i 
 
2 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 go to make a cause celebre were present in the Raydon 
 case. 
 
 Only one thing was lacking, but that a very impor- 
 tant thing in the minds of those who considered 
 themselves experts in crime. This was that, though 
 it suited the newspaper bill-makers to describe the 
 Raydon case as a mystery, there was very little 
 mystery about it. 
 
 The real fascination of the story lay in the merciless 
 revelation, exposed during the course of a meticu- 
 lously fair, yet ruthlessly drawn out, criminal trial, 
 of certain terrible secrets, which, in the vast majority 
 of cases, lie securely hidden, from avid ears and cruel 
 eyes, in the dark earth-bound roots of our poor human 
 nature. 
 
 The public were none the less absorbed in the story 
 inasmuch as they knew, or thought they knew, every 
 thread of the sinister plot spun part by passion, part 
 by that love of, and imperative need for, money, which 
 is the outstanding feature of modern civilized life. 
 
 Though there were a certain number of important 
 subsidiary characters, three figures, those of two men 
 and one woman, stood out in strong relief. 
 
 First, the murdered man, Birtley Raydon, de- 
 scribed in the Solicitor-General's opening speech for 
 the C^rown as "a typical young Englishman of the 
 upper class, a pre-war public schoolboy of the best 
 type, who, to his own bitter regret, when war broke 
 out, could not be spared for active service at the 
 front." 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 3 
 
 Attractive, indeed, was the portrait drawn of the 
 unfortunate Raydon — hard-working, conscientious, 
 reasonably fond of outdoor games and sports, whose 
 only romance had been his intense devotion to his 
 beautiful young wife. 
 
 The second leading character in the cast was that 
 of the wife's lover, Jack Mintlaw. A really romantic 
 figure this, for on the day war was declared he had 
 thrown up his good job in Canada and rushed home 
 to enlist as a private in a line regiment, to end as a 
 colonel with every war decoration, British and 
 French, that could be won, excepting the Victoria 
 Cross. 
 
 During Mintlaw's infrequent leaves "home," that 
 is in London, he had met constantly, passionately 
 loved, and indeed ardently desired to marry — the 
 facts were not in dispute — the war-widow who had 
 ultimately become Mrs. Birtley Raydon. But what 
 had brought him into this terrible, some would say 
 sordid, story, had been the strange fact that, from 
 having gone back penniless to Canada after the war, 
 he had become the friend and junior partner of an 
 enormously wealthy man who, dying unexpectedly, 
 had left him all his fortune. 
 
 But this apparently extraordinary stroke of luck 
 had turned out the blackest of misfortunes. Jack 
 Mintlaw had returned to Europe to find that the 
 beautiful young woman he still loved had married 
 again. Yet before he had been back in England a 
 week they had renewed their acquaintance; a few 
 
4 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 days later she had cajoled him into giving her a 
 cheque made out to "self," for three thousand 
 pounds; and it was owing to this, as he averred, en- 
 tirely platonic gift, that he had become involved in 
 what was now called the Raydon Mystery. 
 
 The third outstanding figure in the story was the 
 lovely, fascinating, scatter-brained Eva Raydon her- 
 self. 
 
 Of the hundreds of thousands of men and women 
 closely following each phase of the drama now being 
 played out at the Old Bailey, the great majority con- 
 sidered that the best description of Eva Raydon had 
 been given by the unfortunate Birtley Raydon's 
 mother, who, in the witness-box, had quietly uttered 
 the words, "selfish, giddy, pleasure-loving, and ex- 
 travagant." 
 
 And yet there were also many who, conquered by 
 her quite exceptional beauty and alluring feminine 
 charm, made excuses for her faults; believed her, in 
 spite of the damning evidence against her, innocent; 
 and constituted themselves her faithful champions. 
 
 From the point of view of the public, old Mrs. 
 Raydon was by far the most important of the sub- 
 sidiary characters who had each played a part in the 
 drama of secret passion. It was largely owing to 
 that lady's firm conviction that her son had not died 
 a natural death, as, also, owing to her accidental dis- 
 covery of a certain letter in her son's death-chamber, 
 that the post-mortem had been held which had led 
 to the discovery that Birtley Raydon had died as 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 5 
 
 the result of the administration of a large dose of 
 arsenic. 
 
 NEW EVIDENCE 
 
 Although it was a cold winter afternoon, the court 
 in the Old Bailey was very hot on this, the fourth, day 
 of the trial of Eva Raydon for the murder of her 
 husband. All those concerned with the case, as well 
 as those brought thither by idle or morbid curiosity, 
 had become very weary, though the keen, shrewd face 
 of Mr. Justice Lenison showed no sign of fatigue. 
 
 The evidence for the prosecution had been deadly 
 in its cumulative effect, as had also been the exami- 
 nation and cross-examination of the prisoner. Yet, 
 ever since persons accused of murder in England have 
 been allowed to give evidence on their own behalf, 
 no better witness had been heard on the witness- 
 stand. 
 
 That she was evidently very fragile, and looked 
 piteously worn and wan, did not detract from, indeed 
 it added to, Eva Raydon's extraordinary fascination. 
 But the fact remained that the more educated section 
 of those who listened to her during her long and most 
 painful ordeal in the witness-box, including the mem- 
 bers of the Bar, though not, it may be stated, the 
 whole of the jury, had become strongly prejudiced 
 against her. 
 
 There now only remained to be heard for the de- 
 fence a certain Mrs. Adelaide Strain, the woman who 
 for a year had acted as lady-housekeeper to the 
 
6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Raydons. She was an old and tried friend of the 
 prisoner, and it had soon become known that, in a 
 sense, what she had to say held the balance so evenly 
 that she might have been called either for the prose- 
 cution or for the defence. But early to-day it had 
 leaked out that since the opening of the trial Mrs. 
 Strain had made an important addition to her first 
 statement. 
 
 There is always a slight stir of interest when a new 
 figure steps up into the witness-box at a trial for 
 murder. So everyone in court focus sed their eyes 
 on the slight figure which the women onlookers no- 
 ticed was clad, in an almost exaggeratedly unobtru- 
 sive fashion, in a black fur-trimmed coat and skirt, 
 and a hard, unbecoming round felt hat. 
 
 Mrs. Strain was a plain, intelligent-looking woman, 
 between whom and the prisoner in the dock there 
 appeared to be absolutely nothing in common. Yet 
 the two had been close, indeed devoted, friends; and 
 during three of the four years of war, at a time when 
 they were both war-widows, they had shared a flat 
 in London. 
 
 Adelaide Strain made an admirable witness; and it 
 soon appeared clear to everyone that, though she was 
 anxious to bring out every point in favour of the 
 prisoner, she was scrupulously truthful and straight- 
 forward in answering the questions put to her. 
 
 This fact was made the more plain when Sir Joseph 
 Molloy, the famous counsel who had been retained 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 7 
 
 for Mrs. Raydon, opened on what was already known 
 as "the new evidence." 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Birtley Raydon went out into the 
 garden after dinner, leaving you in the drawing- 
 room?" 
 
 "That is so." 
 
 "Going out of the room, Mrs. Raydon, forgetting 
 that you were still in the room, put out the electric 
 light, and vou, Mrs. Strain, feeling tired, did not get 
 up and turn it on again?" 
 
 "That is so." 
 
 Then, after a moment, the witness added, "I 
 meant to go up to bed in a few minutes, but I thought 
 I should like a glass of lemonade, for it was unusually 
 hot for the time of year. Also I generally mixed the 
 shandy-gafF which Mr. Raydon drank each evening." 
 
 "So you sat on, waiting for the parlourmaid to 
 bring the tray into the hall, as was the usual custom 
 each evening at The Mill House?" 
 
 "Yes, 1 stayed on in the dark drawing-room, and 
 I think I must have gone to sleep for a few minutes, 
 for I awoke from a kind of doze to hear the parlour- 
 maid bring her tray into the hall, put it down, and 
 go back to her own quarters." 
 
 "What happened then?" 
 
 There was a pause. Every human being in the 
 crowded court, even the most mindless of the over- 
 
8 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 dressed women who, craving for excitement, had 
 fought and forced their way into the public gallery, 
 realized that something of supreme importance was 
 going to be uttered in answer to that short question: 
 "What happened then?" 
 
 Mrs. Strain looked straight into Sir Joseph Mol- 
 loy's keen, powerful face. There was a kind, en- 
 couraging look in the blue eyes whose scornful, sear- 
 ing — aye, even simply admonitory — glances were 
 wont to strike fear, unease, and above all a feeling of 
 doubt, in the mind of even the most complacent 
 and unimaginative juryman. 
 
 But to Adelaide Strain, who had remained awake 
 all last night thinking of this dread moment, the 
 sympathy which now filled those compelling blue eyes 
 brought succour and courage. 
 
 Even so, she did not answer the great advocate's 
 question for a few moments, and again he said, "And 
 what happened then?" 
 
 In a low but clear voice, and moistening her lips 
 with her tongue, she said: 
 
 "I suddenly heard footsteps on the gravel path 
 which leads from the gate giving on to the road to 
 The Mill House itself. Then someone — I could not 
 see who it was — walked through the open front door 
 giving into the hall; halted for a moment close to the 
 table on which stood the tray; and then went on, 
 either to the servants' quarters, through a swing 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 9 
 
 door to the left, or to the right, into the garden room 
 of which the door was open into the hall." 
 
 "Why do you suggest this alternative?" 
 
 "Because, had whoever came into the hall turned 
 round and gone out of the front door, I must have 
 heard his or her footsteps again on the gravel walk." 
 
 "It did not occur to you to try and find out who 
 the person was ? " 
 
 "No, for the incident made very little impression 
 on me. The back door of The Mill House was sup- 
 posed to be locked by the cook at ten o'clock each 
 night; and I thought whoever came into the hall must 
 be one of the maids who, having been locked out, and 
 hearing Mr. and Mrs. Birtley Raydon talking in the 
 garden, believed the coast was clear, and slipped into 
 the house by the front door. But I have lately as- 
 certained that none of the servants were out on the 
 night of September the fourth/' 
 
 "How long did the stranger, assuming it was a 
 stranger, halt or falter in his or her progress through 
 the hall?" 
 
 "For a very few moments; not, I should think, 
 a whole half minute." 
 
 "Long enough, however, to put a pinch of powder 
 into either of the ingredients used for the making of 
 shandy-gaff?" 
 
 "Yes — at least I should think so." 
 
 "Mr. Raydon was a man of violent and uncertain 
 temper — the kind of temper that makes a man 
 enemies ?" 
 
IO 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Mrs. Strain hesitated. Then it was as if with an 
 effort she made up her mind to tell the unpleasant 
 
 truth. 
 
 "Well, yes, he certainly was. Only a week before 
 his death I was present at a most painful scene be- 
 tween him and Amos Purcell, the gardener's boy. 
 He accused the lad, in coarse and cruel language, of 
 being a thief, and Purcell said he would have the law 
 on him." 
 
 The Judge leant forward. 
 
 "That was the lad who met his death In a cycling 
 accident some six weeks after the events with which 
 we are now dealing?" 
 
 And counsel said emphatically, "Yes, my Lord." 
 
 Then followed, on the part of the Solicitor-General, 
 a short, but severe, cross-examination of the witness. 
 
 During that cross-examination a determined effort 
 was made to shake her evidence concerning the mys- 
 terious person, man or woman, whom she now as- 
 serted she had heard walking down the gravel path, 
 and then through into the hall, just before Birtley 
 Raydon and his wife had come in from the garden 
 on the evening preceding Raydon's sudden death. 
 
 But the Solicitor-General entirely failed in making 
 Mrs. Strain eat her words, or even modify, in some 
 slight degree, what she had said. 
 
 "In your first statement to the police you did not 
 mention Mr. Raydon's quarrel with young Purcell. 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 II 
 
 In fact, I understand you only supplied all this new 
 information, both as to the person you now assert you 
 heard in the hall, and as to Raydon's quarrel with the 
 lad, Amos Purcell, to the defence within the last two 
 or three days — since, in fact, the opening of this trial ? " 
 
 "I only supplied that information" — and this time 
 a red spot rose to each of the witness's sallow cheeks 
 — "because, while discussing the case on the evening 
 of the first day of the trial with Mrs. Raydon's solici- 
 tor, he asked me if I thought any one could have come 
 into the hall without my having heard them from the 
 drawing-room? It was then that, all at once, I did 
 remember that a maid, as I then still thought, had 
 come into the house through the front door. He also 
 pressed me as to whether I could think of any one 
 who very much disliked, or had reason to feel resent- 
 ment against, Mr. Raydon. I cast my mind back, 
 and I mentioned several persons, nearly all servants 
 who, I thought, might reasonably have borne a 
 strong grudge against him, and I suddenly recalled 
 the scene which had taken place in my presence, in 
 the garden-room, between Mr. Raydon and young 
 Purcell. I had occasion to go down to Swanmere last 
 week, and there I learnt that the boy had recently 
 been killed in a motorcycle accident. I suppose that 
 brought the memory of the quarrel to my mind. I 
 thought young Purcell had been very unfairly treated 
 by Mr. Raydon, and " 
 
 "We are not concerned to know what you thought, 
 madam." 
 
12 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 As Sir James Manders was usually noted for his 
 suavity to even the most recalcitrant woman witness, 
 those present at his cross-examination of Adelaide 
 Strain realized that she had had very much the best 
 of it. 
 
 Mrs. Strain was succeeded in the witness-box by a 
 young woman named Jane Sherlock. She asserted 
 that on the fourth of last September, while talking to 
 her young man in the road on the other side of the 
 wall of The Mill House, a little after the Swanmere 
 church clock had struck ten, she had distinctly heard 
 steps crunching on the gravel path which led from 
 the gate of the property to the front door of the 
 house. She and her friend had both stopped talking 
 till they heard the person in question walk through, 
 as they supposed, into the hall. 
 
 The witness fixed the date as having been the 
 fourth of September by the fact that it was the eve- 
 ning of the day on which her married sister had given 
 birth to her first child. A copy of the infant's birth 
 certificate was produced in support of her statement. 
 
 After she had given evidence, an awkward, loutish- 
 looking country boy, named Robert Daniels, em- 
 ployed at the Swanmere Cottage Hospital, admitted, 
 reluctantly, that on two occasions, late last August, 
 he had taken Amos Purcell into the little room which 
 was called the dispensary, although he was well aware 
 that in so doing he was breaking a strict rule. He 
 had not noticed whether the doors of the cupboard 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 *3 
 
 where the dispenser kept her dangerous drugs were 
 shut or open. But he could swear to the fact that 
 once he had seen them wide open when he went 
 alone into the room. 
 
 THE JUDGE'S SUMMING UP 
 
 Twenty-four hours later, the first scene of the last 
 act of the curious and very human drama was being 
 enacted, and the Judge, or so many of those in court 
 supposed, was nearing the close of his charge to the 
 jury. 
 
 He had been scrupulously fair to the now utterly 
 spent and terrified young woman who was standing 
 in the dock, gazing at him with strained attention. 
 But his more experienced listeners were well aware 
 that he was summing up "dead" against the prisoner, 
 and that there was not, in his mind, the shadow of a 
 doubt of her guilt. 
 
 As was his well-known practice, after having gone 
 over all the evidence with minute care, Mr. Justice 
 Lenison recapitulated, in a comparatively short and 
 succinct form, the main points of the story. Then he 
 waited a moment; glanced down at his notes; and 
 then, speaking more slowly, he went on: 
 
 "Again, I will ask you to go back to eighteen 
 months ago when this well-to-do young couple made 
 up their minds to take a country house. They seem 
 to have gone by chance to Swanmere, where they 
 visited a charming little place situated on the bank 
 of the river Thames, called The Mill House, which 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 they there and then decided to purchase. They soon 
 became owners of the property, and as Mrs. Birtley 
 Raydon was an indifferent housekeeper, they engaged 
 an old friend of hens, a very competent lady named 
 Mrs. Adelaide Strain, to do what is called 'run their 
 house' for them. 
 
 "You have heard Mrs. Strain's clear and impartial 
 account of the relations of Birtley Raydon and his 
 wife. The pair seem to have been on fairly good 
 terms — some would perhaps say on very good terms 
 — the one with the other, though they had occasional 
 quarrels about money, till the return to England of 
 a now wealthy man, Colonel Mintlaw, who had been 
 an admirer of Mrs. Birtley Raydon during her first 
 widowhood. 
 
 "Sir Joseph Molloy has made a great deal, as he 
 was entitled to do, of Colonel Mintlaw's gallantry in 
 the war, as also, more legitimately I am inclined to 
 say, of Colonel Mintlaw's high personal character. 
 But when we come to the relations of men and 
 women, and especially to those illicit, secret relations 
 which in these days are far too often, and quite 
 erroneously, for the most part, described as 'roman- 
 tic,' the fact that a man did his duty in the war, and 
 even, I am sorry to say, the further fact that he bears 
 what is commonly called a 'good' or 'high' personal 
 character, goes for very little. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have seen 
 Colonel Mintlaw — you have heard that gentleman 
 in the witness-box, and you have probably already 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 made up your mind as to the truth, or otherwise, of 
 much that he said,, and indeed frankly admitted, 
 during his examination and cross-examination. But 
 you know the obvious result of a man's following 
 what is commonly called 'the code of honour' as to 
 his secret, guilty association with another man's wife. 
 By that code he is bound to denial — in plain English, 
 to tell a lie. And in this case Colonel Mintlaw's 
 passionate love for Eva Raydon is not in dispute. 
 
 "And now I ask you to make a careful note of two 
 dates. They are the crucial dates in this, to my mind 
 painful, rather than mysterious, story. These dates, 
 I need hardly remind you, are the third and fourth 
 days of last September. It was on the third of 
 September that Birtley Raydon learnt of the huge 
 bill which had been run up by his wife with a dress- 
 maker called Madame Domino. We know that on 
 the same day in his distress he consulted his mother, 
 and that then he came straight back to Swanmere 
 without even waiting to lunch in town. He found 
 his wife out, and as a matter of fact we are aware 
 of what Birtley Raydon was never to know — namely, 
 that she had lunched and was spending that after- 
 noon in the company of Colonel Mintlaw." 
 
 Again the Judge paused, significantly. 
 
 "When at last Mrs. Birtley Raydon came home, 
 there was a violent quarrel between the husband and 
 wife. Not, mark you, concerning Mintlaw, for Ray- 
 
i6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 don, surprising to say, did not even know of his exist- 
 ence. Their quarrel, which was overheard by all 
 their servants, as well as by Mrs. Strain, concerned 
 the dressmaker's bill. Violent as was this quarrel, 
 it was followed by a reconciliation. 
 
 "Even so, that same evening Mrs. Raydon wrote, 
 and posted secretly, a letter to the man whom I 
 think I am justified in calling her lover, informing 
 him of her sore need of money. You are acquainted 
 with the terms of that letter — a curious letter for a 
 married woman to write to one whom she asserts she 
 regarded simply with the feelings any honest married 
 woman may cherish for an old friend. 
 
 "That letter, which was signed 'Your Eva/ not 
 'Yours' with an 's,' but 'Your' Eva, reached Colonel 
 Mintlaw on the morning of September the fourth, 
 and at once that gentleman, under cover to Mrs. 
 Strain, sent Mrs. Birtley Raydon an open cheque, 
 made out to self and endorsed by him, for three 
 thousand pounds. You are acquainted with the 
 terms of the letter Colonel Mintlaw sent with his 
 cheque, and how in it he informed her that the three 
 thousand pounds was to be a gift, not a loan." 
 
 The Judge took a sip of water. Then he went on, 
 speaking in quick, decisive tones: 
 
 "It is on record that Birtley Raydon that same 
 morning felt what he called 'Mondayish' though as 
 a matter of fact it was a Tuesday, and telephoned to 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 17 
 
 Dr. Durham. The doctor was out. Had he been in 
 we may reasonably suppose that Raydon would have 
 called on him on his way to the station, for, though 
 he did not feel well, he intended to go to business as 
 usual, and as we know, did do so. A good deal has 
 been made of this telephone message to the doctor, 
 but it is, as a matter of fact, quite unimportant. 
 What is important, and what I want you to bear in 
 mind, is that shortly before Birtley Raydon's depar- 
 ture for the city, his wife had gone to London." 
 
 There came a stir of eager expectation through the 
 court, but it died down when the Judge said impres- 
 sively : 
 
 "I am not going to deal now with what occurred 
 during the prisoner's motor drive to the country sta- 
 tion. Instead, I ask you to direct your mind to 
 what she did in town. There, immediately on her 
 arrival, she cashed Colonel Mintlaw's cheque and 
 then, after a short interval, Mrs. Raydon, by her own 
 admission, met him, the man who had just rendered 
 her so great a service, by appointment. You have 
 heard them both declare most solemnly in the witness- 
 box that, on that crucial day, they only spent an 
 hour together in a Bond Street tea-shop. I draw, 
 however, your attention to the fact that Mrs. Birtley 
 Raydon left the bank where she had cashed Mintlaw's 
 cheque at one o'clock, and that she did not meet her 
 husband at Waterloo Station till six-thirty." 
 
i8 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 On this, Eva Raydon's counsel, the famous advo- 
 cate, Sir Joseph Molloy, asked leave to intervene. 
 He pointed out that certain evidence had been put in 
 proving that Mrs. Birtley Raydon had called at a 
 considerable number of shops, paying bills in cash, in 
 some cases to a large amount, and obtaining receipts. 
 
 Even so, the impression which remained on all 
 those in court was that the prisoner in the dock had 
 almost certainly spent something like four to five 
 hours in the company of Colonel Mintlaw. 
 
 The Judge, glancing at his notes, went on: 
 
 " Husband and wife travelled home together. The 
 wife informed her husband that she had been to see a 
 solicitor in order to arrange about raising the money 
 to pay a portion of the large Domino bill, which, re- 
 member, was the only one of his wife's debts of which 
 the husband was cognizant. Mrs. Birtley Raydon's 
 statement as to her visit to the solicitor was pure 
 invention, a lie told deliberately by her to deceive 
 her trustful and most affectionate spouse. That lie 
 had the required effect; the couple came home on the 
 best of terms and, after having dressed for dinner, 
 they came down and joined their lady-housekeeper 
 in the drawing-room. Mrs. Strain informed Mr. 
 Raydon that the doctor had been in to see him that 
 afternoon, and he admitted having telephoned to the 
 doctor in the morning. But mark that he further 
 said that he was now glad the doctor had been out, 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 19 
 
 as he felt 'quite all right/ Then, making use of a 
 usual, though rather old-fashioned expression, he 
 described himself as being 'as hungry as a hunter.'" 
 
 The Judge paused for what seemed to those who 
 were listening to him an unnaturally long time. 
 Then he began speaking again, and this time he ap- 
 peared to be addressing the jury, which was com- 
 posed of ten men and two women, even more directly 
 than he had done before. 
 
 "And now we come to the most crucial time of that 
 most crucial day. Our deep concern must be to 
 know, to discover, to divine, what happened after 
 these three people had finished their dinner. It is 
 not disputed that, after having had coffee in the 
 drawing-room, Mr. and Mrs. Birtley Raydon went 
 out, as was often their habit, into the garden. Their 
 friend and lady-housekeeper, Mrs. Strain, who, as we 
 know, had had dinner with them, remained on, alone, 
 in the drawing-room, the door having been left ajar, 
 and the electric light having been turned out, by 
 accident or design, by the mistress of the house, as 
 that lady left the room. I suggest by design if Mrs. 
 Raydon had any reason for wishing to hurry Mrs. 
 Strain's departure for bed, for Mrs. Strain has in- 
 formed us that she often went upstairs early, before 
 the friends who were also her employers retired. 
 
 "Evidence of a nature which you may regard as 
 being important or unimportant — it is entirely for 
 you to decide — was introduced into the case after the 
 
20 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Solicitor-General had made his opening speech. You 
 have heard Mrs. Strain's amended statement. Ac- 
 cording to that statement she declares that, as she 
 hvas sitting resting in the dark drawing-room, after 
 /the tray had been brought by the parlourmaid, a 
 young woman named Powell, into the hall, she heard 
 footsteps crunching on the freshly laid gravel of a 
 path which led from the iron gate giving access from 
 the road running outside the property known as The 
 Mill House, straight to the front door. This front 
 door, as it was a warm evening, was wide open on to 
 the garden. 
 
 "Having heard the footsteps approaching nearer 
 and nearer, Mrs. Strain, sitting in the darkened 
 drawing-room, with the door slightly ajar, further 
 heard the owner of these footsteps walk into the 
 house and, after stopping for a few moments near the 
 tray, leave the hall either through a baize door which 
 led to the servants' quarters of The Mill House, or 
 through a door which gave into what was called the 
 garden-room. At the time Mrs. Strain undoubtedly 
 supposed the person in question to have been one of 
 the maids who, finding the back door locked, had 
 ventured — old-fashioned people would say dared — to 
 take her chance of not being seen, and had come into 
 the house by the front door. 
 
 "It has now been ascertained, as far as such a 
 negative can be proved, that none of the maids were 
 out on that night. But that someone came down 
 that gravel path and into the hall on that crucial 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 21 
 
 evening may, I think, be regarded as an undoubted 
 fact, for Mrs. Strain's recollection of what occurred is 
 fortunately — and I say deliberately the word for- 
 tunately — strengthened by a piece of strong corrobo- 
 rative evidence. I think you will agree that it is a 
 most unlikely thing that both Mrs. Strain and the 
 young woman, Jane Sherlock, who gave evidence im- 
 mediately after Mrs. Strain, would both make a 
 mistake as to the date of the occurrence in question. 
 You will remember that Jane Sherlock fixed the date 
 of September the fourth as being the evening of the 
 day on which her married sister had her first baby. 
 The birth of that child did occur on the fourth day 
 of September. The defence, ladies and gentlemen of 
 the jury, is fully entitled to make the very most of 
 that singular incident, the one element of real mys- 
 tery in the story." 
 
 The Judge pushed his spectacles up on to his fore- 
 head for a moment. He closed his eyes, and evi- 
 dently thought for a moment very deeply over what 
 he next meant to say. Then, pulling down his spec- 
 tacles again, he resumed his summing up. 
 
 "What happened next is not in dispute. Mrs. 
 Strain, leaving the dark drawing-room, went into the 
 brightly lit hall, and there prepared or mixed Mr. 
 Raydon's shandy-gafF, as she was in the habit of 
 doing each evening. But Mrs. Strain did not then 
 go up to bed as was her usual custom. Instead, she 
 went back into the drawing-room. 
 
22 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "And now we come to a most important fact. 
 That fact is that Mrs. Birtley Raydon undoubtedly 
 preceded her husband by some moments, probably 
 for as long as a full minute, into the hall where was 
 the tray on which now stood the glassful of shandy- 
 gaff. Birtley Raydon, thinking he had heard a noise 
 in his boathouse, had gone round to satisfy himself 
 as to the cause before he, too, came in from the gar- 
 den. On coming in he immediately drank the glass 
 of iced shandy-gaff to which had been almost cer- 
 tainly, according to the medical witnesses whom you 
 have heard examined and cross-examined, added the 
 arsenic which caused him to die in agony some hours 
 later." 
 
 Once more the Judge paused for what seemed to 
 some of those in court a very long time, and then he 
 went on slowly, impressively: 
 
 "The prisoner was thus in the hall, alone, close to 
 the tray on which stood the shandy-gaff, for what 
 may have been as short a time as thirty seconds, or 
 for as long as a full minute. But you have all heard 
 her assert, and reassert, most solemnly, that all she 
 did was to come across the lawn straight into the 
 house, walk across the hall to where stood the tray, 
 and there, being very thirsty, at once pour out a 
 glass of lemonade for herself. 
 
 "We all know what happened some hours later; 
 the further facts of this painful story are not in dis- 
 
THE CASE IN COURT 
 
 23 
 
 pute, and occurrences which might have become 
 mysterious factors in the case were, in a great meas- 
 ure, made clear owing to certain discoveries made on 
 the very morning of Birtley Raydon's death by his 
 unfortunate mother, the one pathetic figure in what 
 I can only characterize as a melancholy story of 
 adultery and mindless extravagance." 
 
 It had been supposed that the trial would end that 
 day. But the Judge had not concluded his charge to 
 the jury when the Court rose. 
 
 As a man and a woman, who had been present the 
 whole of each day at the trial, left the court, the 
 woman said to her companion, "After listening to 
 them all — the famous lawyers, the witnesses for the 
 Crown and for the defence, the prisoner herself, and, 
 last but not least, the Judge, the one thing that re- 
 mains in my mind is a longing to know " 
 
 "Yes?" he asked indulgently. 
 
 " — what really happened," she replied pensively. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO 
 
 HE car slowed down and came to a dead stop, 
 
 the while three pairs of eyes tried to decipher 
 
 JL what was written on the old signpost whose 
 crooked arms pointed east, west, and north. 
 
 Sharp young Diggle, Mr. and Mrs. Birtley Ray- 
 don's chauffeur, at once saw that the information for 
 which they were seeking was not to be found there, 
 but he did not consider it his business to tell them so. 
 He always said as little as he could to his master, for 
 that gentleman was the type of employer of whom 
 his servants are at once afraid and contemptuous. 
 
 Eva Raydon's husband was a little over medium 
 height, well built, though a thought too stout for his 
 age, which was thirty-four. He had a fleshy face, 
 with full red lips and dark brown eyes which became 
 very bright when he was angry. Just now he was 
 standing up in the car, straining his sight to make out 
 the more than half-obliterated letters. 
 
 At last he turned and glanced down into his wife's 
 lovely little upturned face. "It's an infamous thing 
 that these signposts are not kept in better condition! 
 Why, the only thing I can make out at all is 'To 
 London.'" 
 
 24 
 
"eighteen months ago " 25 
 
 "It's too bad, darling !" Eva Raydon exclaimed. 
 
 She was one of those instinctively feminine women 
 who always "play up" to whatever the man who 
 happens to be with them expects them to say — at anyj 
 rate, with regard to those trifles which are alK. 
 important as regards the conduct of everyday love 
 and life. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Mrs. Birtley Raydon was per- 
 fectly indifferent about what might, or might not, be 
 written on that old signpost. She was enjoying 
 every moment of this early July Saturday afternoon; 
 because it was a beautiful warm day; because she 
 adored, to use her own phraseology, motoring; and, 
 above all, because she was still very much in love 
 with her husband, and he passionately in love with 
 her. Indeed, all through this happy day his eyes 
 had told her that she was even prettier and more 
 alluring than usual in his sight. But, secretly, she 
 had become exceedingly weary of going from one 
 country house to another that was obviously "no 
 use" from either her own or her husband's point of 
 view. 
 
 And yet, so Eva Raydon had naively said to her- 
 self more than once in the last three hours, what she 
 and Birtley wanted was so very simple, and should 
 be so very easy to find ! What they were seeking was 
 something old and picturesque looking, at once near, 
 while yet appearing remote from, London, and fitted 
 with every modern convenience, including central 
 heating. 
 
26 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 The drawing-room must be large enough to accom- 
 modate, say eight to twelve couples, for Eva adored 
 dancing, and she had taught her husband to adore it, 
 too. Then there must be a large garden, so laid 
 out that it could be managed with a minimum of 
 expense, for Birtley Raydon, who considered himself 
 a very good man of business, was always impressing 
 on his wife the serious necessity for economy. 
 
 Yes, whatever else it might or might not be, their 
 dream cottage — they always called it a cottage when 
 talking of it to one another — must of course be a 
 wonderful bargain, otherwise Birtley would not think 
 it worth a moment's consideration. Eva, however, 
 was well aware that if she found her ideal country 
 house, she would easily be able to make her husband 
 believe it to be a great bargain; the more so that 
 it was her money, not his, that would pay for it. 
 
 By now she had made up her mind that the sort 
 of house they were seeking did not exist, or, if it did 
 exist, then that it was worth about three times what 
 either of them was willing that they should give for 
 it. Besides, Eva Raydon loved London and all that 
 London can give to a young, healthy, good-looking, 
 and, above all, wealthy, young couple, who live only, 
 as do so many young couples nowadays, to enjoy 
 themselves, and to get the most out of what they call 
 "life." 
 
 But, as so surprisingly often happens to a not over- 
 strong young married woman who has been getting, 
 in the c'ompany of a lover husband, the most that can 
 
"eighteen months ago- 
 
 27 
 
 be got out of life, Eva Raydon had become quite ill, 
 even what her friends called "nervy," as the result 
 of having a good time. And at last the old-fashioned 
 doctor in whom Birtley's old-fashioned mother, and 
 even Birtley himself, had faith, declared that she 
 ought to live in the country, the more so that if she 
 did that she might in time have a baby. 
 
 In theory, Eva Raydon was very fond of children, 
 and her soft, appealing type of loveliness and pretty 
 ways generally drew them to her. But a sweet little 
 girl or a jolly little boy has to begin, unfortunately, 
 as a baby; and Eva did not at all want to have a 
 baby. Fortunately a baby,- as she had at last made 
 Birtley understand, is a very expensive luxury now- 
 adays. 
 
 An acquaintance of theirs, a woman who had about 
 the same income that they had, had told Eva, only 
 the other day, that what with an immensely expen- 
 sive lady-nurse, a nursemaid, a huge doctor's bill, 
 and frequent changes to the seaside, a really nice 
 baby costs its parents something like three to four 
 hundred pounds a year. Already, as Eva was well 
 aware, though Birtley, luckily, was not, she was 
 spending, or, perhaps, it would be truer to say owing, 
 quite that amount of money over their joint income. 
 The addition of a baby would indeed be a criminal 
 extravagance. . . . 
 
 "I don't at all care for the account of the house at 
 Lillyford," said Eva suddenly. 
 
 In the last few moments she had made up her mind 
 
28 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 that they would give up all thought of a move to the 
 country this year. "Let's go down to the left, 
 darling? It's such a pretty, shady piece of road!" 
 
 "All right," answered her husband. "After all, 
 we've seen seven houses this afternoon, and the only 
 one that was any good was outrageously dear." 
 
 "It's nearly time for tea, too," she chimed in. 
 
 Before sinking down by his wife's side, Raydon 
 leant out and spoke to his chauffeur. 
 
 "Mrs. Raydon thinks we'd better turn to the left 
 here, Diggle. We'll tap on the window when we 
 come to the sort of place where we'd like to stop and 
 make tea." 
 
 Now, some two miles Irom the signpost there dwelt 
 a young man, a painter by trade, who had faithfully 
 promised to put up the new lettering on each of the 
 three arms of that signpost that morning. Had he 
 kept his word, as his father and grandfather before 
 him would most certainly have done, there would 
 have been no "Raydon Mystery" to move, distress, 
 interest, and excite thousands of his fellow-men in 
 nearly eighteen months from that perfect July day. 
 
 Diggle gradually increased his speed, a thing he 
 always did when he had reason to suppose, as now, 
 his master unaware of what was going on, for Birtley 
 Raydon, his heavy head on his wife's slender left 
 shoulder, had fallen asleep. 
 
 The road over which the motor was now gliding 
 
"eighteen months ago- 
 
 29 
 
 ever faster and faster followed the curve of a singu- 
 larly beautiful and solitary stretch of river. 
 
 Eva Raydon loved the Thames. As a very young 
 girl she had spent some of the happiest days of her 
 life on the river; and now, flashing past the slow- 
 moving, translucent-looking water brought back to 
 her very vividly the young soldier who, on their last 
 day on the river together, had asked her to marry 
 him at once, if there was really going to be war — 
 glorious war! Oh! how she had longed, on that other 
 late July afternoon, that there would be war — longed 
 for it almost, were that possible, as fervently as did 
 her boy lover. 
 
 And war had come — within less than a week. 
 
 Then had followed, in what now seemed bewilder- 
 ing sequence, an engagement which had only lasted 
 ten days; a wedding attended by a number of people 
 whom she, Eva, knew to be "grand/' but whom she 
 secretly thought oddly dowdy and snuffy; a three- 
 day honeymoon in a stately country house, where 
 she felt like the heroine of a play; the seeing off of her 
 bridegroom in the early morning from Wellington 
 Barracks — and then, a fortnight later, a telegram 
 from the War Office. . . . 
 
 The stern old father-in-law of whom she had been 
 so nervously shy and afraid, for she knew he had not 
 approved of the marriage, had at once settled on his 
 only son's widow an annuity of fifteen hundred pounds 
 a year 
 
3<D WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Eva very seldom recalled these far-off days which 
 seemed, indeed, to belong to another life. And of 
 her first husband's father, to whom she owed so much, 
 she never thought at all. 
 
 But to-day, the sight of the river, and the memory 
 of that pre-war day on the river, brought the old man 
 vividly before her. She even remembered the one 
 real talk they had ever had together, when he had 
 said quietly, "I think, my dear, that in time you 
 should marry again." And though, crying so much 
 that she could not speak, she had shaken her head 
 determinedly, she had, of course, married again — 
 though not, oddly enough, considering how very 
 pretty she was, till years after that terrible War 
 Office telegram had been put into her hands. 
 
 During her early years of widowhood, when she had 
 lived in London doing desultory war-work, Eva had 
 had many love affairs, but not one of them had been 
 serious. 
 
 And now, again, the faint characters on yet an- 
 other of the tablets of her memory became suddenly 
 clear. They concerned a Canadian, named Jack 
 Mintlaw, who had been passionately in love with her. 
 The then-widowed Eva had been flattered and 
 touched by his devotion to the point of writing to 
 him quite often, and of allowing him to spend his 
 London leaves in her company. But when, after the 
 Armistice, she had found that he expected her to 
 marry him, and go back with him to Montreal, she 
 
"eighteen months ago- 
 
 31 
 
 had quickly realized that she did not care for him 
 "in that way" at all. 
 
 As for Birtley Raydon, it had been between them 
 one of those inexplicable, instinctive, unreasoning 
 attractions which the French call "a flash of light- 
 ning" and the more sober British, "love at first 
 sight." 
 
 Eva's vocabulary was limited; the word "funny" 
 did duty for many things which are far from comic; 
 and she told herself now, when she was beginning to 
 feel the weight of her husband's heavy head on her 
 shoulder, that it was "funny" she and Birtley got on 
 so well together. And it was, in a sense, more curi- 
 ous than she realized, that a woman who was easy- 
 going, generous, and extravagant, should not only 
 have violently attracted, but should go on attracting, 
 and be attracted by, a man as mean-natured, cau- 
 tious, and even penurious, as was Birtley Raydon. 
 
 But there it was! Whatever the reason, the fact 
 remained that they were still ardent lovers, never 
 really happy except when together. Each had en- 
 tirely falsified the predictions silently and secretly 
 made at the time of their marriage by the only two 
 people who counted in their self-absorbed lives. 
 Those were Birtley Raydon's mother, an old- 
 fashioned, rigid type of mid-Victorian woman, and a 
 certain Mrs. Strain, with whom Eva had lived during 
 her years of widowhood. 
 
 Adelaide Strain had been, like her friend, a war- 
 widow, though there the likeness ended, for she was 
 
32 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 plain, clever, and very poor. Perhaps because the 
 past had become so present to her this afternoon, 
 Eva Raydon threw Adelaide Strain a kindly thought. 
 
 As she had reason to know, poor Addie was very 
 hard up just now, and, unknown to Birtley, she had 
 sent her old friend five pounds only yesterday. 
 
 Again the motor slowed down, and this time the 
 chauffeur jumped out. They had come to a place 
 where the way by the river bank they were following 
 narrowed into a lane, while a road turned at right 
 angles sharply to the left. 
 
 Birtley Raydon awoke, and lifted his head from 
 his wife's shoulder. 
 
 "Up here is the way to London, sir; but there's a 
 very pretty village down that way that's quite fa- 
 mous in these parts " 
 
 As Diggle had hoped would be the case, it was Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon who answered: "Let's go on to the 
 village! It isn't really late and we can have tea 
 there. I've just remembered that the sugar was 
 forgotten." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Eva had known, ever since 
 they had stopped for lunch, that their lazy tempor- 
 ary parlourmaid, who had become of late such a real 
 trial to them both, had forgotten to put any sugar 
 into the picnic basket, and she had consciously 
 dreaded the moment when her husband would find 
 it out. Birtley Raydon was one of those men who, 
 though they often talk as if they not only lead, but 
 
"eighteen months ago 
 
 33 
 
 far prefer, a simple life, always insist on everything 
 about them being what they call "top-hole." Al- 
 though he took but one lump of sugar in his tea, for 
 he was justifiably afraid of becoming stout, he would 
 have felt injured and indignant at being asked to 
 take a cup of tea without that one lump of sugar in it. 
 
 "The sugar forgotten? How monstrous! That 
 woman must go! Is it to do this sort of thing that 
 we pay her thirty shillings a week?" 
 
 He had now roused himself into eager life and 
 annoyance, and his wife felt very sorry she had said 
 anything yet, about the sugar which had been 
 forgotten. 
 
 "Diggle can buy us a quarter of a pound at the 
 village shop," she said soothingly. 
 
 He answered shortly, disagreeably: "He can, of 
 course. But that's the way the money goes " 
 
 And then as he caught the look on her face, "Oh, 
 you may smile, Eva! No doubt you think me very 
 unreasonable. But my mother's quite right when 
 she says, 4 Take care of the pence, and the pounds 
 will take care of themselves.' " 
 
 "It won't break us to buy a few lumps of sugar." 
 
 She said the words quite good-humouredly, little 
 reckoning that what the ancients called Fate had 
 given her a second chance, and that, once more, she 
 had made the wrong choice, for the beautiful Thames- 
 side village, now shrouded in high chestnut trees, was 
 Swanmere. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A VERY COMPETENT LADY- 
 
 HILE Eva Raydon, rolling swiftly along in 
 
 her comfortable car by her devoted hus- 
 
 v " band's side, was indulging in a pleasantly 
 sentimental retrospective day-dream, Adelaide Strain, 
 the woman to whom she had just thrown a kindly 
 careless thought, sat staring at nothing, in the sor- 
 didly furnished room off the Euston Road to which 
 she had just moved from the well-managed working- 
 ladies' club where she could no longer afford to live. 
 
 As she sat there, her heart full of despair, leaning 
 a little forward on the broken-springed and dusty 
 brown rep-covered armchair, Mrs. Strain looked 
 strangely, as well as utterly, alien to her present 
 environment. 
 
 There was something puritanic, as well as rigor- 
 ously self-respecting, in her appearance. But her 
 plain black serge dress, her simply trimmed hat, 
 indeed everything about her, including the trunk 
 which had been pushed wrong side front against the 
 wall by the taxi-man who had unwillingly brought 
 it up the steep staircase of the lodging-house, had 
 that indefinable piteous look of having seen better 
 days. 
 
 34 
 
"a very competent lady " 35 
 
 Above the dirty sham-marble mantelpiece was a 
 cracked looking-glass, and as Adelaide Strain had 
 come into the room, she had caught a reflection of 
 herself, and faced the horrid fact that she looked 
 to-day positively ugly, as well as far older than her 
 real age. Yet twelve years ago, when she had mar- 
 ried a rising young surgeon called Alec Strain, most 
 people would have said that, if not handsome, there 
 was something very attractive in her clever-looking 
 thin, and then vivacious, dark face. 
 
 Eva Raydon's one-time close friend was telling 
 herself now, with acrid bitterness, that a malignant 
 fate had pursued her all her life. Her birth had cost 
 her mother her life, and when she was only four years 
 old, her father, a clever country doctor, had caught 
 diphtheria from a patient, and died at the age of 
 thirty-two. The five hundred pounds for which he 
 was insured had paid for her education. Then, at 
 last, it had seemed as if good fortune were looking 
 her way. She had made up her mind to be a nurse, 
 and the brilliant house-surgeon to whom she had 
 gone for advice had fallen in love with her, and mar- 
 ried her out of hand. 
 
 But very soon bad luck, her luck, began to dog 
 them. A penniless wife, and the baby who had come 
 within ten months of their marriage, were heavy 
 handicaps on a professional man with no private 
 means. To those two, as to others who kept their 
 own counsel, the outbreak of war had proved, or 
 seemed to prove, a boon. 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 How proud and happy they had both felt when 
 Alec Strain had gone to France as assistant to a fa- 
 mous surgeon in the autumn of 191 4. But as the 
 two men were hard at work in a barn full of wounded, 
 heavy shelling started. Many of the wounded es- 
 caped; the 'surgeons were both killed. 
 
 At that time there was still something exceptional, 
 as well as intensely pathetic, in the sight of a young 
 war-widow, and Adelaide Strain had soon received 
 the offer of an excellent job. The months that fol- 
 lowed — though she would have indignantly denied it 
 — were among the happiest of her life. She was en- 
 gaged in work she enjoyed doing, and where she had 
 real scope for her remarkable business capacity; and 
 each evening she came back to Gilly, the little son 
 whom she loved with a passionate and all-absorbing 
 affection. 
 
 It was about that time, in the winter of 191 5, that 
 she had met Eva. The two women, so unlike, had 
 "taken" to one another, and soon Mrs. Strain had 
 joyfully assented to a proposal that they should join 
 forces, and that, in exchange for bed and board, she 
 should "run" her delightful new friend's flat. 
 
 The plan succeeded admirably. Adelaide Strain 
 worked for Eva as no paid companion would ever 
 have done, sympathizing, too, with the lovely young 
 widow's many successive love affairs with "the boys" 
 who came back from the hell of Flanders longing for 
 the love and laughter which every woman then 
 seemed so eager to give them. 
 
"a very competent lady " 37 
 
 The one whom she, Adelaide Strain, had preferred 
 among them was Jack Mintlaw, and Eva had flirted 
 with him a touch more seriously, maybe, than with 
 any of his rivals. But after the Armistice, when 
 Mintlaw had assumed that Eva would become his 
 wife, there had been pathetic, and even tragic, scenes 
 in the charming little flat near Victoria Station. 
 Mrs. Strain had taken Jack Mintlaw's part more 
 strongly than was perhaps wise. 
 
 Eva had never quite forgiven her this, while ad- 
 mitting — for there was something disarmingly frank 
 about the pretty creature, in spite of her fondness for 
 what she called by the old name of "tarradiddles " — 
 that no doubt Addie was right; she was selfish, she 
 was heartless, where men were] concerned, and while 
 adoring to be loved, neither could, nor would, give 
 anything worth having in return. . . . 
 
 And now, while sitting in this horrible, sordid bed- 
 sitting room, feeling, too, so spent and weary, for 
 she had been walking about all the morning in a 
 fruitless quest for work, Adelaide Strain found her 
 thoughts turning back to those old happy days of 
 security and hope. 
 
 To think of those days was to think of Eva. And 
 the thought of Eva brought with it the vivid recollec- 
 tion of what, retrospectively, she knew had been a 
 very memorable night in her own life, some time 
 after the Armistice, and when she and Eva seemed 
 to have settled down together for good. 
 
 After having been away, nursing her little boy 
 
38 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 through some childish illness, she, Adelaide Strain, 
 had come back to London and gone early to bed, for 
 Eva was out for the evening. But about midnight 
 she had been awakened by the sound of the front door 
 of the flat opening. Then had come the deep-toned 
 accents of a man's voice in the hall, uttering in 
 trembling, husky tones the plea, the half-question: 
 "Darling — I may call you my darling now, surely ?" 
 
 She had smiled sleepily in the darkness, wondering 
 idly what the man who had just uttered those words 
 would feel if some cruel imp appeared and told him 
 how many men had called Eva their darling in the 
 last six years. 
 
 There had followed whispered, broken words of 
 ardent love, then the door of the flat had been closed 
 very quietly, and Eva's voice had come, startlingly 
 near, out of the darkness. 
 
 "Addie? Are you awake?" 
 
 And, in answer to the alert, "Of course I am! 
 Come in and tell me all about it!" Eva had come in 
 to her friend's room with the half-laughing cry, "I 
 do believe I've met my fate! I really mean it, dear, 
 this time. And yet — and yet? I can't think why I 
 feel about him as I do " 
 
 Adelaide Strain had asked dryly, "What is he like? 
 Tall and dark, I suppose?" 
 
 "How clever of you to guess that! His name is 
 Raydon — Birtley (not Bertie) Raydon. He is thirty- 
 three, and he's never been in love before! He's 
 awfully clever — so clever they simply couldn't spare 
 
"a very competent lady " 39 
 
 him for cannon fodder. Not but what he worked 
 
 like a slave all through the war " 
 
 "What's his job now?" came from under the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 "He's the senior partner in a family business that's 
 over a hundred years old, and last year he made a 
 clear four thousand pounds! He'll get a lot more 
 money when his mother dies. But he adores his 
 mother, so of course he's in no hurry for her to die. 
 I like him for that. He's awfully anxious that I 
 should see her. But I've said 'no' to that up to now, 
 for I feel, somehow, that seeing old Mrs. Raydon 
 would clinch it!" 
 
 And then at last Adelaide Strain sat up in bed. 
 She turned up the light. 
 
 "How long have you known him?" she asked 
 slowly, realizing that this was — well, serious. 
 
 Eva wriggled about a little. "I've known him 
 about five weeks. I met him at the Johnsons' just 
 before you went away. D'you remember how I 
 hesitated whether I'd go there or not?" 
 
 And as her friend said nothing, she exclaimed, 
 childishly: 
 
 "Oh, Addie! I am glad I went!" 
 
 "How often have you met him?" 
 
 "Rather often lately — about every day. But we 
 really did fall in love at first sight! I feel a thrill 
 every time he touches my hand. As a rule — well, 
 Addie, you know that I leave the thrills to the other 
 fellow " 
 
4 o 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Are you engaged, Eva?" 
 
 "Of course I'm not — yet." 
 
 "I suppose he considers himself engaged?" 
 
 "Well, yes, I suppose he does, especially now that 
 I've allowed him to kiss me. He's that sort — really 
 awfully good, deep down, Addie. Such a change 
 after some of the men we know." 
 
 Adelaide Strain turned and suddenly put out the 
 light. She felt as if the world, her world, was rocking 
 round her. Also, she had not liked the sound of this 
 man Birtley Raydon's voice. And so she perversely 
 said something which perhaps she would not have 
 said, but for the darkness which now again encom- 
 passed them. 
 
 "Jack Mintlaw was a good man, as well as a brave 
 man." 
 
 "I know he was brave. But good? Why, I once 
 saw Jack drunk! I shall never forget it. Yet I 
 never told you, did I? Now Mr. Raydon took the 
 pledge during the war. Never touched a drop, 
 however tired he was!" 
 
 "Sounds rather like a plaster saint." 
 
 "Indeed he's not! In fact, he's told me some 
 things about himself I'd rather he hadn't told me. 
 But he's had a miserable sort of life, poor darling. 
 He's always lived with his mother, and she onlv 
 knows such stupid, dull people. She wanted him to 
 marry the most awful girl last year! Goody-goody, 
 plain, and precise. He very nearly did. It's lucky 
 
"a very competent lady " 41 
 
 for me he didn't! The very first time he met me he 
 made up his mind to marry me, and he actually lay 
 awake all night thinking of me. I've been longing, 
 longing, longing to tell you, Addie darling! But 
 somehow I couldn't write about it " 
 
 Adelaide Strain met Birtley Raydon, her friend's 
 future husband, only three times before the wed- 
 ding. She had felt at once that she did not like 
 him, and that he would never like her. Being the 
 manner of man he was, it was natural that he should 
 be violently attracted by Eva. But she could not 
 account for Eva's infatuation — for that Eva was in- 
 fatuated, and in love, probably for the first time in 
 her life, was certain. 
 
 There had followed an elaborate marriage cere- 
 mony in a South Kensington church, filled to over- 
 flowing with prosperous, old-fashioned-looking folk, 
 not one of whom either the lovely bride or her plain 
 friend had ever seen before. And Mrs. Strain, after 
 a long look at the bridegroom's mother, had said to 
 herself: "Eva will have trouble with that woman." 
 
 This did not require any special gift of prescience 
 on Adelaide Strain's part, for she knew a fact of which 
 Birtley Raydon was still quite unconscious. This 
 fact was that Eva was almost crazily extravagant. 
 Indeed, she, Eva's friend, knew it to her cost, for 
 often she had had to 'pay out money for her house- 
 mate, money which sometimes was not paid back. 
 
4 2 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 They were small sums from Eva's point of view, 
 but not small sums to a woman who, even in her 
 prosperous days, had had to watch every shilling. 
 
 Owing to the enormous premiums which were then 
 asked for the leases of even the smallest London 
 houses, the newly married pair had started life in a 
 furnished flat. And so busy were they, both in 
 loving one another, and in having a good time, and 
 so hard at work was Eva's old friend, trying to make 
 the chief of the Ministry where she worked believe 
 her indispensable, that the two women, in the course 
 of a few months, drifted completely apart. 
 
 Adelaide Strain had seen the economy axe ap- 
 proaching, unlike most of her colleagues, some time 
 before it fell. She had saved every penny she could, 
 grimly determined, whatever might betide, to keep 
 her little Gilly at the good preparatory school whose 
 Head had told her that the boy was sure of a scholar- 
 ship. But once out of work she had found her 
 money going far too quickly. Then it was that she 
 had tramped the streets, looking for a place in which 
 she could live on a pound a week till she found an- 
 other job. 
 
 At last she got up, and turning round her heavy 
 trunk, she unlocked and opened it. 
 
 On the top of the tray lay a letter she had received 
 the day before from Eva Raydon. It was very 
 affectionately worded, but, in reply to an awkward 
 plea for some of the money she had "lent" her friend 
 
"a very competent lady " 43 
 
 in those far-away careless days when the two had 
 been as loving sisters are, was a cheque for only five 
 pounds: 
 
 I wish I could send you more, Addie. But I've been really 
 afraid to draw even this cheque! I am fearfully overdrawn. 
 Birtley's only fault — if fault it can be called — is that he's just a 
 tiny bit over-careful. That's funny in a man who likes to have 
 everything top-hole — including a top-hole wife, isn't it? 
 
 Adelaide Strain stood in the middle of the sordid 
 room, feelings of despair, revolt and, yes, stark terror, 
 at the thought of the future filling every cranny of 
 her burdened heart. 
 
 During the moments which followed, she lived 
 again through the series of anguished disappoint- 
 ments which in these last few weeks had followed 
 one another monotonously, like beads on a string. 
 Yet all that she was seeking was work, any work, 
 which would make it possible for her to keep herself 
 and her child if not in comfort, in ordinary decency. 
 
 At first she had gone everywhere by omnibus, but 
 soon she found that the pence so spent mounted up 
 into shillings she could not afford to spend, and since 
 then she had worn out a pair of shoes walking from 
 employment bureau to employment bureau. Every- 
 where she was told the same thing. Thousands of 
 women, dismissed at short notice from the innumer- 
 able forms of industry which had sprung up in the 
 four years of war, were now, like herself, seeking for 
 work and not finding it, though the great majority 
 of them had been, what she, Adelaide Strain, was not 
 
44 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 — trained to follow some definite kind of paying 
 occupation. 
 
 Suddenly there flashed into her mind the memory 
 of a meeting which had taken place last week between 
 herself and a kindly natured little woman, pretty and 
 still young looking, though with a grown-up daughter, 
 with whom she had been thrown in constant contact 
 during her later years of war-work. These two 
 women, less fortunate than herself, had been among 
 the first to be dismissed from the Ministry where 
 they had enjoyed for a long time light work and good 
 pay, and she had lost sight of them. 
 
 For the first few moments of her meeting with 
 these old friends she had felt a sharp pang of envy, 
 for they both looked fairly prosperous, though there 
 had gone the air of bright happy ease which had 
 attracted those who had worked with them. But a 
 queer-looking man had sauntered up to the girl, 
 claiming a dance-hall acquaintance, and, as the 
 daughter stepped aside, a few whispered words on 
 the mother's part, so few, so pitiful, so making-the- 
 best-of-a-b ad-job, had changed Adelaide Strain's 
 feeling of envy into repugnance and amazed horror. 
 
 After putting up what was described, no doubt 
 with absolute truth, as a brave and losing fight, the 
 two had taken to what was then the only easy way 
 of life open to women living in a city still full of men 
 who but yesterday had been soldiers, and who had 
 not yet had time, maybe, to spend the whole of their 
 war gratuities. 
 
"a very competent lady " 45 
 
 "I know you'll understand, Mrs. Strain, that it's 
 about Dorrie that I sometimes feel miserable. But 
 I do think there's now a chance of her getting respect- 
 ably married. She's got in with a good sort of chap, 
 a New Zealander, who's taken a real fancy to her. 
 He hates me, but I can't blame him for that. If only 
 he'll take her away, where she'll be able to forget 
 what we've both gone through since we were axed, 
 I'll willingly undertake never to see her again. I 
 love her far too dearly to mind that" 
 
 And it was her listener's eyes which had filled with 
 tears. 
 
 Now, remembering that pitiful utterance, Ade- 
 laide Strain's mind turned to her own desperate 
 problem and its relation to her own child. For 
 Gilly's sake, to bring him even temporary security, 
 she would do — why, of course she would — anything. 
 
 To-day, standing there in that dirty room the very 
 sight of which undermined her feeling of cleanly self- 
 respect, she asked herself deliberately whether it 
 would not be the better part, if not for her, then for 
 her little son, to give up the apparently hopeless 
 struggle in which she was now engaged. Why not 
 throw in her lot with that nether world, into which 
 those two fellow workers of hers had — she would not 
 call it sunk — been sucked down, as she was now 
 tempted to believe, through certain vile conditions 
 attaching to our present civilization, rather than to 
 any fault of their own? 
 
 She walked to the fireplace above which stood the 
 
4t> WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 grimy, fly-blown looking-glass. Tearing Eva Ray- 
 don's double sheet of superfine notepaper in two, she 
 placed the pieces on the dirt-encrusted mantelpiece, 
 and, putting her elbows on those two pieces of super- 
 fine notepaper, looked searchingly at the reflection of 
 her face. 
 
 Slowly she subjected each worn feature to a close, 
 honest scrutiny, and then she began to count, only to 
 find that they were far too many to count, the white 
 threads which streaked what had once been her great- 
 est beauty, her long, thick, soft brown hair. 
 
 She was years younger, maybe as much as ten or 
 twelve years younger, than the easy-natured, mind- 
 less-looking little woman who had impulsively made 
 her that horrible confidence. Yet she looked, and 
 she now admitted to herself that she looked, actually 
 older than that other. With her countenance re- 
 flected in the tarnished mirror, she faced the fact 
 that she had now joined the great army of women 
 who have lost, if they ever really possessed, those 
 physical attributes disguised by the phrase "feminine 
 attraction." 
 
 Many a time, during the last few weeks, those 
 whose help she had sought had told her, some very 
 plainly, some in a kindly, wrapped-up form of words, 
 that employers nowadays look for what she, Adelaide 
 Strain, lacked, namely, "a good appearance. " If 
 that was true, and she had bitterly proved it, of 
 respectable employers seeking for respectable women 
 to employ, it was, it obviously must be, a thousand 
 
"a very competent lady " 47 
 
 times more true of the other type of seeker — and 
 buyer — of a woman's services. 
 
 As she turned away she remembered a famous 
 drawing of Leech. Two women standing in the 
 Haymarket in pouring rain, and underneath the 
 words, "And you, Liz? How long have you been 
 
 gay?" 
 
 She went across to the window. With difficulty, 
 for she was weak for want of nourishing food, she 
 threw up the lower half of it. For a moment she 
 stood eagerly inhaling the air which, if soot-laden, 
 was yet clean compared to that of the atmosphere 
 of the room where she had just gone through so hu- 
 miliating an experience. 
 
 A neighbouring clock struck out the hour — five 
 long-drawn-out strokes. It was not so very late, 
 after all! She suddenly determined to leave this 
 sinister-looking room for an hour — aye, and even dare 
 so far as to have a good tea in a clean tea-shop. So 
 heartened, she would go on to an employment bureau 
 which was comparatively near by, and which was 
 run by a woman who had shown more personal in- 
 terest in her parlous case than had any of the others 
 she had interviewed. After all, surely some tenuous 
 bit of luck was due to her by now? 
 
 And that superstitious half-hope was justified, for 
 three quarters of an hour later Adelaide Strain had 
 been offered and had accepted the post of attendant 
 to an uncertified lunatic. The salary was three 
 pounds a week and all found. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 "by chance to swanmere " 
 
 DIGGLE had strict orders from his master to 
 go dead slow when motoring through a vil- 
 lage. So they were proceeding at what both 
 the chauffeur and his mistress considered a funereal 
 pace, when all at once Eva, who had been, as far as 
 her sweet nature allowed her to be, feeling a little 
 cross, grasped her husband's hand. 
 
 "Birtley!" she cried. "Darling! Do look! 
 
 There's our dream house " 
 
 Affixed to an ancient rose-red brick wall was a large 
 white board bearing the inscription: 
 
 THE MILL HOUSE 
 
 THIS BEAUTIFUL PROPERTY TO BE SOLD 
 BY PRIVATE TREATY. 
 AN EXTRAORDINARY BARGAIN. 
 PREMISES OPEN TO INSPECTION ANY TIME. 
 
 Eva tapped excitedly on the glass screen of the car, 
 and Diggle stopped the motor before a wrought-iron 
 gate through which could be seen a widely spreading 
 lawn fringed, on the river side, with high trees. 
 
 To the right of the lawn ran a broad herbaceous 
 4 8 
 
" BY CHANCE TO SWANMERE " 49 
 
 border, filled with brilliantly tinted shrubs and flowers, 
 and to the left stood a charming Queen Anne house. 
 
 "No hope of this place being within our price/' 
 said Raydon decidedly. 
 
 "One never can tell! In any case, we may as well 
 go over it. I'll ask the caretaker to let us have our 
 tea in that lovely garden, and she can give us a little 
 sugar." 
 
 Eva was always mischievously amused, as well as 
 just a little bit ashamed, when she played, as she 
 often found it policy to play, on her husband's queer 
 love of small economies. 
 
 He "rose" at once — as she had felt sure he would 
 do. 
 
 "All right, lovykin; we've plenty of time." 
 
 As Mrs. Birtley Raydon was going through the 
 gate, she turned to the chauffeur. 
 
 "This sort of village always has a good inn, Diggle. 
 You'd better go and have your tea there. Come 
 back in half an hour." 
 
 Diggle's master looked round sharply. 
 
 "There's no need to do that!" he exclaimed. 
 "I'm sure the caretaker would give you a cup of tea, 
 Diggle." 
 
 Then he said to his wife, "We shall have to give 
 her a shilling or two in any case." 
 
 But Birtley Raydon was not called upon to do 
 what he sometimes described by the old-fashioned 
 phrase of "putting his hand in his pocket." For it 
 was the owner of the house, a delightful-looking old 
 
50 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 lady, who welcomed them, and who, while giving 
 them tea, explained, with a business-like brevity 
 that attracted Raydon, and with a touch of sentiment 
 that appealed to Eva, how within the last three 
 months her two daughters had married, and her son 
 had sent her an urgent appeal to join him in South 
 America. This was why she was ready to part with 
 The Mill House for the price she had paid for the 
 little property before the war, plus what she had 
 spent on it. 
 
 "And would you be able to leave your servants ?" 
 asked Eva Raydon, a trifle anxiously. 
 
 Servants had become the bane of her prosperous 
 care-free life. She knew nothing of housekeeping. 
 Everything of the kind had been done for her, and 
 most competently, too, by her friend, Adelaide 
 Strain, during her days of widowhood. 
 
 "Well, no/' answered her white-haired hostess re- 
 gretfully. "That I cannot do, for I have already 
 got them all good places. But you would find this 
 house very easy to run." 
 
 The front door of The Mill House opened into a 
 spacious round hall. To the left of the hall lay the 
 drawing-room and, opening out of it, the dining-room. 
 To the right of the hall was a pleasant, high-ceilinged 
 apartment, which was called the garden-room. 
 
 On the second floor was a large bedroom over the 
 drawing-room, a bathroom, and a dressing-room 
 beyond. Above the garden-room was a commodious 
 bedroom and another bathroom. 
 
4 BY CHANCE TO SWANMERE " 51 
 
 The servants' quarters, both upstairs and down- 
 stairs, formed part of an older building cut off from 
 the part the Raydons had already been shown by 
 baize doors, and thus, in a sense, quite apart from 
 the rest of the house. This fact, as the present owner 
 pointed out, considerably added to its amenities. 
 
 "A witty friend of mine says that The Mill House 
 is Queen Anne in front and Mary Ann behind, " she 
 said, smiling. 
 
 Small wonder that as the minutes slipped by, Eva 
 Raydon became secretly determined that she and her 
 husband should become possessors of this desirable, 
 nay, to her enchanting, property. So she was con- 
 siderably relieved when her hostess, in answer to one 
 or two awkward questions from Raydon, said pleas- 
 antly : 
 
 "I never go into the question of price with any one 
 who views the house. I leave all that to the house- 
 agents, but if you are really thinking of buying this 
 little place I should advise you to get into touch with 
 Messrs. Biddy & Gaul to-morrow morning, for there 
 are already several people after it." 
 
 When the two were back in their motor Eva ex- 
 claimed, "I call that house simply 'it'! I shall never 
 see a place I like better. Did you notice the furniture 
 that she wants to sell, too? I don't believe the dear 
 old thing has any idea of how valuable it is!" 
 
 Her eyes were bright with excitement and pleasure. 
 
 "You bet she has," said Raydon disagreeably. 
 "I saw at once that there were no flies on that old 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 party. You always give yourself away, Eva. Not 
 that it mattered in this case, for I'm sure the price 
 will make it quite hopeless for us." 
 
 He looked at his wife's lovely, now flushed and 
 mutinous, face, a trifle anxiously. Eva was apt to 
 be very obstinate when she set her eager heart on 
 anything. Also, it had been arranged between them 
 that if they found their dream house, the legacy she 
 had lately received from her first husband's father 
 was to pay for it. This would make it difficult for 
 him, Birtley, to curb her extravagance with regard to 
 this sudden wish of hers for The Mill House. 
 
 Fond as he was of money, and apart from Eva, it 
 was the only thing in the world of which he was, in 
 a true sense, fond, Birtley Raydon sometimes re- 
 gretted that his wife enjoyed the good income which 
 had been settled on her in the autumn of 1914. 
 Though it would be more correct to say that he con- 
 sidered it to have been a mistake on the part of 
 Providence not to have so arranged matters that 
 Eva should be penniless, and he, her wise, devoted 
 husband, richer than he was by fifteen hundred 
 pounds a year. 
 
 The Birtley Raydons arrived at Messrs. Biddv & 
 Gaul's office the next morning just as the doors were 
 opened, and there followed half an hour which was 
 filled for Eva with irritation, anxiety, and suspense. 
 
 Raydon was convinced that a would-be purchaser 
 
"by chance to swanmere " 53 
 
 can always knock something off the price asked for 
 whatever he wishes to buy, if only he is not too keen. 
 So his wife listened in indignant, bored silence — for 
 experience had taught her that it was unwise for her 
 to interfere between her husband and a man with 
 whom he was trying to drive a hard bargain. 
 
 After a futile wrangle the house-agent observed: 
 "Four thousand pounds is no doubt a large sum, sir. 
 On the other hand, this property, The Mill House, is 
 actually worth more. Were we to put it up to auc- 
 tion, my opinion has always been that we should get 
 very good bids. I have told Mrs. Brown this more 
 than once/' 
 
 "It's very odd that she doesn't follow your ad- 
 vice," said Raydon sneeringly. 
 
 "She prefers to sell by private treaty to someone 
 who can put up the whole price at once. And per- 
 haps I ought to be plain with you, and say that when 
 I quote the price of four thousand pounds, I really 
 mean live thousand pounds, for I am quite sure the 
 antique furniture, some of which is extremely good, 
 will be valued at about a thousand pounds." 
 
 "That means that I shall be paying about seventy 
 pounds a year for the pleasure of looking at a lot of 
 old furniture? Now I actually prefer modern furni- 
 ture." 
 
 At last the man said impatiently, 
 "If you buy the property, sir, at the price I have 
 named, and if it disappoints you in any way, I think 
 
54 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 I can almost promise to get you a thousand pounds 
 more than it cost you in the course of this summer or 
 autumn/' 
 
 "I may hold you to that!" But as he saw the 
 other shake his head: "Very well, give me the refusal 
 of the place till to-morrow evening." 
 
 And the house-agent who, by this time, heartily 
 disliked Raydon, and pitied that gentleman's charm- 
 ing young wife for being married to so mean a crea- 
 ture, assented coldly to this proposal. 
 
 That afternoon the Birtley Raydons drove down 
 once more to Swanmere, and while there Eva's hus- 
 band actually succeeded in knocking a hundred 
 pounds off the purchase price. 
 
 This put him in high good humour. As they were 
 driving back to town, he put his arm round his wife's 
 waist, and exclaimed: "I've saved you two-and-a-half 
 per cent, on the price of the house, pet! We'll go 
 and blue some of it to-night at Claridge's — if you 
 feel like it?" 
 
 She said quickly, "All right. But you must give 
 me that hundred pounds, Birtley. It is mine, after 
 all!" 
 
 At that he laughed delightedly. After all, what 
 was hers was his — though, to Raydon's mind, his 
 cherished darling's only fault was her carelessness 
 about money. 
 
 He did not realize that this woman, whom all the 
 men they met so envied him, was herself an article of 
 luxury, and as such could not be treated as might 
 
"by chance to swanmere " 55 
 
 perhaps have been the type of sensible, conscientious 
 girl whom his mother had so hoped he would marry. 
 
 His mother? Birtley Raydon was aware that his 
 mother had entirely disapproved of his marriage, and 
 that closer acquaintance had not softened or modified 
 her intense dislike of Eva. The last time he had been 
 to see her, about a week ago, he had had the un- 
 comfortable feeling, though she had not formulated 
 in words any such accusation, that she thought his 
 wife was leading him into senseless prodigal ways 
 of life. 
 
 How he would enjoy the triumph of telling his 
 mother that Eva's windfall was about to be so ex- 
 cellently invested that, should they see reason to do 
 so, they would be able to turn that five thousand 
 pounds into six thousand pounds during the next six 
 months! 
 
 By the first of August the Raydons were actually 
 settled in The Mill House, and Eva spent four 
 glorious weeks entertaining all her friends — well-to- 
 do young couples like herself and Birtley — giving 
 dances in her large cool drawing-room, and spending 
 long, delectable, sunlit hours on the river which 
 formed one of the boundaries of the delightfui 
 property. 
 
 And then, towards the end of the month, came a 
 horrid crash. The clever, efficient, astoundingly 
 economical cook-housekeeper, who had made them 
 so comfortable, and who had never seemed to mind 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 how much work she did, disappeared one Saturday 
 night. Her employers then discovered that she had 
 not only appropriated the greater part of the money 
 given her each week by the master of the house him- 
 self to pay the household bills, but that she had also 
 stolen various valuable diamond ornaments which 
 Eva seldom wore, and which she had carelessly left 
 in an unlocked drawer. 
 
 Birtley Raydon was the more enraged because he 
 could see that the police he had called in thought 
 he had been a fool, and in his irritation he had turned 
 on his wife. 
 
 Though always slow to anger, Eva had been roused 
 to hysterical protest by her husband's taunts. 
 
 " You've only lost some money. I've lost some 
 beautiful jewels! You made me engage the woman. 
 You chose her because you thought she would be so 
 economical. I always loathed her! If you think I'm 
 such a bad manager, and all the other hateful things 
 you've just said to me, I think I'd better go away 
 and live by myself, or with a friend, for a bit. I 
 managed very well indeed on my own money when 
 I was living with Adelaide Strain " 
 
 And then, as she said the name "Adelaide Strain," 
 and as. she saw a look of shocked surprise and acute 
 distress pass over her husband's face, while she ut- 
 tered her idle threat about going away, her lovely 
 violet-blue eyes, but just now swollen with burning 
 tears, softened, and a smile quivered over her deli- 
 cious, still pouting, mouth. 
 
"by chance to swanmere " 57 
 
 "Look here, Birtley. Fve got such a splendid 
 idea! Why shouldn't Adelaide Strain come and run 
 this house for us? She wouldn't be any trouble. 
 You'd hardly know that she was here. She'd do 
 anything for three pounds a week! She's not strong, 
 and she's got Gilly, her dear little boy, to keep " 
 
 "Three pounds a week? A hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year and her keep? She'd never be worth 
 that!" 
 
 "At any rate, we might have her for a month on 
 trial. And one thing you'd love about her, darling! 
 I've seen her spend an hour over the various Stores 
 lists, just to see if she couldn't get something two- 
 pence cheaper at one place rather than the other. 
 That was when she was running a Soldiers' Canteen. " 
 
 This is why and how Adelaide Strain became 
 lady-housekeeper to the Birtley Raydons. 
 
 At first Mrs. Strain looked very worn, the effect 
 of the few weeks she had spent as attendant on the 
 uncertified lunatic. But she had soon picked up 
 again, for The Mill House seemed like paradise after 
 the hell she had just been through, the more so that 
 her friend-employer had allowed her to bring there 
 her little son, Gilly, for this last three weeks of his 
 holidays. 
 
 With the quiet, yet alert, intelligence which formed 
 an essential part of her character, she had at once set 
 herself to bring order out of disorder, comfort and 
 cleanliness out of discomfort and slovenliness. 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Small wonder that, even during the four weeks of 
 her probation, not only did both Eva and Birtley 
 Raydon find themselves far more comfortable than 
 they had been since they were married, but also, to 
 Raydon's surprised satisfaction, the weekly bills were 
 amazingly diminished. So it naturally came to pass 
 that, though he pretended he could not afford it, he 
 at last brought himself to agree to pay his wife's 
 clever, plain friend the salary she insisted her serv- 
 ices were worth. 
 
 Time went on, slipping by easily, and apparently 
 pleasantly, for these three people. Eva grew prettier 
 and younger looking than ever, thanks to the quiet 
 life in good air she was now leading. 
 
 Even so, she and her Birtley would often go up to 
 London. 
 
 There they would stay in some good hotel for two 
 or three nights, Eva dancing to her heart's content. 
 
 As an alternative, which Eva's husband preferred, 
 they also motored now and again to London just for 
 a dinner and a dance. This they generally did on a 
 Saturday evening, as that gave Birtley Raydon the 
 opportunity for a long rest in bed on Sunday morn- 
 ing. He worked, or thought he worked, very hard, 
 at the sound business his father had founded forty- 
 five years ago. He was off every morning by nine, 
 and seldom home before seven, for five days of the 
 week. Saturday he always took "off." 
 
 As for Adelaide Strain, the life she led at The Mill 
 
"by chance to swanmere " 59 
 
 House was a dead-alive sort of life to a woman of her 
 ability and brain. But sometimes, with an inward 
 wince and even shudder of fear, she would ask herself 
 where she would have been now, but for the, to her, 
 happy accident of the Raydons having had a dis- 
 honest cook. There were thousands of capable, yet 
 untrained, women like herself still looking hopelessly 
 for work. 
 
 So she schooled herself to a measure of content- 
 ment, the more so that Eva had cajoled Birtley to 
 allow their lady-housekeeper to have her little son 
 again, first for the Christmas holidays, and then for 
 Easter. 
 
 Gilly Strain was a quiet, thoughtful boy, quite 
 happy with a book in his hand; and his mother so 
 arranged the tenor of his days that he was hardly 
 ever seen, and never heard, by his self-absorbed, 
 pleasure-seeking, pleasure-enjoying host and hostess. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE PAIR SEEM TO HAVE BEEN ON FAIRLY GOOD 
 TERMS " 
 
 THERE is a type of human being who, at the 
 end of a year of business, a year of idleness, a 
 year of love, takes stock as it were of his or her 
 position. Such a human being was Adelaide Strain. 
 
 It was the third of September, and she had been at 
 The Mill House exactly twelve months. Idle for once, 
 and she seldom allowed herself to be idle, she was 
 lying back in an easy chair close to the open French 
 window of her sitting-room, a look of half-indulgent, 
 half-satirical contempt on her plain, intelligent face. 
 
 Unseen by them, she was watching her two employ- 
 ers strolling across the grass towards the wrought-iron 
 gate behind which stood the car waiting to take 
 Birtley Raydon to the station. 
 
 To a casual onlooker, the old-fashioned garden, 
 stretching on the river side a good way beyond the 
 wide lawn which was partly shaded by the low spread- 
 ing branches of a great cedar tree, would have 
 presented a scene of delicate and tranquil outdoor love- 
 liness, forming a perfect setting for a romantic idyll. 
 
 And to a casual onlooker the idyll would have 
 seemed to be in being; for a still young-looking and 
 60 
 
"on fairly good terms " 
 
 61 
 
 good-looking man was advancing at right angles 
 across the lawn, his arm round the shoulder of an 
 enchantingly pretty, fair-haired girl, who now and 
 again glanced up, with a touch of laughing coquetry, 
 into his face, while she moved "in soft beauty and 
 conscious delight." 
 
 Mrs. Birtley Raydon looked years younger — some 
 would have said ten years younger — than her real 
 age, which was thirty-one. From the point of view 
 of both her health and appearance the change to the 
 country was still proving a success, for she felt quite 
 strong again, while keeping the look of fragility which 
 many find an added allure in a pretty woman. 
 
 She was happy, too, and happiness makes for 
 feminine beauty. True, she had certain little secret 
 troubles and anxieties, but they were nothing, as she 
 would have put it herself, "to write home about." 
 
 Eva's troubles were all connected with money. 
 She had always been, and she still was, far more 
 extravagant than her careful husband in his most 
 anxious, mistrustful moments, would ever have sus- 
 pected. As time went on she felt sorry indeed that 
 she had allowed him to spend the whole of her pleas- 
 ant unexpected legacy on the purchase of The Mill 
 House. She sometimes told herself ruefully that she 
 ought to have kept say a thousand pounds of that 
 money, for herself. 
 
 She believed, erroneously, that Raydon, even after 
 paying income tax, now saved a substantial sum each 
 year, and she was convinced, rightly as it happened, 
 
62 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 that his mother was putting away money for the 
 grandchild she, Eva, was determined should never be 
 born. 
 
 It is fortunate for most of us that we cannot see 
 into the hearts and minds of those about us. How sur- 
 prised — in the man's case how indignant, in the 
 woman's how hurt — would Birtley and Eva Raydon 
 have been, could they have read the heart and mind 
 of the unseen watcher who was now gazing at their 
 slow, affectionate progress across the garden of The 
 Mill House. 
 
 Adelaide Strain was telling herself what fools and 
 wastrels they both were — in their so different ways! 
 Birtley Raydon, who had such a good conceit of him- 
 self, just because he had never been up against any- 
 thing really tough, painful, or even difficult, in the 
 course of his easy, prosperous life; still exquisitely 
 pretty, selfish, if kindly Eva, who could never resist 
 the lure of any attractive trifle, however costly, if 
 only that trifle was calculated to add, in even an 
 infinitesimal measure, to her own physical beauty or 
 charm. 
 
 The weary eyes of the lady-housekeeper focussed 
 themselves on the slim figure of the old friend whom 
 she knew to be only a little younger than herself. 
 Eva was wearing, to-day, a deceptively plain beige- 
 coloured woollen frock. It was not only exceedingly 
 becoming to its wearer; it was so extremely simple 
 that Birtley Raydon, who believed it to have been 
 what his wife called "bought off the peg," told him- 
 
"on fairly good terms " 
 
 self, with satisfaction, that at last Eva was becoming 
 really economical! 
 
 As a matter of fact, and as Adelaide Strain was 
 aware, this plain little frock was a replica of the most 
 exclusive model in what was called "the summer col- 
 lection" of a famous dressmaker named Julie Domino. 
 Together with a cleverly fashioned embroidered loose 
 short coat which Eva had not yet worn, for the 
 simple reason that up to now it had been too hot to 
 wear such a garment, the dress had cost nearly sixty 
 pounds. 
 
 The lady-housekeeper smiled a malicious in- 
 voluntary smile, as she suddenly thought of what 
 Birtley Raydon would feel and look like were the 
 price of his wife's frock to be revealed to him. 
 
 Sincerely Mrs. Strain told herself, to-day, that she 
 was not jealous of Eva. And this was, in a sense, 
 true, for she was still very fond of her friend, fond as 
 some people cannot help being fond of a lovely, spoilt, 
 affectionate child. The passage of the eight long 
 years since they had first known one another had not 
 affected Eva's nature, or made her, in any essential 
 way, older. She was still the eager, attaching, un- 
 calculating little being who had so attracted the al- 
 ready work-worn, sensible, intelligent young woman 
 Adelaide Strain had been, when a casual meeting had 
 led to so great a change in both their lives. The two 
 had been very happy together, never a cloud between 
 them, excepting now and again one brought about by 
 an indulgent scolding, till Eva had become so sud- 
 
64 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 denly and so instinctively infatuated with Birtley 
 Raydon. 
 
 As she thought of that strange — she still thought it 
 even from Eva's point of view, unfortunate — "smite," 
 Mrs. Strain's face shadowed, and a hard, bitter look 
 came over her gray eyes and firm, secretive-looking 
 mouth. 
 
 To one who knows him as employer, twelve 
 months is a testing time for any man's character, and 
 Raydon had not come well out of the test. He was 
 penurious, suspicious, and curiously lacking in either 
 breadth of view or tolerance. 
 
 But the thing which had put his lady-housekeeper 
 quite out of charity with him was that early in July 
 Eva, with evident distress, had told her that Birtley 
 did not wish little Gilly Strain to spend his summer 
 holidays at The Mill House. Lamely she had added 
 that she felt sure Addie would understand. 
 
 The other had said sorely, "Of course I understand. 
 I suppose it would make no difference if I were to offer 
 to stop a pound a week out of my salary for Gilly's 
 board?" 
 
 In answer to that Eva had looked down and said 
 awkwardly, "I'm afraid that your offering to do that 
 would offend Birtley." ■/ 
 
 Yet they both knew that the master of the house 
 had only grudged little Gilly Strain his food. Of late 
 Raydon had spent over an hour each Sunday ana- 
 lysing the household books, and suggesting petty 
 economies of a kind which the lady-housekeeper had 
 
"on fairly good terms " 
 
 65 
 
 difficulty in making him realize would, by annoying 
 the servants, detract from what he valued most 
 highly, his own personal comfort. 
 
 As for Gilly, his mother had arranged for him to 
 spend his long summer holidays as the paying guest of 
 the lady dispenser of a cottage hospital which was 
 about a mile from The Mill House. 
 
 After taking a very affectionate farewell of her 
 husband, and waiting till the car was out of sight, Eva 
 Raydon turned and ran gaily back, over the lawn, till 
 she came to the open window of the garden-room. 
 
 How pretty and lightsome she was! Adelaide 
 Strain's eyes softened, in spite of herself. 
 
 Eva's short, fair, naturally curling hair was un- 
 covered. In the autumn morning sunlight it shone 
 like spun gold. Could she only have been persuaded 
 of the fact, she would have looked even prettier than 
 she did look, now, had she omitted the elaborate 
 make-up which provided her with joyous occupation 
 twice each day. 
 
 "Hullo, Addie! I didn't know you were there. 
 Why didn't you call me ? I was longing to get away 
 from Birtley. I thought he would never go, never 
 go, never go!" 
 
 The house-parlourmaid, passing through the hall 
 just then, heard the sing-song words and, smiling, 
 unconsciously noted them down on the tablets of her 
 memory. 
 
 "It's nice to see you doing nothing for once, my 
 
66 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 dear. You do work hard, I know. Why, it's ages 
 since we had a good talk!" 
 
 Eva's old friend felt touched. It was a long time 
 since the other had spoken to her in such a tone of 
 real affection. And it was true that she, Adelaide 
 Strain, worked hard. This last month she had 
 worked harder than ever, for during Birtley Raydon's 
 holiday they had had people down from town almost 
 every day. But now the five weeks he had allowed 
 himself were over, and this morning Eva seemed to be 
 what she would have herself described as at a loose end. 
 
 Hoisting herself on to the edge of the solid table 
 which stood in the centre of the garden-room, she 
 began swinging her long slim legs. 
 
 "I've got something very secret to tell you, Addie. 
 You will be surprised!" 
 
 There was a happy lilt in the voice which she had 
 yet lowered, instinctively, as she uttered the word 
 "secret." 
 
 "I hope it's not a very expensive secret," said 
 Adelaide Strain gravely. 
 
 "How beastly of you to say that! You're getting 
 like Birtley! You've money on the brain!" 
 
 Eva said the rude words very crossly. Then she 
 added, quickly: "My secret has nothing to do with 
 money, thank God!" 
 
 She slid off the table, and came and stood before 
 her friend, her hands behind her back, looking again 
 like an enchanting child rather than a grown-up 
 woman. 
 
ON FAIRLY GOOD TERMS " 
 
 6 7 
 
 "Who d'you think is home? Who d'you think is 
 now a millionaire? Who d'you think still loves little 
 Eva?" 
 
 There was a pause — a long pause — between the two 
 women. 
 
 Adelaide Strain rose from her chair. 
 "Not Jack Mintlaw?" 
 
 "None other! None other, little Addekins!" 
 And then Eva started hopping about the room on 
 one leg. 
 
 "Jack Mintlaw back — a millionaire? How — how 
 wonderful!" 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? And if you'd been nicer to me 
 lately, Addie, I'd have told you the great news long 
 ago!" 
 
 " Long ago ? repeated Mrs. Strain. " D'you mean 
 Jack's been back a long time?" 
 
 "Well, no, not a long time. Just time enough to 
 find out what had happened to me. If it hadn't been 
 Sunday yesterday, and Saturday the day before, and 
 if I hadn't found it quite impossible to get rid of 
 Birtley even for five minutes — well, then, perhaps I 
 would have told you!" 
 
 "But how did you manage to see him? For I 
 suppose you have seen him?" asked her friend 
 quickly. 
 
 Eva hesitated for a scarcely perceptible moment. 
 Then she answered, in a low voice, "Yes, I saw him 
 on Friday." 
 
 "But you didn't go to town on Friday?" 
 
68 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "He's here." 
 
 "Here — in Swanmere ? " 
 
 "He's staying at the Anchor Inn. There's devo- 
 tion for you! Living in a horrid little village pub, 
 however grand it may pretend to be, when he might 
 have been at Claridge's ! He's got a wonderful Rolls- 
 Royce, and, and — oh, Addie, don't look at me like 
 that! — I'm going out with him to-day." 
 
 Adelaide Strain walked quickly across the garden- 
 room. She went up to Eva, who was again skipping 
 about, and forced her to stand still. Then she took 
 hold of her friend's hand and held it, for a moment, in 
 a rather hard grip. 
 
 "Look here, Eva. I've never interfered with you 
 since you married. I've never even given you a 
 word of advice the whole of this long past year. But 
 I'm going to break my rule for once, and tell you the 
 truth " 
 
 "The truth?" echoed Eva defiantly. 
 
 "You'll be a very foolish woman indeed if you link 
 up with Jack Mintlaw again. Your husband's a 
 jealous man — I might say a very jealous man. 
 Even a platonic flirtation is a thing Mr. Raydon 
 would never forgive." 
 
 "There'd never be anything to forgive!" 
 
 The other remained silent. She dropped Eva's 
 hand. She knew that what she had said was true, and 
 that Eva knew it to be true. 
 
 "Don't be cross, old thing! You know perfectly 
 
"on fairly good terms " 
 
 69 
 
 well that I never cared for poor Jack — not even when 
 he really did adore me." 
 
 "Of course I know that. But that would not make 
 
 any difference to Mr. Raydon " She nearly 
 
 added, "He's too stupid to understand the differ- 
 ence." 
 
 "You know perfectly well that it ought to make all 
 the difference," Eva said sharply. "Surely I have a 
 right to a little fun ? After all, I'm buried alive down 
 here!" 
 
 "Buried alive?" 
 
 Adelaide Strain laughed, and it was not a pleasant 
 laugh. " Do you ever give a thought to the sort of life 
 / lead here, Eva?" 
 
 "There's no reason why you should lead a dull 
 life," said the other vexedly. "Heaven knows we're 
 away often enough, especially in the winter. I've 
 wondered sometimes why you never do have a man 
 in to see you " 
 
 "A man in to see me?" 
 
 Adelaide Strain's voice swelled with pain and scorn. 
 She had just seen the reflection of her worn, pallid 
 face in one of the panes of the narrow French window, 
 and there came over her, with a rush of indignation, 
 memories of the scant courtesy with which the Ray- 
 dons' men friends generally treated her. 
 
 "How long is Jack Mintlaw going to stay in 
 England?" she asked at last. 
 
 "For ever!" cried Eva joyously. 
 
JO WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "I suppose it's no use my saying anything to you, 
 my dear? But I do think that you'll do a very cruel 
 thing if you let him get fond of you again." 
 
 "He's never left ofF being fond of me!" 
 
 "What he ought to do, now that he's rich, is to 
 marry some nice girl." 
 
 "So he shall — after I've done with him," said Eva 
 saucily. 
 
 "In any case, it was quite mad of you to let him 
 come down here, to Swanmere," went on the other 
 woman, in a hard, relentless tone. 
 
 "I couldn't help it ! I'm not his keeper. Besides, I 
 think Birtley will like him very much. I'm going to 
 introduce them, let me see" — she waited a moment 
 — "next Saturday. From now till Saturday Jack 
 and I shall meet in secret, and oh, it will be such fun ! " 
 
 Her friend smiled at last. "I suppose it will," she 
 admitted reluctantly. 
 
 Eva went over to the window, and gazed out into 
 the garden. There stole a more thoughtful expression 
 than usual on her animated face. 
 
 "It's funny that I'm still in love with Birtley," she 
 said pensively. "I suppose it's because he's a big 
 dark man, and I'm a little fair woman. But still a 
 woman can have a little bit too much of the same 
 man, even if he is a loved one, eh, Addie? It will be 
 such a change to see something of poor old Jack 
 again!" 
 
 "That it certainly will," interposed Adelaide Strain 
 drily. 
 
"on fairly good terms " 71 
 
 She was remembering how generous Jack Mintlaw 
 had always been, recklessly generous, even in the 
 days when he only had his pay. 
 
 " I was so afraid that Birtley would give up going to 
 the office to-day," went on Eva. " He kept saying he 
 felt Mondayish.' Thank Heaven, he did go at last. 
 So now I'm free — free — free — till seven o'clock !" 
 
 She waited a moment. "Do have Gilly over from 
 the Cottage Hospital to lunch, Addie. Tea, too, if you 
 like? Birtley will never know!" 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE HUGE BILL RUN UP 
 
 WITH 
 
 MADAME DOMINO 
 
 IRTLEY RAYDON reached the City that 
 
 r"^ morning in anything but a good humour. 
 
 * For one thing, he was secretly becoming very 
 much worried about money. Before his marriage he 
 had always saved something like half his income each 
 year; now he and his wife were living quite up to, 
 sometimes he feared beyond, his and Eva's joint 
 means. To his surprise and discomfiture, living in 
 the country had not brought down their expenditure. 
 It had, as a matter of fact, increased it. 
 
 He remembered angrily, to-day, that when he had 
 definitely engaged Mrs. Strain, he had given her a 
 strong hint that he expected her to keep his dear little 
 wife in order, especially with regard to money. Yet 
 he had a disagreeable suspicion that Eva's bills 
 were considerably heavier than she would have liked 
 him to know, and that though he allowed her to keep 
 five hundred a year of her annuity to spend on her- 
 self, and exactly as she liked. 
 
 When they had made that arrangement — it was 
 during their honeymoon — he had honestly wondered 
 how one young married woman, with nothing to 
 
 72 
 
"the huge bill run up . . ." 73 
 
 spend her money on but clothes and petty cash, could 
 get through so large a sum as forty pounds a month. 
 Now he knew that Eva did not consider what, to 
 himself, he called her " allowance/' as nearly enough; 
 grudgingly, at her suggestion, he had given her 
 a cheque for fifty pounds on her birthday, instead of 
 a nice ring or bracelet. 
 
 Yet Birtley Raydon might have felt just a little 
 more sympathy with Eva, for — though he would have 
 angrily refused to admit the fact — he, too, thought 
 a great deal of his appearance. Indeed, his tailor's 
 and hatter's bills were the only bills he paid with the 
 pleasant feeling of having received full value for his 
 money. He also gave full trouble for his money, and 
 his tailor's cutter would have told you that Mr. Ray- 
 don was as pernickety as an old lady about the set of 
 his coat. 
 
 As, about an hour after leaving The Mill House, 
 he walked into his private room in his old-fashioned 
 city office, John Bond, the old clerk who in a special 
 sense belonged to him, came in, looking a little 
 nervous. 
 
 "There has been a gentleman waiting for you, sir, 
 for the last half hour. His card is on your desk. I 
 told him you never saw any one without making an 
 appointment, but he refused to go away; and, as there 
 are very few letters to-day, I thought perhaps you 
 would see him." 
 
 "Any idea of his business, Bond?" 
 
 Bond looked embarrassed. 
 
74 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "From something he said, sir, I should opine that 
 he's come about an account of Mrs. Birtley Raydon's, 
 sir." 
 
 "Show him into this room in ten minutes. I'll 
 just glance over my letters first." 
 
 As the clerk left the room, Birtley Raydon opened 
 his desk and sat down. But he did not look at the 
 letters which had been neatly arranged for him in a 
 little pile. 
 
 He felt very, very angry, for this was the second 
 time this odious kind of thing had happened. 
 
 The first time had been some five months after his 
 marriage, and, looking back, he had sometimes re- 
 gretted that he had not made more "fuss" about it. 
 But he had never forgotten, in fact, he remembered 
 too clearly for his own comfort to-day, everything 
 which had happened in connection with that former 
 bill of his wife's. 
 
 The account had been for seventy-six pounds, 
 seventeen shillings and sixpence, and the money had 
 been owing to a Frenchwoman who had come to 
 collect the money in person. She had been very 
 nervous, and had almost eagerly assented to his 
 proposal that five per cent, should be knocked off 
 "for cash." 
 
 Raydon told himself savagely that his letters 
 would keep. So, long before the ten minutes were 
 up, he rang his bell. 
 
 The man who was shown in recalled in nothing 
 Eva's former creditor. He looked what he was — an 
 
"the huge bill run up . . 75 
 
 ex-officer and a gentleman — who, poor chap, loathed 
 the way of life to which he was reduced, that of being 
 debt collector for a group of great dressmaking and 
 millinery firms. The only sign of his occupation was 
 a small black bag which he placed, as he came into 
 the room, on a chair. 
 
 "I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Raydon," he said in 
 an incisive, quiet tone. "But as the cashier of Ma- 
 dame Domino has received no answer, either to the 
 letters addressed to Mrs. Birtley Raydon, or to the 
 registered letter which was sent you last week to your 
 country address, I have called in person to see you 
 about the account. " 
 
 Birtley Raydon stood up. 
 
 "I received no registered letter last week," he said 
 sharply. 
 
 "May I show you," the stranger opened his bag, 
 "the receipt for the registered letter which was sent 
 to you?" 
 
 Raydon said hastily: "Pray don't trouble to do 
 that. I'll take your word for it." 
 
 Even so, he took the receipt out of the other's 
 hand, and saw that scrawled in pencil across it was 
 "Birtley Raydon, Esq., The Mill House, Swanmere- 
 on-Thames." 
 
 He turned red with surprise and rage, and made a 
 mental note of the fact that Adelaide Strain generally 
 sorted out the letters each morning. 
 
 "I was away from home last week; the letter 
 must have been overlooked." 
 
7 6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 He uttered the lie with difficulty. He had been 
 brought up to be a strictly truthful man, and most 
 heartily did he despise those of his acquaintance 
 whom he knew to be liars. 
 
 "Were it not that the sum is so considerable, 
 and that Madame Domino has a large payment to 
 make, she would not have pressed the matter. Of 
 course, we know that your credit is excellent, Mr. 
 Raydon." 
 
 "Thank you," said Birtley Raydon ironically. 
 
 "The bill, however, has been running for a very 
 long time," went on the unwelcome visitor, "and 
 nothing has been paid for over six months. This is 
 why," he hesitated a moment, for he knew that he 
 had come to the most disagreeable part of his task, 
 my client must insist on five hundred pounds being 
 paid on account by, say, "September the fifteenth." 
 
 "Five hundred pounds?" Birtley Raydon almost 
 choked over the words. 
 
 Then he pulled himself together. "I suppose you 
 have brought a detailed account of what you say Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon owes your client's firm ? " 
 
 Again the man opened his horrid black bag. Out 
 of it he took a long envelope, which he handed silently 
 to Mrs. Birtley Raydon's husband. 
 
 Madame Domino's bill consisted of four large pages. 
 Each page was headed in large clear letters by the one 
 word "Domino." Then came below, "Accountant's 
 Department," and in red letters, "Terms cash. No 
 discount allowed." 
 
"the huge bill run up 
 
 There followed rows and rows of items, of which 
 the number, and the detailed description of each 
 article supplied, both staggered and bewildered 
 Birtley Raydon. 
 
 Surely there must be some mistake? It was im- 
 possible that Eva could have worn all the garments 
 noted down here — even over years ! 
 
 He quietly turned over the four sheets, and at last 
 he looked at the, to him, appalling total. 
 
 That total was thirteen hundred and eight pounds, 
 twelve shillings, and the account was only made out 
 to the twenty-fourth of June. 
 
 The last item noted was: " Beige Kasha dress, 
 thirty pounds; Beige Kasha coat, embroidered by 
 hand, twenty-eight pounds. " 
 
 "Kasha dress?" Could that possibly be the little 
 frock he had admired this morning, and which he had 
 supposed, in his idiotic simplicity, might have cost 
 from three to five guineas ? 
 
 "As Fm sure you will understand, I shall have to 
 speak to Mrs. Birtley Raydon about the matter be- 
 fore we go into the question of payment/' he said in a 
 constrained voice. "My wife has her own income, 
 and I think it probable — I shall not know till I have 
 consulted my solicitor — that this may make a differ- 
 ence to my personal liability." 
 
 "You will find that not to be the case, Mr. Raydon. 
 In this one matter — though in no other I think, sir — 
 the law is not kind to husbands. True, if a wife 
 pledges her husband's credit unreasonably, he can 
 
78 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 obtain redress by going to the Courts; but till he has 
 publicly declared that he will no longer be responsible 
 for her debts, he is absolutely responsible for any she 
 may contract. " 
 
 Madame Domino's representative waited a mo- 
 ment and, as the other man remained silent, he took 
 up his hat, his stick, and his black bag. 
 
 "Then I take it we shall hear from you in due 
 course, Mr. Raydon — I mean before the date I men- 
 tioned, the fifteenth of September." 
 
 Birtley Raydon sat down, the four-leaved bill still 
 open in his hand. His mind was in a whirl of angry, 
 disconnected thoughts, and enraged, though stili 
 vague, resolves. And, like a knell in his ears, there 
 sounded the dreadful words, "Five hundred pounds 
 by the fifteenth of September." 
 
 Yet he felt himself so helpless! Eva held him by 
 every fibre of his being, and, as time went on, this 
 became more, rather than less, true. He loved her as 
 only a man of a certain type and temperament can 
 love the woman who has become, in spite of himself, 
 the only woman in the world for him. She had opened 
 to him realms of felicity which he had not known to 
 be possible till they two had met. 
 
 Birtley Raydon's youth had been a melancholy and 
 a sombre youth, hedged about, even after he believed 
 himself grown up, with the narrowest, most deaden- 
 ing conventions. He had only known two types of 
 women. For the one he had felt a mild and bored 
 
"the huge bill run up . . ." 79 
 
 respect; for the other a fierce, often a cruel, contempt, 
 associated with self-rebuke and even shame. 
 
 Eva had been the radiant angel who had brought 
 with her the gift of hitherto unimagined ecstasies, 
 and also the key to the many simple careless joys of 
 .which he had been deprived as a young man. He 
 now enjoyed dancing and, in a half-censorious, 
 grudging way, he liked the company of the pleasant, 
 prosperous young couples with whom he and his wife 
 spent much of their leisure. 
 
 Apart from his shocked surprise and anger at Eva's 
 extravagance, the reluctant knowledge that this 
 huge sum of money would have to be found in less 
 than a fortnight from to-day was exceedingly dis- 
 quieting, the more so that, for the first time in his life, 
 he had a small overdraft at his bank. 
 
 Of course he could increase that overdraft, but the 
 very thought of making out a cheque to Madame 
 Domino for five hundred pounds was hateful to him. 
 He felt it would make him look such a fool in the eyes 
 of his bank manager, a man with whom he was on 
 excellent terms, and who, he happened to know, was 
 a confirmed bachelor. 
 
 Birtley Raydon would have been surprised, gen- 
 uinely so, to learn that among successful business 
 men who are confirmed bachelors, many have been 
 known to pay even larger amounts than five hundred 
 pounds on account to the Madame Dominos of this 
 world. . . . 
 
 At last he told himself that he would consult his 
 
8o 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 mother. He shrank from the thought of doing so, 
 for he knew that she had no liking for his wife. But 
 he felt that he could not deal with this difficult prob- 
 lem without the help of both good advice and ma- 
 terial assistance. His mother, the one woman in the 
 world for whose judgment he felt real respect, could 
 afford him both. Though he tried not to- dwell on 
 the fact, she had, as he was well aware, a considerable 
 sum on deposit. 
 
 Old Mrs. Raydon was one of those fortunate and 
 rare people who seldom spend more than half their 
 income, and never even feel the slightest temptation 
 to do so. 
 
 Looking with something like a sick distaste at the 
 pile of letters which were awaiting his attention, he 
 rang his bell. "I've an important appointment in 
 the West End at twelve o'clock," he said brusquely. 
 "I doubt if I shall be back to-day." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 The old clerk, John Bond, showed none of the in- 
 tense surprise he felt at that announcement. He had 
 been with the firm all his grown-up life, and this was 
 the first time that Mr. Birtley Raydon had come in 
 like this, only to go away again. Though a young 
 man, he was verv set in his ways, quite one of the 
 good old sort, as some people (not Bond himself) 
 might have expressed it. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 "he consulted his mother " 
 
 RATHER less than half an hour later Birtley 
 Raydon stood before the door of 19 Howard 
 - Crescent, his mother's mid- Victorian house 
 in South Kensington. 
 
 Although all that the house contained of a perish- 
 able nature was always renewed in due course, every- 
 thing was exactly as it had been when Mrs. Raydon 
 had first come there as a bride nearer fifty than forty 
 years ago, for Birtley had been born thirteen years 
 after his parents' marriage. Thus, to give but one 
 instance, the drawing-room walls were still hung 
 with the pomegranate wall paper, repeated four times 
 even in his lifetime, which Birtley could remember as 
 long as he could remember anything. 
 
 As for the furniture, it was ugly, solid, and, from 
 the point of view of those who had dwelt in the 
 past, and who dwelt now, at the apex of the curious 
 social structure caged within those four walls, com- 
 fortable and serviceable. 
 
 But to those who formed the base of the structure, 
 those, that is, on whom all the amenities of the house 
 depended, No. 19 Howard Crescent must ever have 
 been a dwelling-place of unending strain and fatigue. 
 81 
 
82 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 There was no lift, and the four flights of stairs were 
 very steep. Also there was no odd man, for Mrs. 
 Raydon did not approve of keeping a man where 
 there were maids. She held a justified opinion that 
 such an arrangement sometimes leads to trouble. 
 
 And yet the mistress of that ill-planned house al- 
 ways kept her servants. Thus the parlourmaid had 
 been with her ten years; the cook, twelve years; her 
 own maid, now an old woman, eighteen years. 
 Birtley Raydon, since his marriage, had sometimes 
 wondered why his mother succeeded while Eva, with 
 the pretty, fascinating ways which extended them- 
 selves to all those who served her, failed in doing 
 what his mother did so effortlessly. 
 
 The reason would have been obvious to any on- 
 looker with a knowledge of human nature. Mrs. 
 Raydon was very old-fashioned and, according to 
 modern ideas, narrow-minded; but she was a just 
 woman, scrupulously fair in all her dealings. Indeed, 
 she tried consciously to be not only just, but generous, 
 with regard to those who served her well and faith- 
 fully. Birtley Raydon had inherited his closeness 
 about money from his father. 
 
 Left a widow when her only child was ten years old, 
 Mrs. Raydon had always had a great influence over 
 her son. He had a genuine respect for her judgment, 
 and, in his cold way, he was deeply attached to his 
 mother. The only matter concerning which he had 
 not sought her advice was in that serious and all- 
 important matter of his marriage. The wound he 
 
"he consulted his mother " 83 
 
 had then inflicted had been deep, and it had never 
 healed. After one measured protest, she had judged 
 it not only wisest, but also right, to hold her 
 tongue. 
 
 Birtley Raydon's mother loved him with all the 
 strength of a strong, secretive nature, and she disliked 
 and distrusted Eva profoundly. Indeed, to say that 
 she hated Eva would not be going further than the 
 truth. But "hate" was a word that would never 
 have crossed old Mrs. Raydon's lips. She was con- 
 vinced that her son's passion for his wife was un- 
 requited, and that the marriage, on Eva's part, had 
 been entered into for wholly mercenary motives. 
 
 Raydon rang the old-fashioned bell which had been 
 the new-fashioned bell when his father had had it put 
 in nigh fifty years ago. 
 
 Very quickly, more quickly than would have been 
 the case with a visitor at The Mill House, where the 
 front door was on the same floor as the servants' 
 quarters, he was admitted into the hall by Jane, his 
 mother's parlourmaid. Though^she was now an el- 
 derly woman, Jane never kept any one waiting on the 
 doorstep more than a minute. 
 
 "My mother upstairs?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir. I think the mistress is in the back 
 drawing-room." 
 
 He ran up the steep, familiar stairs with a sudden 
 lightening of the heart, though, also, with a feeling of 
 rather painful, half-ashamed regret that he felt him- 
 
8 4 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 self compelled to do this thing. Even he, impervious 
 though he was as to the feelings of those about 
 him, realized that his cherished, if extravagant, wife 
 and his mother had never, somehow, hit it off 
 together. 
 
 In a way, that seemed very strange to Birtley 
 Raydon, for they were the only two human beings for 
 whom he had ever felt any real affection. 
 
 As he opened the door of the back drawing-room, 
 he saw his mother's thin, upright figure bending over 
 her writing-table. She was dressed in a black dress 
 of old-fashioned tight make and, on her iron-gray hair, 
 she wore a dead-white unbecoming cap. 
 
 She had heard the front door opening and shutting, 
 so she was prepared for a visitor. And as he came 
 into the room she rose and, turning round, took a step 
 towards him. 
 
 Solemnly they exchanged a quiet kiss. 
 
 "I didn't expect to see you to-day, my dear," she 
 said gently. And indeed she was very much sur- 
 prised, for it was the first time Birtley had ever come 
 to see her in the morning. 
 
 "I'm in trouble/' he said abruptly. "And I've 
 come to ask your advice, Mother." 
 
 She motioned him to a chair, and then she listened, 
 in silence, to his rather wordy explanation of what 
 had happened after he had arrived at the office. 
 
 At last she said slowly, "If you have it with you, 
 will you show me this dressmaker's bill?" 
 
 He produced it, a thought reluctantly. And then 
 
"he consulted his mother " 85 
 
 he watched her as she, instead of quickly turning to 
 the end as he had done, to note the total, looked 
 carefully down the items, page by page. As this 
 took some time, he began to feel that his mother's 
 business-like methodical manner of dealing with the 
 painful affair was getting on his nerves. 
 
 Even so, though she was well aware of what he was 
 feeling, for he was what she called to herself " fidget- 
 ing/' she did not hurry herself at all. But at last 
 there came the moment when she folded up the bill, 
 and put it carefully back in its envelope. 
 
 Then, and not till then, she spoke out her mind. 
 
 "If Eva goes on in this way," she observed in a low 
 voice, "she will end by ruining you, Birtley. I sup- 
 pose it has already occurred to you that this is almost 
 certainly only one large bill of many?" 
 
 He looked at her, bewildered. That obvious prob- 
 ability had not occurred to him. He had been too 
 full of this Domino account to think things out to 
 their logical conclusion. 
 
 And then Mrs. Raydon allowed some of the horror 
 and bitterness with which she was filled to show itself 
 in her pale, austere face. 
 
 "Of course I could pay this money for you," she 
 observed deliberately. "I have a considerable sum 
 at my bank on deposit, for, as you know, Birtley, I 
 never live up to my income. But I think that for me 
 to pay this bill would be a mistake." 
 
 She waited a moment, and he nodded, agreeing in 
 his heart that she was right — it would be a fatal 
 
86 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 mistake to pay again at once, as he had done last 
 time. 
 
 "I notice," she continued, carefully choosing her 
 words, "that this account only includes dresses, 
 coats, what are called jumpers,' and, oh, I forgot, 
 three * vanity bags'" — there came a touch of satire in 
 her voice, and her son winced inwardly. 
 
 After a little pause she went on, "Eva must surely 
 owe other considerable sums to milliners, shoe- 
 makers, and," she hesitated perceptibly, "for under- 
 clothing." 
 
 Her eyes fell, and her son's dark face crimsoned. 
 He was recalling, with a feeling of acute discomfort, 
 the look of mingled surprise and disgust his mother 
 had cast on certain diaphanous garments forming 
 part of Eva's trousseau, on the only occasion she had 
 been to his future wife's flat — just before their 
 marriage. 
 
 "I sincerely hope that in thinking that, Mother, 
 you are mistaken," he said awkwardly. "After all, 
 Eva has five hundred a year to spend exactly as she 
 likes." 
 
 "Well, perhaps I am mistaken. I have no wish 
 to be unjust," and in saying that she was sincere. 
 
 For what seemed a long time to her son, Mrs. 
 Raydon remained silent, then: 
 
 "The important thing to consider," she said 
 impressively, "is what you are going to do about 
 this bill? Or, rather, how the five hundred pounds 
 which must be paid by the fifteenth can be found " 
 
"he consulted his mother " 87 
 
 He looked at her dumbly. 
 
 "It seems to me, and I do not wish to speak 
 unkindly, my dear, that over this folly, and worse 
 than folly, of hers, you have a chance of giving your 
 wife a real lesson." 
 
 "How do you mean, Mother ?" 
 
 He felt, he appeared, wretchedly ill at ease. This 
 was the first time he had ever discussed his wife with 
 his mother. 
 
 Quietly she answered his question, "In your place 
 I should inform Eva of what, I take it, is true" — she 
 looked at him keenly — "that you yourself are not in a 
 position to find five hundred pounds at a few days' 
 notice." 
 
 "Yet I shall have to find the money, Mother," he 
 said heavily. "My idea is to make my bankers ad- 
 vance it, and then to stop something each quarter out 
 of Eva's allowance." 
 
 "That would have no effect at all! The more so 
 that you would find it very difficult, in fact, impossible, 
 to carry out what you propose. Even now, your wife 
 cannot keep within her allowance." 
 
 "But what can I do?" 
 
 He was beginning to feel very sorry he had come 
 here, and Mrs. Raydon, noticing the expression on 
 the now sullen face which was so dear to her, saw 
 that she must at once propose a feasible plan. In a 
 kinder tone she offered him her solution: 
 
 "What I strongly advise is that you tell Eva that, 
 as you, unfortunately, are not in a position to find 
 
88 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 five hundred pounds, there is only one thing to be 
 done. That is, that she go to her solicitors and 
 raise the money herself. The firm, I think, is 
 Buck & Hanson. " 
 
 He marvelled at her memory, as she went on, 
 speaking in a firm tone. 
 
 "They are the lawyers with whom you and I had a 
 somewhat unpleasant interview just before your 
 marriage. Mr. Buck wanted you to make a hand- 
 some settlement on Eva, and you very properly re- 
 fused. He was the family solicitor, if I remember 
 rightly, of her first husband's father. It was through 
 Messrs. Buck & Hanson that she received the five 
 thousand pounds, free of legacy duty, with which 
 you purchased The Mill House. ,, 
 
 "Yes, Mother, you are right. But, personally, 
 I don't wish to have anything more to do with 
 Mr. Buck. I thought his manner most offensive the 
 last time I went to see him." 
 
 "Eva must go to Mr. Buck alone," said Mrs. 
 Raydon decisively. "And she must give him a com- 
 plete list of her debts, so that all she owes may be 
 paid off now, and she start, as your dear father used 
 to say, with a clean slate. She will have to insure her 
 life, and Mr. Buck will raise the sum required. The 
 insurance premiums and the interest will, of course, 
 be deducted from her income. Unless she is put to 
 some personal trouble, and, I am sorry to say it, 
 humiliation, over this matter, you will find all the 
 trouble begin again." 
 
"he consulted his mother " 89 
 
 The business man in Birtley Raydon at first re- 
 volted at the suggestion. 
 
 "To raise the money in that way is a terribly 
 expensive way, Mother." 
 
 "That is so — unfortunately. All the same, that it 
 be so raised is my strong, my very strong, advice to 
 you, my son." 
 
 He got up. He told himself that she was right, as 
 always, and that he would do what she advised. 
 
 "I expect you're right, Mother. In any case, I'll 
 take your advice." 
 
 And then, at long last, he felt called upon to make 
 some kind of lame defence of his wife. 
 
 "I'd just like to say one thing, Mother " 
 
 "Yes?" said Mrs. Raydon coldly. She knew that 
 he was going to say something in excuse of Eva. 
 
 "Eva has no notion of the value of money," he 
 went on awkwardly, "and I'm afraid I've been to 
 blame in allowing her to lead such a completely idle 
 life." 
 
 "As you know, Birtley," Mrs. Raydon looked up 
 into her son's clouded eyes, "I have never interfered 
 with your wife and her ways. But I have always 
 thought it absurd that you should require a woman 
 like Mrs. Strain to run your house for you. Eva 
 ought to manage quite well with an experienced cook- 
 housekeeper, and it would be good for her to have to 
 look after things, and go herself into the weekly books. 
 It would also give her what you yourself admit she 
 has never had, some idea of the value of money." 
 
90 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 He remained silent, and a feeling of strong misgiv- 
 ing — it was almost as if a warning shadow were falling 
 across her heart — filled the mother's mind as she 
 gazed at his now lowering, downcast face. 
 
 "Birtley!" she exclaimed, "my dear, dear son, 
 of course I could pay this bill for you in a moment, 
 as I said just now. I save each year, after I've paid 
 my income tax, over six hundred pounds. And it is 
 all saved for you, my dear, only for you " 
 
 Her voice broke. Then, suddenly, she felt ashamed 
 of the weakness induced by her great love for him — 
 the longed-for child whose coming had seemed, both 
 to her and to the husband she had passionately loved, 
 like a miracle. 
 
 Hard, difficult tears forced themselves into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Shall I pay this bill?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 The natural man in Birtley Raydon for a moment 
 longed intensely to take advantage of the generous 
 offer. Then he pushed the temptation from him, al- 
 most violently. 
 
 "No, Mother!" he exclaimed. "Though I am 
 most grateful to you for having suggested doing such 
 a thing, I know it would be foolish, nay, far more than 
 foolish, actually wrong, for me to accept your offer." 
 
 His mouth, his red, sensual-looking lips, set sternly 
 into grim lines. 
 
 " Eva must learn her lesson," he said. There was a 
 moment's pause. "And yet, God knows, I don't 
 want to be hard on her " 
 
"he consulted his mother " 91 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and a painful feeling of 
 jealousy which she tried, and failed, to stifle, filled 
 Mrs. Raydon's burdened heart. 
 
 "I think you are right," she said coldly. "Indeed, 
 I am sure you are right, Birtley. You may live — you 
 and I may both live — to be glad that this has hap- 
 pened. It may make the whole difference to the rest 
 of your married life/" 
 
 "I think it will, Mother." 
 
 But in his heart he doubted, doubted very much, 
 whether it would. 
 
 "One word more, my dear. If I were you, I should 
 get rid of that Mrs. Strain as soon as possible. I 
 realize that she is a sensible woman, and also that she 
 has probably saved you — well, a good deal of worry, 
 rather than money, during the last year. You have 
 paid her a very large salary — three pounds a week and 
 her full keep, isn't it? But I have always feared that 
 her influence over your wife was not a good influence." 
 
 "I have quite made up my mind to get rid of her," 
 he answered quietly. 
 
 He had said nothing to his mother of the registered 
 letter, though it had swelled to enormous proportions 
 during his short underground journey to South 
 Kensington. In some ways he felt even more angry 
 concerning Adelaide Strain's "burking," as he called 
 it to himself, of his registered letter, than he did 
 about Eva's monstrous account with Madame 
 Domino. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 "he came straight back to swanmere 
 
 IT WAS half-past two, and Adelaide Strain, a 
 bunch of keys in her hand, was hastening along 
 the path which led from the thick grove of trees, 
 where the boat-house was situated, round to the front 
 of The Mill House. 
 
 She and her little boy had enjoyed a cosy luncheon 
 together, and then Gilly had petitioned eagerly to 
 be allowed to go into the boat-house, a place which 
 was full to him of mysterious delights. She had hesi- 
 tated for a few moments before acceding to his re- 
 quest, for she knew that the man who regarded 
 himself as the owner of the boat-house, that is, Birtley 
 Raydon, would certainly have said "no" to Gilly. 
 On the other hand, the real owner, Eva, would as 
 certainly have said "yes." So she had unlocked the 
 boat-house, and made her little son free of its simple 
 joys. 
 
 Gilly's mother felt to-day what she seldom felt — 
 at peace and at ease. It was so pleasant to have her 
 child here, even for a few hours. She had been deeply 
 pained at what she, to herself, somewhat unreason- 
 ably termed his banishment to the Cottage Hospital. 
 
 As she turned the corner of the house, she heard 
 92 
 
"he came back to swanmere " 93 
 
 a car stop before the gate, and looking across the 
 lawn, she saw that it was one of the station taxis. 
 Who could be calling so early in the afternoon? Eva 
 Raydon had innumerable acquaintances; idle, pros- 
 perous folk who were apt to turn up at inconvenient 
 times, especially on Saturdays and Sundays. But 
 such unbidden guests always came in their own 
 motors, not by train from town. 
 
 Unwilling to be seen, she retreated through the 
 long French window into the garden-room. There she 
 listened, expecting to hear the sound of footfalls on 
 the gravel path leading to the front door. 
 
 But the brooding silence of the beautiful early 
 autumn day was not broken till, all at once, there 
 fell a shadow over the room, and she turned quickly 
 round to see Birtley Raydon standing half in and half 
 out of the open window. 
 
 She saw at once that there was trouble afoot, for 
 there was on his face the expression of sullen dis- 
 pleasure which she had come to dread, for when in 
 the mood this expression betokened he was generally 
 unreasonable and sometimes rude. His good man- 
 ners he kept — though to do him justice he would have 
 been surprised to know it — for those he considered his 
 equals, or his superiors. He did not trouble to be- 
 have like a gentleman to his wife's lady-housekeeper. 
 
 He stepped up into the room and, turning, shut the 
 window behind him. 
 
 "Is Eva upstairs, lying down for once?" he asked 
 angrily. 
 
Q4 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Eva had been ordered by the doctor in whom both 
 Raydon and his mother had great faith to lie down for 
 an hour after luncheon. But now she never did so, 
 for she considered herself quite well again. 
 
 And then, before Mrs. Strain could answer, Raydon 
 went on," Before I see her, I want to show you this." 
 
 Out of his pocket he pulled a long narrow envelope. 
 
 She told herself that it must be Madame Domino's 
 bill, made out in a detail she, Adelaide Strain, had 
 never seen till now. For a long time it had been sent 
 with simply the words "Account rendered" typed 
 across one sheet of paper. 
 
 "The woman had the impudence to send a debt 
 collector to my office, coolly demanding five hundred 
 pounds by the fifteenth of this month. I naturally 
 thought that someone else's account had been sent 
 by mistake — a bill run up maybe by some duchess 
 ruining her duke!" 
 
 There was an edge of bitter sarcasm in his voice. 
 "And then — well, then, I suddenly noticed this 
 item!" 
 
 Roughly taking the bill out of her hand, he turned 
 over the first three pages, and laid an accusing finger 
 on the last line in the long list of entries written on the 
 last page. 
 
 "That's the dress, I take it, Eva was wearing this 
 morning? The dress she made me believe to be what 
 she calls a ' reach-me-down ' ? It figures here for the 
 grotesque sum of thirty pounds! And here's the 
 
"he came back to swanmere " 95 
 
 coat, 'embroidered by hand/ twenty-eight pounds, 
 which I don't believe she's ever worn — yet it was 
 delivered on the twelfth of last June!" 
 
 He paused to take breath, and still Adelaide Strain 
 remained silent. 
 
 Raydon had intended to tax his lady-housekeeper 
 with the "burking" of the registered letter. But 
 now that he was confronting her, it seemed too much 
 of a risk, for, after all, it might have been Eva who 
 had done away with the letter. 
 
 "I had to see my mother to-day, and I showed her 
 this precious document. She was exceedingly shocked 
 — in fact, being an old-fashioned lady, she was simply 
 astounded at some of the items that are set down 
 here! Look at this!" 
 
 Again he put his finger on a certain line of type- 
 writing. 
 
 "Fifty pounds for a dance frock! Why, there's 
 not more than three yards of stuff in any woman's 
 dress nowadays " 
 
 Somehow the way the lady-housekeeper was taking 
 his news goaded him into frenzy. Why couldn't she 
 say something, damn her! — assure him, at any rate, 
 of her sympathy with him, and of her condemnation 
 of her friend Eva's wicked folly? 
 
 "However, I ought not to feel so angry, after all," 
 he went on in a cold tone. "It's nothing to do with 
 me. I'm not going to pay this account — if only for 
 the very good reason that I haven't the money." 
 
9 6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 And then at last Adelaide Strain did speak out. 
 
 "Of course Eva ought to pay this bill out of her 
 allowance; but it's plain she won't be able to do so, 
 Mr. Raydon." 
 
 "She'll have to pay it," he said savagely. "She'll 
 have to go up to these fine old family solicitors of 
 hers, and make them raise the money. It will be an 
 expensive process, as she's only got an annuity, and 
 it will mean that she'll have to content herself with a 
 smaller allowance from now onward. But that will 
 be a jolly good thing!" 
 
 She looked at him, telling herself that this was, of 
 course, his mother's idea, and not a bad idea. A 
 sharp lesson of this kind might bring Eva to reason, 
 even now. 
 
 Birtley Raydon had also come into the garden- 
 room with the intention of telling his wife's old friend 
 that he wished "to dispense with her services." 
 But, somehow, his heart failed him. 
 
 Time enough for that, presently. For the moment 
 he needed all his wits about him for his coming inter- 
 view with naughty, extravagant Eva. Besides, why 
 not make his wife give Mrs. Strain notice ? That sort 
 of rather unpleasant job is always left to the lady of 
 the house. 
 
 "Eva's rest must be nearly over; I'll go up to her 
 now." 
 
 "Eva is not at home," said Adelaide Strain quietly. 
 "She went out to lunch. I think she may be with 
 the Scarrows." 
 
"he came back to swanmere " 97 
 
 "Did she take the car?" 
 
 "I don't think so. I'm not sure." 
 
 "I'll go round and see. If the car's here, Til go 
 and fetch her." 
 
 He opened the French window, and the sound of 
 splashing fell on his ear. 
 
 "Who can that be in the boat-house?" he ex- 
 claimed angrily. 
 
 And then, at last, Mrs. Strain did change colour. 
 Her pale face reddened. But she said at once, "Gilly 
 is in the boat-house." 
 
 "Your boy?" 
 
 "My boy, of course — what other Gilly is there?" 
 
 She looked at him quite straight. Yet, though she 
 was a brave woman, she felt very sorry this had hap- 
 pened, especially to-day, when Birtley Raydon had 
 good cause to be in what his wife called "one of his 
 tempers." 
 
 Even so, Mrs. Strain determined to say nothing of 
 Eva's invitation to Gilly, so — "I had a rather impor- 
 tant letter from his schoolmaster yesterday and I 
 wished to speak to him about it, so I telephoned this 
 morning, and asked him to come here." 
 
 "I see." Raydon looked ruffled, angry, suspicious. 
 
 His mind swung back to Madame Domino's bill, 
 
 "I suppose you knew all about this account?" he 
 asked disagreeably. 
 
 "I did, Mr. Raydon." 
 
 She added, conciliatingly, "Raising the money on 
 her annuity will be a real lesson for poor Eva." 
 
98 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "It will be an expensive lesson! It will lower our 
 income by, well, I suppose by over two hundred a 
 year." 
 
 "It will be worth the money if it makes her really 
 more careful. " She uttered her thoughts aloud, 
 which is generally an imprudent thing to do. 
 
 Raydon turned on her furiously. Easy to talk like 
 that when it was someone else's money! 
 
 "Considering the influence you've always had over 
 my wife, you ought to have prevented her from being 
 so stupidly extravagant. " 
 
 She stood up to him, as she almost always did. 
 That was the real reason why he had come to dislike 
 her so strongly. 
 
 "If I may say so, you are being very unreasonable, 
 Mr. Raydon. How could I prevent Eva from order- 
 ing what clothes she liked ?" she said sharply. "You 
 yourself delight in seeing her looking smart and 
 better dressed than the people about her." 
 
 "That's quite untrue!" he exclaimed angrily. 
 
 To that she made no answer. She was wondering 
 what he would say, what would happen, if he ever 
 found out all about his wife's other bills. 
 
 Even she, Adelaide Strain, did not know how much 
 Eva owed, but she was aware of another huge ac- 
 count, running into hundreds of pounds, with one 
 of the vast emporiums which now cater almost ex- 
 clusively for the luxurious post-war woman — and 
 there were smaller bills owing all over the west end 
 of London. 
 
"he came back to swanmere " 99 
 
 Fortunately for Eva, Birtley Raydon's credit was 
 extremely good; also, now and again, to some very 
 pressing creditor, she would unwillingly pay a trifle 
 "on account." 
 
 After her employer had gone off to the garage, the 
 lady-housekeeper sat down. She felt utterly spent, 
 and weary of life, foreseeing, as she could not help 
 doing, a succession of odious, futile quarrels between 
 the husband and wife, each invariably followed by a 
 scene calling for sympathy and comfort between her- 
 self and Eva. 
 
 At last, with a start of dismay and self-rebuke, 
 she stood up. 
 
 How could she have forgotten Gilly — Gilly in the 
 boat-house! That Raydon hadn't compelled her to 
 go at once and fetch the child showed how angry and 
 disturbed he must have been feeling over that un- 
 fortunate matter of Madame Domino's bill. 
 
 Running quickly down the path which led round to 
 the boat-house, she called the boy, and sent him ofF 
 to the Cottage Hospital. 
 
 Gilly had not been gone very long when Raydon 
 came back, looking cross, and even a little uneasy. 
 
 "Eva did not lunch with the Scarrows," he said 
 abruptly. "They have seen nothing of her. Where 
 can she be?" 
 
 " I only said she might be with the Scarrows. Any 
 one may have telephoned this morning and then 
 called for her. I spent quite a long time between 
 eleven and twelve going over the linen cupboard, and 
 
IOO 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 while I was doing that Eva looked after the telephone 
 
 herself." 
 
 Many strange and terrible things happened to 
 Adelaide Strain after that third of September. But 
 through them all she never entirely forgot the long, 
 weary hours spent by her with ill-tempered, anxious, 
 idle Birtley Raydon. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN THE COMPANY OF COLONEL MINTLAW " 
 
 "X URING those hours which appeared so in- 
 
 tolerably long and weary to both Adelaide 
 
 - Strain and Birtley Raydon, Eva was spend- 
 ing by far the pleasantest afternoon she had spent for 
 a very long time. 
 
 It is accepted as a fact that man is the roaming 
 animal in the domain of the affections, that it is he 
 who easily, lightly leaves the mate he loves in a quest 
 for amorous adventure. Surely among civilized people 
 the exact opposite is the case? The man whose 
 heart and senses are full of one woman is instinctively 
 monogamous. But seldom indeed is an attractive 
 woman so completely absorbed in her husband as to 
 be wholly indifferent to the admiration of other men. 
 Nay, more, it will often give her exquisite delight to 
 rouse emotions she has no intention of satisfying, 
 and would, in truth, repudiate with indignation the 
 thought of satisfying. 
 
 To spend a long afternoon alone with any woman 
 excepting his wife would have so bored Birtley Ray- 
 don as to make him choose almost any other way of 
 passing the time. But, to Eva Raydon, the linking 
 up again with Jack Mintlaw, her lover of other days, 
 
 IOI 
 
102 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 brought back a touch of forgotten radiance, even of 
 delicious youth, and that though she was that now 
 apparently rare person, a really happy and really 
 contented young married woman. 
 
 She had no cares, save those which were the conse- 
 quence of what she considered her surely quite nat- 
 ural love of pretty clothes and pretty trifles. These 
 delightful luxuries — Eva would have declared them 
 absolute necessaries — meant bills, and bills meant 
 cares. But she never allowed such cares to burden 
 seriously her light spirit, and on this glorious third of 
 September she resolved not to let them spoil one 
 moment of her happiness. 
 
 So it was in the highest spirits that Birtley Ray- 
 don's wife set off with her old friend in that faithful 
 friend's superb motor. 
 
 They stopped for lunch at a famous riverside hos- 
 telry called Beche's Hotel. There were a good many 
 cars outside the porch still bowered in roses, but no 
 car there could compare with Colonel Mintlaw's new 
 Rolls-Royce. This, in itself, was enough to enhance 
 Eva's high good-humour. 
 
 Their coming had made quite a little stir. As 
 mine host hurried out to greet them, a look of slight 
 disappointment came over his face when he saw that 
 there was no luggage strapped on behind the car. 
 He said something; Mintlaw did not hear what it was, 
 but Eva heard; and, as she tripped gaily after her 
 companion, she whispered merrily, "That old fellow 
 took us for a honeymoon couple, Jack " 
 
"in company of col. mintlaw " 103 
 
 She felt just a little touched when he muttered 
 under his breath, "I wish to God we were." 
 
 Poor Jack! Eva told herself that it was funny 
 that he should love her, really love her, when she, on 
 her side, had only a comfortable feeling of friendship 
 to give him in return. 
 
 After she had settled herself in the motor which, 
 by her wish, had waited for her in a lane about a 
 quarter of a mile from The Mill House, and during 
 the few moments when she had allowed him to hold 
 her hand, he had said in a low, broken tone: 
 
 "You don't know what this means to me, Eva — 
 I mean being with you again. I don't think there 
 has been a waking hour in my life, these last few 
 years, that I've not thought of you — thought of you 
 looking just as you look to-day." 
 
 She had felt a slight pang in the recollection that 
 all those years she had never thought of him, of her 
 own accord, at all. 
 
 Once, a long time ago now, Adelaide Strain had 
 said to her: "Have you any idea, Eva, what's hap- 
 pened to Jack Mintlaw?" and she had answered: 
 "No, I've absolutely no notion. It's funny that he's 
 never written to me, isn't it?" And the other had 
 answered, in her dry tone, "1 don't think it's funny 
 at all, considering the way you treated him." 
 
 And now here he was, miraculously come back into 
 her life! Such a different Jack, too — a grand, rich 
 Jack Mintlaw, before whom people bowed down. 
 
 The day was so warm and sunny that a number of 
 
104 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 small tables had been moved from the dining-room 
 and brought out of doors. They stood dotted over 
 the lawn which sloped down from the hotel to the 
 river. 
 
 The experienced head waiter had at once selected 
 Colonel Mintlaw and his companion as being far 
 more worthy of his personal attention than any one 
 else patronizing Beche's Hotel on this early Septem- 
 ber day. And so, taking charge of them himself, he 
 led them down the worn grassy path towards the 
 choicest corner, that where a table stood, apart from 
 the others, under a big tree close to the water's edge; 
 and, while a clean blue-and-white cloth was being 
 put on the table, the two stood and looked down on 
 the flowing water in silence for a few moments. 
 
 "Let's go on the river after lunch," said Mintlaw 
 suddenly. "We've plenty of time." 
 
 "I'm not in river clothes," she objected. 
 
 She was wearing, for the first time, her lovely em- 
 broidered Kasha coat, a fact which added to her 
 conscious enjoyment in this delightful expedition. 
 
 "That doesn't matter, does it? Oh, Eva, do you 
 remember a wonderful day we once had together on 
 the river below Windsor?" 
 
 She didn't remember any particular day. How 
 could she? There had been so many happy days on 
 the river, and not only with Jack Mintlaw. Yet for 
 over two years he had always spent each of his war 
 leaves in her company, kidnapping her from the other 
 men who at the time were so fond of her, by sheer 
 
"in company of col. mintlaw " 105 
 
 will-power, and — it is so sweet to be loved — because 
 she really liked him better, then, than any of the 
 others. 
 
 But to-day she looked up at him with her dove-like 
 eyes, and murmured, "Yes, I do remember, Jack. 
 It was a wonderful day." 
 
 They each enjoyed every crumb of their indifferent 
 lunch. Eva, explaining that she was on "a burst," 
 and because, to her mind, nothing else is so truly 
 delicious, ate what as a rule she always avoided, 
 several slices of plain country bread and butter. 
 
 Like so many of her contemporaries, for she was a 
 typical example of her age and class, she watched the 
 slight variations in her weight each week with as 
 much anxious care as if she were a jockey in training 
 for a great race. 
 
 The bill was fourteen shillings, and Mintlaw left 
 the odd change out of the pound note for the head 
 waiter, who had himself served them. Eva noted the 
 man's gratified, surprised, "Thank you very much, 
 sir," and her heart warmed to the kindly giver of the 
 handsome tip. 
 
 One of the things she did vividly remember from 
 the days which now seemed so very long ago was that 
 her present companion, even when he had described 
 himself as "stony broke," had always been a generous 
 man. That had made it pleasant to be with him 
 then, and it made it even more pleasant to be with 
 him now, to-day, when he could afford to throw his 
 money about. Her husband — she candidly admitted 
 
io6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 it to herself — was exceedingly, " close," especially over 
 such matters as the bestowal of casual tips. 
 
 When after lunch they went down to the raft, Eva 
 was amused to see that the boatman, warned doubt- 
 less by the head waiter, had kept what was obviously 
 the best boat for Colonel Mintlaw and herself. It 
 was a pretty, freshly painted little single-sculler, 
 amply provided with soft cushions in the stern on 
 which Eva gaily sat and undertook to steer, drawing 
 the rudderlines under her arms with an amusing 
 assumption of complete knowledge and experience. 
 
 Mintlaw hastened to settle himself facing her, bliss- 
 fully conscious that for two or three hours he would 
 be able to feast his eyes on her lovely, animated face. 
 
 They certainly made a very handsome couple, 
 and even the cynical old boatman, as he gently 
 pushed them off from the raft with his boathook when 
 Mintlaw had taken the sculls, thought that perhaps, 
 after all, lovers were not. always such fools as he had 
 been in the habit of supposing. 
 
 It was a perfect day — the kind of day which is only 
 found in southern England. The autumn tints had 
 as yet hardly touched the full rich green of the woods 
 which crowned the uplands, and in places stretched 
 down through the lush meadows to the water's edge. 
 
 As the boat moved steadily on, the tiny waves, 
 stirred by the cooling breeze, came plop-plopping 
 against the sides, and each successive reach of the 
 noble old river revealed some fresh aspect of the 
 smiling English landscape. 
 
"in company of col. mintlaw " 107 
 
 Through the deep, clear water could be seen waving 
 masses of weeds, the home of myriads of tiny darting 
 fish, and along the river banks rose up at intervals 
 stretches of sedgy, reedy growths, from which was 
 heard, though rarely, the haunting cry of water-fowl. 
 In the meadows benevolent-looking cattle could be 
 seen peacefully feeding. 
 
 The whole scene, lapped in the warm, golden sun- 
 light, brought a sense of the simple, healing gifts of 
 Nature, infinitely soothing to the spirits and nerves of 
 the man on whom life had lavished such a series of 
 amazing adventures, but who now felt that he had 
 missed the greatest thing of all. 
 
 They landed for tea at an inn which Mintlaw de- 
 clared they had once visited five — or was it six? — 
 summers ago. 
 
 Eva remembered the place, and she also remem- 
 bered, with a secret smile and sigh, that her associa- 
 tions with it were not wholly concerned with her 
 present companion, but with someone very different 
 — a dark, half-Spanish, passionately adoring boy, 
 who had been killed within a fortnight of the June 
 afternoon in 1916 which he and she had spent on the 
 river. 
 
 She told herself, again and again, what a wonderful, 
 what a really scrumptious, time she was having to- 
 day! Delicious moments, minutes, hours, which 
 were as if snatched out of the now far-away merry, 
 care-free past. 
 
 Though she was absolutely happy with her hus- 
 
io8 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 band, it was adorable to be again with a man who 
 loved her as the man who was now her playmate 
 loved her — who gave everything, and wanted nothing 
 in return. For Jack Mintlaw did not say one word 
 of passion to Eva Raydon during the whole of that 
 closely companioned afternoon; but every look he 
 cast on her, even every inflection of his voice, would 
 have proclaimed to a woman far less alert as to such 
 matters than was Eva Raydon, that he was all hers 
 — and she revelled in the unuttered knowledge of his 
 thraldom. 
 
 At last, when they were again in the boat, on their 
 homeward journey, he asked, "Do you think you 
 could come out again to-morrow ?" 
 
 "1 don't know — I'm not sure." 
 
 And then, as they sank into silence, Eva told her- 
 self, a little ashamedly, that, greatly as she had en- 
 joyed this stolen expedition, she was not quite sure 
 that she wanted an immediate repetition of it. She 
 had a half idea of going up to London to-morrow — 
 but of course she and Jack must meet "somehow," 
 again and again before next Saturday. She intended 
 to introduce Mintlaw to her husband next Saturday, 
 and that though she was well aware that, once these 
 two had become acquainted, the charm of her new 
 encounter with this dear old friend would, in a great 
 measure, be broken. 
 
 She admitted ruefully to herself that what Adelaide 
 Strain had said to her this morning was only too true. 
 Birtley Raydon liked to see admiring eyes turned on 
 
"in company of col. mintlaw " 109 
 
 his lovely wife; but he was of a very jealous tempera- 
 ment; and once or twice since her marriage Eva had 
 been obliged, as she put it to herself, "to mind her 
 step," and that though there was really no step to 
 mind! It was fortunate for them both that she had 
 a sunny, easy, happy nature, and was one of those 
 women who can "love well the hour, and let it go." 
 
 Small wonder that, when she was once more com- 
 fortably settled in the splendid car, and the miles 
 that lay between them and the village of Swanmere 
 began flying by, she felt ridiculously young again, 
 and exultantly content with life. 
 
 Far otherwise was it with Jack Mintlaw. He had 
 had many moments of sheer bliss to-day, but every 
 moment so spent had been paid for by long minutes 
 full of pain. He now fully realized that what love 
 Eva had to bestow was in the keeping of her husband, 
 and he naturally shrank from his coming meeting 
 with the fortunate man who had succeeded where he 
 himself had failed. 
 
 He had told himself many times during those hours 
 that went at once so slowly and so quickly by, that 
 were he a wise man he would leave Swanmere to- 
 night, and disappear for ever over the edge of Eva's 
 horizon. But he was that exceedingly rare type of 
 human being who is honest with himself, and woefully 
 he faced the fact that he was not going to be a wise 
 man; nay, more, that he was about to let himself in 
 for a great deal of quite unnecessary pain and regret. 
 
 Meanwhile, the woman now sitting silent by his 
 
IIO WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 side was telling herself how delightful it was to think 
 that to-day was only Monday, and that she had four 
 more days of amusing, exciting, innocent flirtation in 
 store. Not till Saturday need she bring together her 
 dear old pal, Jack Mintlaw, and her foolish and jeal- 
 ous, if ever so well-beloved, husband, Birtley Raydon. 
 
 So it was that, when Mintlaw, at her sudden re- 
 quest, stopped the car on a quiet stretch of road near 
 The Mill House end of Swanmere village, Eva Ray- 
 don was already busily planning how she would spend 
 the few days during which she intended to enjoy all 
 the excitement, without any of the drawbacks which 
 she vaguely realized are inseparable from anything in 
 the nature of what she called to herself "an affair. " 
 
 When, on parting from her friend, she thanked him 
 in her usual pretty way for the glorious day he had 
 given her, she was moved by the sight of the poor 
 fellow's faithful, dog-like devotion to put into her 
 tone, rather than her actual words, a more responsive 
 kindness than she really intended. 
 
 In him it aroused an instant passionate yearning, 
 and scattered all those counsels of prudence which 
 his intelligence, even his conscience, had suggested at 
 certain moments of that enchanting day. And so 
 it was that eagerly, and with grave gratitude, he 
 accepted her promise to let him know as early as 
 possible when she would be free to meet him again. 
 Perhaps it would be to-morrow — yes, it certainly 
 should be to-morrow, if she could in any way man- 
 age it. 
 
"in company of col. mintlaw " III 
 
 It was in consequence a comforted and more than 
 ever devoted Jack Mintlaw who drove off to the vil- 
 lage inn. As Eva stayed to watch the car till it 
 disappeared round a bend in the road, she threw after 
 him the tribute of a sentimental sigh, which, however, 
 betokened not the slightest disturbance of her general 
 feeling of contentment and satisfaction with herself 
 and her lot in life. 
 
 While sauntering leisurely homewards, she felt in- 
 deed well satisfied, not only with herself, but also 
 with all that section of the world where she and her 
 husband dwelt on a high tableland of serene material 
 prosperity. It was a tableland which Eva, albeit 
 unconsciously, regarded as being securely raised 
 above the terrors, temptations, and torturing anxieties 
 which beset the great mass of our poor humanity. 
 
 But when she came within sight of The Mill 
 House, even her happy heart was suddenly chilled 
 by a touch of something uncomfortably like fear, for 
 Birtley Raydon was standing in the country road, his 
 dark, rather fleshy face overcast, his eyes bright with 
 anger. 
 
 Consciously Eva thanked God she had not allowed 
 Jack Mintlaw to drive her up to the gate of The Mill 
 House. That she had prevented his doing so was 
 simply owing to the fact that she had not wished him 
 to meet even Adelaide Strain before the coming Sat- 
 urday. Till then she wanted to have what she called 
 "the fun" of his company all to herself. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 (< 
 
 A VIOLENT QUARREL 
 
 "HERE on earth have you been ? I and Mrs. 
 Strain telephoned to everyone that we could 
 think of! I've been home ever since half- 
 
 past two, waiting to see you about some important 
 business." 
 
 Though Raydon was gazing at his wife in a chal- 
 lenging, unpleasant way, there did come a softer 
 gleam in his eyes, for she looked as every woman is 
 apt to look after she has been basking consciously in 
 the glorious sun of a love she has provoked and not 
 requited. 
 
 Then he noticed that she was wearing a loose coat, 
 a pretty little wrap he had never seen her wear before, 
 and there flashed on him the conviction that it must 
 be the embroidered coatee which had cost the, to his 
 mind, monstrous sum of twenty-eight pounds. 
 
 His face again darkened, and his wife felt a sensa- 
 tion of fear — of fear and of guilt. But she was no 
 coward, and, after all, she hadn't "done anything." 
 So, "Some war-time friends telephoned this morning 
 and asked if I'd come for a picnic on the river," she 
 lied lightly. "They've just dropped me the other 
 end of our lane. I'm so sorry, darling, to have been 
 
 112 
 
' A VIOLENT QUARREL . . ." 113 
 
 out just when you have been in! It's real bad 
 luck." 
 
 She put her arm through his, and leant against him 
 for a moment. "Don't look so dreadfully cross, old 
 dear! Why didn't you telephone and say you were 
 coming home early?" 
 
 "Never mind all that," he said irritably. 
 
 She withdrew her hand from his arm, but he caught 
 hold of it, and gripped her fingers tightly. 
 
 "Wait a moment," he said, in a peremptory tone, 
 "I've something to say to you, Eva, and I'd better 
 say it now, at once." 
 
 Unnoticed by either of them, Adelaide Strain had 
 come close up to them, "I have an important mes- 
 sage for you from London, Eva, about to-morrow," 
 she observed. 
 
 Raydon cut across her rudely. "That message 
 will keep for the present," he exclaimed. 
 
 Then he added, "No, don't go, Mrs. Strain. I'd 
 like you to hear what I've got to say. Now, Eva, 
 I wish you to look at this!" 
 
 He drew a long envelope from his breast pocket. 
 
 The colour all drifted from Eva's face. Then the 
 brutes had sent a registered letter to the office? She 
 might have guessed that they would end by doing 
 that! 
 
 She gave a nervous little laugh, "I think that we 
 had better wait till we're indoors and alone, Birtley, 
 before discussing this tiresome bill of tiresome 
 Madame Domino." 
 
ii4 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "I'd rather discuss it now, out of doors! Mrs. 
 Strain knows all about it." 
 
 Eva turned on her husband like an angry kitten at 
 bay. She was tired, excited, bitterly incensed and 
 hurt, too, that this should be the end of her happy 
 day. 
 
 "How dare you discuss my private affairs with 
 Adelaide Strain ?" she exclaimed. "It's most mean 
 and unmanly, as well as dishonourable !" 
 
 She spoke s6 loudly that Raydon felt suddenly 
 afraid that someone passing in the road near by would 
 hear her words. 
 
 Quickly he seized her arm; but she shook him off 
 and, bursting into a passion of angry tears, she ran 
 along the gravel path leading to the front door. 
 After waiting a moment, he followed her. 
 
 For quite a long time the lady-housekeeper re- 
 mained standing where they had left her, and as, at 
 last, she turned, and began retracing her steps, the 
 sounds of loud quarrelling reached her ears. It was 
 evident that the two were either in the hall or in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 At last she heard Raydon exclaim: "You had 
 better go upstairs and take off your things, Eva. We 
 can have a talk about this very serious matter 
 later." 
 
 The drawing-room door banged. And then, 
 through the open front door, the patter of Eva's high- 
 heeled shoes could be heard running up the low- 
 stepped broad staircase. 
 
"a violent quarrel 
 
 Slowly Mrs. Strain made her way to her own quar- 
 ters, the charming garden-room of which she had be- 
 come so tired, so tired. 
 
 What a ridiculous, childish way for grown-up 
 people to go on! She felt entirely out of sympathy 
 with both the husband and the wife. 
 
 She sat down at her writing-table, and started 
 again on a letter to Gilly's schoolmaster which she 
 had begun in the morning, and which she had tried 
 on and off to finish all this afternoon. But though 
 he had of course seen that she was writing a letter, 
 Raydon had wandered in and out all the time, asking 
 her questions she found difficult to answer, and spec- 
 ulating out loud, now angrily, now suspiciously, as 
 to where Eva could be. 
 
 Suddenly she looked up, her pen poised in her hand, 
 for she had heard the heavy footfalls of the master 
 of the house on the creaking treads of the old staircase 
 which was considered one of the best features of 
 The Mill House. 
 
 She pushed away the sheet of paper before her, 
 and listened. 
 
 Absolute silence, both indoors and out. . . . 
 
 The door of the garden-room giving into the hall 
 was ajar, and at last there came the sound of Eva's 
 bedroom window being closed, and then the turning 
 of a key in the lock. 
 
 A satirical, an almost terrible, smile came over 
 Adelaide Strain's worn face. What an ugly, gro- 
 tesque, ignoble thing was human nature, as exempli- 
 
u6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 fied in Birtley Raydon! He thought himself such a 
 good fellow, such a perfect type of your civilized, 
 self-respecting, self-controlled man of the world. 
 But what was he — really? 
 
 She moved about the room restlessly, telling her- 
 self the while that living with these people was be- 
 coming unendurable to her. 
 
 All at once she heard the key being turned again in 
 the lock upstairs, and then came the sounds of a door 
 opening, followed by Raydon's footsteps on the 
 Stairs. 
 
 Hurriedly she sat down at the writing-table, and 
 she was bending over her letter when her employer 
 came through into the room. 
 
 She turned round silently, and waited for him to 
 speak first. Was it her fancy that he looked foolish, 
 and even a little ashamed? 
 
 "Would you kindly telephone and ask Diggle to 
 come round, Mrs. Strain? Then, if you don't mind 
 the trouble, will you get through to town and engage 
 a table for two at the Ritz for half-past eight this 
 evening?" 
 
 She got up and went over to the corner of the 
 room where stood the telephone. Birtley Raydon 
 followed her there, and, before she could lift off the 
 receiver, he exclaimed: 
 
 "I've had a really serious talk with Eva! We had 
 a bit of a row, as you may have heard. But it's 
 
"a violent quarrel 
 
 cleared the air, and I do think she means to turn over 
 
 a new leaf " 
 
 "Then is it settled she's to raise the money in the 
 way you mentioned this afternoon?" she asked 
 coldly. 
 
 He looked uncomfortable. 
 
 "I didn't go into that," he explained awkwardly. 
 "She was so awfully upset, poor little girl. To tell 
 you the truth, I thought Fd leave the suggestion that 
 she should raise the money through those beastly 
 lawyers of hers, to you. Perhaps you would speak 
 to her to-morrow morning about it? I simply told 
 her what is true — that / can't find the money." 
 
 As she turned and took up the receiver, a slight 
 satirical smile again played over Adelaide Strain's 
 pale face. Raydon caught the look, and he turned 
 hot. What a disagreeable, ungrateful woman she 
 was, to be sure! 
 
 He stood about, waiting till she had carried out 
 his orders. Then he said slowly, "Of course I should 
 prefer to speak to Eva myself. But I sha'n't have a 
 minute to go into the matter with her to-morrow 
 morning, for I shall have to be at the office extra 
 early, after having wasted all this afternoon." 
 
 "It seems a pity that you're both going up to town 
 to-night. I thought Eva looked very tired just 
 now," she observed coldly. 
 
 He gave a loud laugh. "You may be sure I'd 
 far rather stay at home. But she's simply set on 
 going to the gala night at the Ninety-Ninety! We've 
 
n8 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 belonged to that club ever so long, and we've hardly 
 ever been there. However, I'll try and get her away 
 soon after twelve. If I succeed, we'll be in bed by 
 one o'clock. I say! It's a quarter to eight! I must 
 buzz off." 
 
 "Wait a moment, Mr. Raydon" — she faced him 
 squarely. "I'm afraid you mustn't count on me this 
 time. I feel that it's not my place to speak to Eva 
 about this matter. You will have to speak to her 
 yourself." 
 
 "Very well, I'll choose my time," he said shortly. 
 
 Eva floated into the garden-room about ten min- 
 utes later, oddly enough, through the window. She 
 looked enchanting, and was wearing her prettiest 
 evening frock. It was the pale pink chiffon dress 
 which figured in Madame Domino's bill at fifty 
 pounds. Though it seemed very simple, there were 
 scattered over it sprays of hand-painted flowers, and 
 an expert would have said, with truth, that the price 
 was not excessive. 
 
 "You must have had an awful time with Birtley 
 this afternoon," she said roguishly. "You never 
 thought my day would end like this, did you, my 
 child?" 
 
 "I bore the full brunt of the storm, Eva. It was 
 pretty well spent when you came in," answered the 
 other shortly. 
 
 "You wouldn't have said that if you'd heard the 
 way he raved when we got into the drawing-room. 
 But he let out that that old cat, his mother, saves 
 
"a violent quarrel . . ." 119 
 
 nearly half her income every year — just think of it!** 
 
 Adelaide Strain looked fixedly at Eva. 
 
 "Then is old Mrs. Raydon going to find the five 
 hundred pounds?" 
 
 Eva lifted her pretty head high in the air, and an 
 obstinate look, a look long familiar to her friend, 
 came over her face. "I don't care who finds it!" 
 
 Then she turned and ran out into the hall. 
 
 "Birtley!" she cried, "do hurry, darling! We 
 don't want to be late. I'm fearfully hungry as it is." 
 
 It was two o'clock next morning when the lady- 
 housekeeper awoke to hear her two employers, with 
 the careless selfishness that characterized them both, 
 talking in gay, high-pitched accents, obviously on the 
 happiest terms the one with the other. 
 
 But when just outside her bedroom door they did 
 lower their voices, though she clearly heard Birtley 
 Raydon exclaim, "You'll speak to her to-morrow 
 morning, lovykin, won't you?" 
 
 "I will if you're really set on it, darling. But I 
 think you're making a big mistake." 
 
 "Indeed I'm not!" 
 
 He was speaking crossly now. And the unseen 
 listener wondered uneasily if, after all, Eva : s husband 
 meant to force her hand and compel her to give Eva 
 that unpalatable advice. 
 
 When close to his dressing-room they still went on 
 talking in low tones, as if reluctant to part the one 
 from the other. 
 
I20 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 When they came in late like this — never at any 
 other time — Raydon always occupied his dressing- 
 room because, unlike his wife, he always slept on 
 far into the morning after an evening in town. 
 
 The two exchanged an affectionate kiss, and then 
 the old Mill House, which had doubtless seen many a 
 tragedy and comedy already enacted within its walls, 
 sank into quiet and darkness once more. 
 
 But she, Adelaide Strain, found it impossible to go 
 to sleep again. She felt worried, depressed, anxious 
 — without any definite cause. It was true that she 
 had had a long, tiring, and tiresome day. But this 
 sort of day was what she was, in a sense, being paid 
 three pounds a week to endure. And, after all, the 
 only thing in the world that mattered to her was her 
 child Gilly, and Gilly's wellbeing. 
 
 Gilly? With a feeling of sudden anger she remem- 
 bered the odious look Birtley Raydon had cast on 
 her when she had fearlessly admitted that it was her 
 little boy who was making those slight stuffless 
 sounds in the boat-house. True, Raydon hadn't 
 said anything, because he was really rather afraid of 
 her. But what would he have felt had he known that 
 Gilly had arrived at The Mill House within half an 
 hour of his having left for town that morning? And 
 how very indignant he would have been had he fur- 
 ther known that the boy had shared his mother's 
 simple lunch! 
 
 Staring into the darkness, Birtley Raydon's 
 servant-slave, as in her bitterness she sometimes 
 
"a violent quarrel 
 
 121 
 
 secretly styled herself, considered what a terrible 
 part chance plays in human life. 
 
 If only foolish little Eva and selfish, penurious 
 Raydon had never met! If only they, Adelaide and 
 Eva, had gone on living that happy, easy life in 
 London! By now Eva would probably be engaged 
 or even married to that thoroughly good fellow and 
 now millionaire, Jack Mintlaw; and all four of them, 
 counting little Gilly, might have been happy together 
 for ever after. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 "UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN " 
 
 TEN o'clock was striking when Eva came trip- 
 ping downstairs the next day, looking as fresh 
 as if she had gone to bed quite early, instead 
 of at two in the morning. 
 
 She felt even more pleased with herself and the 
 world about her than usual, owing to two facts. 
 The first fact was that her husband now knew all 
 about Madame Domino's account; and the second, 
 and very secret, fact was that she confidently be- 
 lieved she had already solved her immediate difficulty 
 concerning the five hundred pounds, which, if Birtley 
 had spoken the truth, must be paid within the next 
 fortnight. 
 
 As she stepped down on to the black-and-white 
 floor of the hall, there stole just a little shadow 
 athwart her happy heart, for she had suddenly remem- 
 bered a very unpleasant task Birtley had set her to 
 do this morning. 
 
 It was a task she hated the thought of doing, for 
 Adelaide Strain had been a true and loving friend to 
 her over many long years. 
 
 The door of the garden-room swung open, and a 
 tremor ran through her, for she heard Mrs. Strain's 
 
 122 
 
"UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN" 1 23 
 
 voice saying: "Will you come in here, Eva? I've 
 something to show you." 
 
 Then, when the two were safely behind the now- 
 closed door, Adelaide Strain held out an envelope 
 accusingly. 
 
 "I won't have Jack Mintlaw using me as a post- 
 office — it isn't fair, or right!" she exclaimed in a 
 sharp, vexed tone. 
 
 "I'm certain it's an absolutely harmless let- 
 ter " 
 
 riven so, rather to the other's surprise, Eva did not 
 open the envelope which had come under cover of 
 another sent by hand, addressed to "Mrs. Strain," 
 with the word "Private" written on it, in a bold 
 masculine hand. 
 
 Instead of opening the envelope, Eva Raydon 
 stood holding it dubiously in her fingers. She was 
 longing for courage to walk quietly out of the room; 
 but somehow she did not like to do this, especially 
 with tiresome, cross Addie standing by, looking at her 
 "like that." So at last she tore open the envelope. 
 
 As she did so, something fluttered out of the sheet 
 of notepaper it contained down on to the floor, and 
 Adelaide Strain saw with astonishment that it was a 
 cheque folded in two. 
 
 For a moment it lay on the straw matting of the 
 garden-room between the two women before Eva 
 picked it up. 
 
 Slowly she unfolded the small slip of paper, and 
 then when she saw the amount for which the cheque 
 
124 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 was drawn, her face lit up with an expression of eager 
 delight and surprise. 
 
 "You needn't look at me like that, Addie!" she 
 exclaimed, a joyful lilt in her voice. "It's true that 
 Jack has given me a present — enough to pay up 
 everything I owe and a bit over — but I'd have done 
 the same for him, if I'd found him in a tight place. 
 He's more money than he knows what to do with, 
 after all!" 
 
 Mrs. Strain stared at Eva. It was impossible for 
 Mintlaw to have learnt already of the trouble con- 
 cerning the Domino bill unless — and if so what a 
 coincidence — he had met the Raydons at the night 
 club to which they had gone on from the Ritz last 
 night. 
 
 The amazement she felt showed itself in her face, 
 and Eva laughed mischievously. 
 
 "I managed to scribble a note while I was dressing 
 last evening, and Birtley was asking you to telephone 
 to the Ritz. Then, when I was ready, I hied me out 
 secretly, and so to the letter-box outside the back 
 gate! So Jack got my S.O.S. by the first post this 
 morning. You can look at his letter if you like. 
 There's nothing in the least private about it! He's 
 a thoroughly good sort — a real white man." 
 
 Adelaide Strain took the long letter from the 
 other's hand and read it slowly through. 
 
 It's more than a shame that you should be worried, Eva. I'm 
 honoured that you thought of me, and the idea of my lending 
 you money is absurd. 
 
"UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN" 125 
 
 You needn't feel the slightest delicacy about accepting the 
 enclosed as a gift. It's literally true that what I'm giving you 
 is less to me now than a fiver would have been in the days when 
 I was stony broke. 
 
 I want to know if you can come for another spin to-day? I'll 
 telephone to Mrs. Strain and find out. By the way, do give 
 her my love. I always had a kind feeling for her. I've already 
 told the good folk here that I knew her and her jolly little kid 
 during the war. 
 
 Would you like me to motor you up to town early this morning? 
 I'd cash the cheque for you, and then we could lunch at the Wig- 
 wam, as we used to do in the good old days which contained the 
 only really happy hours I have ever had in my life. 
 
 Eva danced gleefully about the room, waving the 
 cheque in her hand. 
 
 "My only bother, and I don't allow it to bother 
 me much, Addie, is what to say to Birtley?" 
 
 "I can tell you how to get over that difficulty," 
 observed Adelaide Strain dryly. 
 
 "You can?" 
 
 "Certainly I can." 
 
 She came up close to her fortunate friend and then, 
 as if reciting something by rote, she said quickly: 
 "I'm only carrying out your husband's instructions 
 in telling you that the only thing left for you to do is 
 to get your late father-in-law's solicitors to raise 
 sufficient money on your life-interest in your annuity 
 to pay all your bills in full. As to do that would cut 
 down what Mr. Raydon calls your 'allowance' by 
 at least two hundred a year, he and his mother hope 
 that this will be a lesson to you." 
 
 Eva grew very red. 
 
 "Well, I'm blessed! That was the scheme, was 
 
126 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 it?" she exclaimed, in a tone of extreme indignation. 
 
 "That was the scheme," replied Mrs. Strain com- 
 posedly. 
 
 "Of course it was Mrs. Raydon's idea. Birtley 
 would never have thought of it. She is a horrid old 
 skinflint! Oh, won't it be lovely to have all this 
 money?" 
 
 "I hope you'll really pay up everything, Eva." 
 
 "Of course I shall! But even when I've done that, 
 there will be a lot left." 
 
 "Not as much as you think," said her friend warn- 
 ingly. 
 
 The telephone bell rang. 
 
 Eva ran across the room, crying as she went: 
 "I'm sure it's Jack!" And she took up the receiver. 
 
 "That you, Jack? ... I thought it was! 
 . . . Mrs. Strain wants me to say that she's most 
 
 awfully grateful to you " she choked a little. 
 
 "In fact, she doesn't know how to express her grati- 
 tude . . ." Then she dashed the tears from her 
 eyes, and listened intently for a minute or two. 
 
 "Yes, you've guessed quite right. Clever boy! 
 But she thinks she'd better go by train. Why, yes, 
 she'll be delighted to have tea with you at the Wig- 
 wam about five o'clock; it's really too sweet of you to 
 ask her," and then giggling happily, she hung up the 
 receiver. 
 
 "What's all that nonsense about?" asked Adelaide 
 Strain, smiling in spite of herself. " I'm not going to 
 London to-day, Eva." 
 
"UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN'* 1 27 
 
 "You're too simple, my duck! Little Addie was 
 really little Eva — twig?" 
 
 Then she went on, more seriously, "He wanted to 
 motor me up to town. But I'm taking no risks with 
 that cheque. Why, we might have an accident — 
 people do in motors! You'd better tell Birtley, when 
 he comes downstairs, that I've gone to London to eat 
 humble pie to that horrid Mr. Buck, and that I'll 
 meet my dear hubby at half-past six at Waterloo. 
 Ta-ta!" 
 
 She had actually opened the door giving into the 
 hall when, all at once, she turned back into the room, 
 and came towards her friend, her manner quite 
 changed, her countenance grave and overcast. 
 
 "Addie," she said slowly, "there's something I 
 promised Birtley last night that I would say to you 
 this morning. Jack's present made me forget all 
 about it." 
 
 There came an unbecoming touch of red into Mrs. 
 Strain's pale, thin face. She said defensively: "I sup- 
 pose Mr. Raydon considers the housekeeping books 
 have been very high lately? But you and he had a 
 great many people down here during his holiday." 
 
 "It isn't that exactly. He wants to make what he 
 calls some radical economies." 
 
 There was a pause, and then Eva exclaimed, with 
 a pretence at lightness which failed miserably, "I'm 
 afraid that you're amongst his economies, Addie." 
 
 "I amongst Mr. Raydon's economies? I don't 
 understand " 
 
128 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 But Adelaide Strain had understood only too well 
 what Eva meant, though the knowledge had come on 
 her with a terrible and blinding surprise. 
 
 She had grown to regard herself as indispensable to 
 these two foolish people — indeed, of late she had been 
 seriously considering the question of asking Birtley 
 Raydon to raise her salary ten shillings a week. She 
 found it a very hard struggle to pay her boy's school 
 fees, dress him adequately, and provide her own 
 exiguous wardrobe, on an income of a hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year. 
 
 "Birtley thinks I ought to be able to run every- 
 thing here as cleverly and economically as you man- 
 age to do. Isn't that rot? As if I could! He's 
 making up quite a romance about the new cook. 
 He says that if she's a decent woman she will be able 
 to run the house even more cheaply than you do. 
 He'll soon find out his mistake!" 
 
 "Does that mean," asked the other in a low voice, 
 "that you're giving me notice, Eva?" 
 
 "Well, yes — I suppose it does." 
 
 The lady-housekeeper turned away, and for a mo- 
 ment Eva felt as if she ought to throw her arms round 
 her old friend's neck and tell her that she was really 
 very, very sorry this had happened. 
 
 Distressfully she gazed at the other's spare figure 
 and bowed head. 
 
 Then there came a vivid recollection of how un- 
 gracious, how censorious, Adelaide Strain had just 
 been concerning Jack Mintlaw's letter. Also, Eva 
 
"UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN" I2Q, 
 
 told herself, a thought ashamedly, that it would be 
 rather a relief to be alone, with only Birtley in the 
 house. Though it had taken them many months to 
 find it out, they both knew, now, that in their lady- 
 housekeeper they sometimes had a not over-kind 
 critic. 
 
 And so, instead of following her first impulse, Eva 
 stood still, waiting for the other's next words. 
 
 At last Mrs. Strain turned round and faced her. 
 
 "When do you and Mr. Raydon wish me to leave 
 The Mill House?" 
 
 Eva waited for what seemed to both her and her 
 friend quite a long time. Odd how very uncomfort- 
 able she felt, and that though Addie was making no 
 fuss at all! 
 
 "Birtley seems to have an idea," she said at last, 
 speaking as if she was repeating a lesson, as indeed 
 she was, "that you, yourself, Addie, would prefer to 
 leave the day before the new cook comes in. He 
 says that of course he'll pay you a month's salary, 
 but he hopes, considering how hard up we are, that 
 you won't want him to give you the money for your 
 board for four weeks as well." 
 
 "I understand. Thank you, Eva." 
 
 And then Eva Raydon did feel, all at once, sur- 
 prisingly ashamed. 
 
 "Of course I'll make up the board money out of 
 this cheque," she said hastily, "and I'll give you a bit 
 over to go on with as well, while you are looking out 
 for something else." 
 
13° 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "I don't think I need trouble you to do that," 
 observed Adelaide Strain coldly. 
 
 Eva noticed the coldness with which her generous 
 suggestion was rejected, and "You said only yester- 
 day how dull you found life here!" she exclaimed. 
 "I know youVe only stayed on here for Gilly's sake, 
 not to be with me." 
 
 She waited for a contradiction, but none came. 
 Feeling deeply, if unreasonably, hurt, she turned 
 away. 
 
 Adelaide Strain waited till Eva Raydon had shut 
 the door of the garden-room, and then, feeling as if 
 her legs were made of cotton-wool, she sat down and 
 put her elbows on the table. 
 
 She felt sick with fear at the thought of the future. 
 With a sensation of bitter anger flooding her heart, 
 she recalled words, questions, promises, which had 
 passed between Birtley Raydon and herself on the 
 day when he had finally engaged her as lady-house- 
 keeper just a year ago. As so often happens when 
 one job has been secured, she had suddenly been 
 offered another, as matron in a girls' school. The 
 salary had been only a hundred a year, but she had 
 used it as a lever when discussing terms with Eva's 
 husband. 
 
 And now? Now she was being sent away as if she 
 were a dishonest servant; and Raydon was not even 
 proposing to pay her the money for her board which 
 
UNDER COVER TO MRS. STRAIN " I3I 
 
 he would have had to pay a respectable servant dis- 
 missed at short notice. 
 
 At last she got up. She had heard the sound of the 
 motor moving out of the garage. Eva, wisely, was 
 leaving for town before her husband had awakened. 
 
 How hideously cruel it was, that happy, selfish Eva 
 and mean-natured, heartless Birtley Raydon pos- 
 sessed such an awful power of doing good and evil in 
 their careless grasp. 
 
 There came back to her, engulfing her in waves of 
 wretched memories, the few days she had spent in 
 that sordid little furnished room in the Euston Road 
 before she had taken over the post of attendant on 
 an uncertified lunatic which she had kept till she had 
 come to Swanmere. How frightfully unfair that 
 such a man as Birtley Raydon, through no effort or 
 merit of his own, should be in the position of having 
 been able to make full use of her brains for over a 
 year — only to throw her aside, now, like a squeezed 
 orange! 
 
 She longed to get away, if only for a short time, 
 from The Mill House. After a few moments' thought 
 she determined to go now, at once, to the Cottage 
 Hospital to see and consult Miss Jameson, the kindly 
 woman a good deal older than herself, who was dis- 
 penser there, and who had proved a true friend to her 
 during the last year. 
 
 Miss Jameson might suggest what she, Adelaide 
 Strain, had better do after leaving The Mill House 
 
132 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 next week. Mid-September is a bad time to seek 
 the kind of position which carries with it a salary of 
 three pounds a week and full board. 
 
 As she put on her hat, she wondered bitterly how 
 long it would take the man who was still lying fast 
 asleep upstairs to discover that he had made a mis- 
 take in sending her away And all through her 
 anxious, disconnected questionings there ran, domi- 
 nating everything else, the poignant thought of her 
 little son, and of that little son's now threatened 
 future. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 "the judge took a sip of water . . ." 
 
 /ALMOST always before going out, even into 
 A-\ the garden, the lady-housekeeper of The Mill 
 X. JL House rang for the parlourmaid, so that there 
 should be someone ready to answer the telephone. 
 But to-day she forgot to do this, for she was too much 
 absorbed in what had just happened, and its imme- 
 diate consequences to herself, to think of any thing else. 
 
 As she went out of the garden-room and walked 
 quickly down the path which led round to the boat- 
 house, and so by a back way into the village, she was 
 reminding herself, with a painful feeling of self- 
 rebuke, that she had just bought a new evening dress 
 for three guineas. 
 
 Fool! Extravagant fool that she had been! That 
 three guineas would have kept her a fortnight while 
 looking for a new post. 
 
 She left the grounds of The Mill House by a door 
 which was only used by the gardener and the gar- 
 dener's boy, and which gave into a narrow walled 
 passage leading into the village street; and when half- 
 way down this passage she saw something which 
 added to her depression and sense of despondency. 
 133 
 
134 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 A very young mouse was lying, mangled and dying, 
 on the asphalt; the big tomcat who had been playing 
 with it had been scared off by the quick approach of 
 human footsteps, but he was waiting, with gleaming 
 eyes, to go back to his wretched victim. 
 
 Averting her glance from the horrid sight, Adelaide 
 Strain hurried on into the village street. With a 
 feeling of almost morbid terror she told herself that 
 Nature, all Nature, is hideously cruel to the un- 
 protected, the helpless, and the weak. 
 
 The Cottage Hospital lay some distance from 
 Swanmere on a comparatively new road which was 
 one way to the railway station. It was a long low 
 building and only contained two wards. Just now 
 both wards were empty, as with the exception of 
 Miss Jameson, the dispenser, the staff was away on 
 holiday. 
 
 A feeling of serenity stole over Adelaide Strain's 
 troubled heart when at last she stood before the door 
 of the hospital. It was comfortable to know that in 
 a few moments she would be wrapped in warm, hu- 
 man sympathy; and she so loved her child that seeing 
 Gilly again, even after a very short absence, always 
 brought with it a surprised sense of joy. 
 
 She rang the bell, and a country maid to whom she 
 had always been kind, and whom she had well tipped 
 for the girl's share in the care of her little son, smiled 
 broadly when she saw that it was Mrs. Strain who 
 was standing there. 
 
"the judge took a sip of water . . ."135 
 
 "I think you'll find Master Gilly and Miss Jame- 
 son in the dispensary. She's been teaching him how 
 to make pills " 
 
 "All right! I'll go along there, Alice. You 
 needn't trouble to come with me." 
 
 The girl went quietly off to the left, while the visi- 
 tor hastened to the right, along a sunny, empty 
 corridor. 
 
 She had often been in the dispensary, but only for a 
 moment, just to speak to her friend, for while there 
 Miss Jameson was generally very busy. 
 
 The door of the dispensary was closed. Mrs. Strain 
 knocked, and as there came no answer she opened 
 the door and walked through. 
 
 It was quite a small room, panelled in pinewood, 
 the one window being opposite the door. The dis- 
 pensary was spotlessly clean, though it smelt like a 
 druggist's shop. There were two shelves containing 
 rows of bottles and medicaments, and a cupboard 
 which was generally kept locked. 
 
 But to-day the two doors of the cupboard were 
 wide open. Also the pestle and mortar with which 
 Miss Jameson had been making pills still stood on 
 the deal table. 
 
 Adelaide Strain, glancing through the window, 
 suddenly perceived that the two she was seeking were 
 out of doors, in sight, out of earshot. Indeed, they 
 were some way off, in the kitchen garden that lay be- 
 yond a large lawn. 
 
I36 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 And all at once the sight of her little Gilly, looking 
 so happy and unaware of the frightful wrong that 
 was about to be done him, again gave the unhappy 
 woman that queer physical sensation of — was it 
 faintness? — which had made her feel, after Eva had 
 given her notice, as if her legs were made of cotton- 
 wool. 
 
 For the first time in Adelaide Strain's life the sight 
 of her child brought with it anguish, not joy; and her 
 brain began working quickly, too quickly, for it 
 was inflamed with a violent, intolerable sense of in- 
 justice. 
 
 She sank down on the one chair in the room, and 
 again she told herself how frightful it was that 
 such a man as Birtley Raydon should possess the 
 power to do so much harm — unwitting, stupid, cruel 
 harm — in his dull, prosperous progress through life. 
 
 There came over her once more a sudden sensation 
 of sick terror at the thought of how cruel Nature 
 can be. It was as if she saw again the tiny quivering 
 body of the mangled mouse in the passage. She told 
 herself that she, or rather her child, her precious, 
 cherished little Gilly, was about to suffer a fatal 
 injury inflicted by that big feline brute, Birtley 
 Raydon. 
 
 Her mind swung feverishly round to Eva — Ray- 
 don's petted, sheltered wife. Why had Providence 
 been so good, so marvellously generous, to Eva, while 
 so unkind to her? Eva had everything the heart of 
 woman could desire, including that at once dangerous 
 
"the judge took a sip of water . . 137 
 
 and valuable gift of attracting the passionate admira- 
 tion, the selfless adoration, of every type of man, from 
 big-hearted Jack Mintlaw to small-natured, self- 
 absorbed, selfish Birtley Raydon. 
 
 Jack Mintlaw? What a difference to her own and 
 her child's life Eva's marriage to Jack Mintlaw might 
 have made! If only Eva had been content to go on 
 with the old, cheerful, and to her care-free, existence 
 in London, sharing hers, Adelaide Strain's, life, in- 
 stead of falling in love with a heartless egoist who 
 cumbered the earth. 
 
 Then there stole into the burdened mind of the 
 woman now sitting in the empty dispensary of the 
 Swanmere Cottage Hospital, a curious thought — in 
 a way it was as if some entity outside herself had 
 put it there. This thought was that if Birtley 
 Raydon no longer cumbered the earth, if he were 
 killed, for instance, as he very nearly had been killed 
 some weeks ago, when motoring one morning to the 
 station, then, almost certainly, Eva would marry 
 Jack Mintlaw. 
 
 Yes, that was a curious thought, at once tantalizing 
 and, in a queer way, an exciting thought. A thought, 
 too, the human mind could play with, much as that 
 cat had played with the mouse in the passage, but in 
 a far less cruel way, of course. . . . 
 
 Gilly's mother rose from the hard wooden chair 
 on which she had been sitting, and moved, almost 
 as if she were an automaton, over to where the drug 
 cupboard stood with its doors now wide open. 
 
I38 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 She had seen that cupboard open once before, and 
 she had then glanced with some interest at the row 
 of stoppered jars. Indeed, she and intelligent Miss 
 Jameson had had quite an interesting talk concerning 
 the action, quick and slow, of certain dangerous drugs 
 and poisons on the human body. 
 
 She remembered certain remarks which had been 
 made by Miss Jameson and, as she recalled their 
 purport, her eyes gradually became focussed on a 
 dark blue glass jar. 
 
 On that blue jar was a white label on which was 
 printed, in very black letters, just one word — 
 "Arsenic." 
 
 All at once Mrs. Strain glanced quickly to her left, 
 towards the door. 
 
 The door was open, and the corridor beyond was 
 empty of sound and movement. Alice, the maid, was 
 without doubt at quite the other end of the long low 
 building. . . . 
 
 Then she gave a furtive glance to her right, through 
 the uncurtained window. 
 
 Again she saw the two figures, that of her friend, 
 Miss Jameson, and that of her little son, Gilly, 
 standing in the kitchen garden, far away, on the 
 other side of the broad stretch of greensward. Round 
 them gambolled the lady-dispenser's Pekinese dog, 
 Tou-Tou. 
 
 She listened intently. But there rose no sound on 
 the still air. The young maid-servant and she, Ade- 
 
"the judge took a sip of water . . ." 139 
 
 laide Strain, were almost certainly the only living 
 things in the Cottage Hospital. 
 
 At last, almost as if someone outside herself were 
 willing her to do so, she put out her hand, and took 
 the blue-stoppered jar from off the shelf in the cup- 
 board. She stood it on the deal table, unscrewed the 
 rimmed cap, and then she took up an empty envelope 
 which happened to be lying there. . . . 
 
 Adelaide Strain could not have told — but, as a 
 matter of fact, the question was never put to her, for 
 no one ever knew, apart from the maid who had soon 
 forgotten it, that she had even been inside the Cot- 
 tage Hospital on that morning of September the 
 fourth — whether she stayed in the dispensary for 
 five minutes, or for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 She was not there, in any case, for very long, for 
 when she saw, through the window, that Miss Jame- 
 son and Gilly had begun walking slowly homewards 
 round the lawn, she hurried out into the empty corri- 
 dor. Running down it, she went through the front 
 door which she quietly closed after her. 
 
 For a few moments she stood on the flagged path. 
 Her heart was beating quickly. Was it she, Adelaide 
 Strain, who had done that mad, dangerous thing 
 just now? She felt a strong impulse to take the 
 small envelope (on which she had written her own 
 name) out of her shabby handbag, and scatter its 
 contents over the path. Then she remembered Miss 
 
140 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Jameson's little dog, Tou-Tou, who was almost hu- 
 man in his inquisitive interest in everything that 
 happened to lie in his way. 
 
 No, she must get rid of the perilous stuff in a place 
 where it could do no possible harm to either man or 
 beast. Meanwhile, its possession did give her a curi- 
 ous sense of latent power. . . . 
 
 She felt very much better now, having, as the say- 
 ing is, managed to pull herself together. Also a 
 measure of courage had come back to her sore heart. 
 But she had changed her mind in one important 
 particular. 
 
 She had come here, to the Cottage Hospital, this 
 morning, in order to tell her good friend, Miss Jame- 
 son, that the Birtley Raydons had given her notice. 
 But now she determined to remain silent for yet a 
 little longer. There was still rather more than a full 
 week before she was to leave The Mill House, and 
 much can happen in a week. Even so trifling an 
 occurrence as that of the new cook at The Mill House 
 throwing up the situation at the last moment — as 
 your modern servant is apt to do — would mean that 
 she, Adelaide Strain, would have to stay on till an- 
 other cook was found — and found by her. 
 
 Eva was like a child as regarded the management 
 and conduct of a house. It was Raydon himself 
 who had interviewed and engaged the woman whose 
 dishonesty had brought about, ultimately, the en- 
 gagement of Eva's old friend as lady-housekeeper 
 at The Mill House. 
 
"the judge took a sip of water . . ." 141, 
 
 Walking quickly along the narrow path edging 
 the wall of the Cottage Hospital, she met the two she 
 was seeking before they had turned the corner of the 
 building. As she came up close to the tall, gray-haired 
 woman, and that gray-haired woman's small com- 
 panion, Gilly put his grubby hand into his pocket, 
 and pulled out something which he held up with a 
 joyful cry. 
 
 "Mummy? Look! Here's a ten-shilling note, and 
 I'm to spend it just as I like " 
 
 "Yes/' chimed in Miss Jameson, smiling. "That's 
 a present from Mrs. Birtley Raydon! She was 
 motoring by on her way to the station just now, and 
 as she had a few minutes to spare she came in just 
 to see Gilly, and she actually gave him this ten- 
 shilling note as a tip. Wasn't it kind of her?" 
 
 "It was," said Gilly's mother in a low voice. "Eva 
 was always kind and generous in the old days, when 
 we lived together in London — I mean before she 
 married again. I suppose she's kind now when 
 she has a chance of being so — when her husband 
 isn't by." 
 
 It was as if she were speaking to herself, rather than 
 to her friend. Though sorry to hear her say such a 
 thing, however true, before the child, Miss Jameson 
 knew what Birtley Raydon was like, and held her 
 peace. 
 
 The owner of The Mill House gave a yearly 
 subscription to the Cottage Hospital of one guinea, 
 and not long ago he had written to the committee 
 
142 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 stating that, as a subscriber, he felt it his duty to 
 draw their attention to the fact that one of the nurses, 
 whose appearance he minutely described, so that she 
 should be identified the more easily, had been seen 
 with what he had called "a disgracefully rowdy 
 party" on the river late one evening. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 "birtley raydon that same morning . 8 . 
 telephoned " 
 
 WHEN Birtley Raydon at last came down- 
 stairs feeling, as he expressed it to himself, 
 still rather "Mondayish," he was unreason- 
 ably put out at finding no one indoors. 
 
 Where could Eva and Mrs. Strain have betaken 
 themselves ? There were several important things he 
 wanted to say to his wife, before going up to town. 
 
 Also, he was anxious to know whether Adelaide 
 Strain, whose bark was sometimes worse than her 
 bite, had, after all, conveyed to Eva, in the clever, 
 sensible way which he admitted to himself was the 
 lady-housekeeper's way, what his mother, and even 
 Mrs. Strain herself, had decided was the only way out 
 of the predicament into which Eva's extravagant 
 folly had landed her. 
 
 He wandered about aimlessly for awhile, and at 
 last he telephoned to the doctor: If the old chap was 
 at home he might as well drop in for a minute on his 
 way to the station, just to know what he had better 
 take for a nasty little pain he had in his back this 
 morning. 
 
 Birtley Raydon was fond of physic, and perhaps 
 
 H3 
 
i 4 4 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 because he had been an only child, and brought up in 
 an old-fashioned way, never grudged a long doctor's 
 bill. But, to his disappointment, he was told that 
 Dr. Durham was out. 
 
 Again he began wandering about, this time out of 
 doors, and so ultimately to the garage, where he had a 
 talk about the price of petrol with his chauffeur. 
 
 As he came back by the path leading round the 
 corner of The Mill House he saw Adelaide Strain 
 standing near the front door. 
 
 Eagerly he went forward to meet her. "Well!" 
 he exclaimed, "I hear that Eva has gone to London — 
 rather a sudden move, eh?" 
 
 "I did what you wished me to do, Mr. Raydon. I 
 told Eva this morning that she would have to find the 
 money for her bills herself, and so she's gone to town 
 to see Mr. Buck. Isn't that what you wished her to 
 do?" 
 
 "She might have waited and gone up with me," 
 he said grumblingly. 
 
 "I don't think you could have expected her to do 
 that, under the circumstances," she said coldly. 
 
 She looked at him fixedly, and it was so strange and 
 probing a look that even he noticed there was some- 
 thing unusual about it, something that made him feel 
 just a little uncomfortable. 
 
 The woman who was still Birtley Raydon's house- 
 keeper was telling herself, as she gazed into her em- 
 ployer's dark, now peevish-looking, face, how strange, 
 nay, how astounding was the hidden knowledge that 
 
"birtley raydon telephoned " 145 
 
 she now possessed the power to bring about the ob- 
 literation of this man. 
 
 True, she was never going to exercise that power. 
 Even during her walk home from the Cottage Hos- 
 pital she had again marvelled, looking back, on the 
 recent commission of an act which had been, on her 
 part, the act of a mad, as well as of a bad, woman. 
 
 Even so it was — well, curious and interesting to 
 reflect what a terrible, sinister potentiality her 
 shabby little gray kid handbag contained. That was 
 how she thought of it now, and she no longer wished 
 to rid herself — at any rate not yet — of so absolute, if 
 so dread, a sovereignty over life and death. 
 
 But these thoughts took scarce a moment flashing 
 through her brain, and she went on, after a short 
 pause, "Of course, Eva is not pleased at what you 
 are making her do, Mr. Raydon." 
 
 And then something impelled her to add, much as 
 if she had suddenly left the Palace of Lies for the 
 Palace of Truth, "She considers that as you used the 
 whole of her legacy in buying The Mill House, she 
 had a right, this last year, to be rather more extrava- 
 gant than usual. There is something in that view, 
 you know." 
 
 He looked at her, amazed. What an extraordinary 
 idea, and how utterly unreasonable! His mother, as 
 always, had been right. Mrs. Strain's influence over 
 Eva must be bad, very bad indeed! What a pity, 
 what a very great pity, that he hadn't made some 
 good excuse to get rid of her this last winter, after 
 
146 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 she had brought their household into good running 
 order. 
 
 "But that five thousand pounds is capital," he 
 ejaculated. "It's invested in this house." 
 
 "She considers," said Adelaide Strain, "that you 
 and she ought to have shared that investment." 
 
 Raydon made no answer to this, for her coolly 
 uttered words made him feel exceedingly angry. 
 
 He further told himself, with a feeling of impotent 
 annoyance, that it was most improper of Eva to have 
 discussed their private financial arrangements with 
 their lady-housekeeper. 
 
 More than ever was he glad that the woman now 
 standing before him and looking at him — no, it 
 couldn't be disapprovingly, for of course she wouldn't 
 dare to do that, considering their respective po- 
 sitions — would so soon disappear from their joint 
 life. 
 
 Almost as if she had just seen into his mind, Mrs. 
 Strain said suddenly, "Eva told me this morning that 
 you desire to make a change, Mr. Raydon. I confess 
 it was a surprise to me to hear that you wish me to 
 leave as soon as next week, for I thought it was under- 
 stood between us that you were to give me ample 
 notice?" 
 
 "That understanding only applied to the first six 
 months," he said awkwardly. 
 
 She opened her mouth to refute what was an en- 
 tirely untrue statement. Then she shut her mouth 
 again. Where would be the use of starting an 
 
"birtley raydon telephoned " 147 
 
 ignoble wrangle during which neither would admit 
 the other right? 
 
 "I'm sorry/' he went on. "But you must surely 
 know how I am situated. First and last, you cost us 
 a good deal over two hundred a year, and though I 
 know you have effected some real economies, still, 
 we do seem to be spending more than we should be 
 doing, Mrs. Strain. I hope I have made my position 
 clear?" 
 
 When nervous or ill at ease Birtley Raydon always 
 talked like a book. 
 
 Experience, bought in a hard school, had taught 
 Adelaide Strain that it is always unwise to be dis- 
 agreeable. What this man would say about her to a 
 prospective employer might soon be of great mo- 
 ment to her and to her child. So she decided to help 
 him out. 
 
 "I quite understand the position, and Eva will 
 probably get on far better, now, than she did during 
 the first weeks you both spent here. At any rate, I 
 shall be leaving her, I hope, with four thoroughly 
 dependable, respectable servants — though, of course, 
 we don't yet know what the new cook will be like. 
 A great deal will depend on her, Mr. Raydon." 
 
 He was much relieved by the composed and pleas- 
 ant way in which she uttered those comforting words, 
 and he replied, in a tone that was quite cordial for 
 him: 
 
 "I hope it won't put you out to be leaving us so 
 soon?" 
 
148 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 As she made no answer to that heartless question, 
 he went on, "But I think you'll agree with me that 
 the quicker Eva begins to look after things herself 
 'the better it will be. Also, it will surely be best for 
 her to begin straight off with the new cook. " 
 
 She refused to give him the satisfaction her assent 
 to these observations would have afforded him. 
 Instead she said quietly: "Of course Fm sorry to 
 be leaving The Mill House so soon. But I shall stay 
 with an old friend for a while — I mean while Fm 
 looking out for something else — and I shall trust to 
 you to give me a good character. " 
 
 She was smiling a little mysteriously, not looking 
 at him now, but gazing towards the river across the 
 old garden she had come to love, and which, owing to 
 her care and interest, had much increased in tranquil 
 beauty during the last twelve months. 
 
 "And I should be glad" — she hesitated a moment, 
 and then turned and looked full at him — "I should be 
 glad, Mr. Raydon, if you would, for the present, say 
 nothing about my leaving you, I mean to the servants 
 or indeed to anybody else, during the next day or two. 
 For one thing, the new cook might suddenly give us 
 the slip — they do that nowadays, you know! And 
 in that case I suppose you'd like me to wait on till 
 you've secured a responsible woman?" 
 
 "Of course Fd want you to wait on if the cook 
 we're expecting gives us the slip! We don't want 
 any kind of temporary servant. That dishonest 
 woman we had last year called herself 'a temporary 
 
"birtley raydon telephoned " 149 
 
 cook.' That was why I took so little trouble about 
 her character." 
 
 "I was not aware of that," she observed indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 Then she said something which he thought un- 
 called for, as well as disputable. 
 
 "Character is such an uncertain quantity, Mr. 
 Raydon. Men and women are sometimes driven to 
 do things that those who have known them longest — 
 in fact, that they themselves — would think not only 
 unlikely, but impossible." 
 
 Yet though Adelaide Strain made that statement 
 she did not really believe it true. Or, rather, she only 
 half believed it true. 
 
 She herself that morning had done something 
 which, only yesterday, would have seemed to her 
 entirely outside the bounds of possibility. But then, 
 up to yesterday, and indeed up to this morning, she 
 would also have thought it quite out of the bounds 
 of possibility, though not to be sure to the same ex- 
 tent, that Birtley Raydon, to say nothing of Eva, 
 could behave in the cruel, unjust, and, to put it 
 plainly, entirely dishonest, way, that they were both 
 now behaving with regard to her dismissal. 
 
 When, not yet two hours ago, Eva Raydon had 
 given her notice, she had felt as if the end of the world, 
 her world and Gilly's, had come. In fact, she had 
 known exactly how a working woman feels who shuts 
 up the doors and windows, and then, turning on the 
 gas, sends not only herself, but the child or children 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 she loves, into what she hopes will be a merciful 
 oblivion. 
 
 Though she had taken the news so calmly at the 
 time, it had so affected her that her brain, for the 
 space of a few moments, had given way, while she was 
 in the dispensary of the Cottage Hospital. She ad- 
 mitted that now, candidly, to herself. 
 
 What was stranger, far, was that since the moment 
 when, owing in a measure to the stress and strain of 
 a terrible shock, she had done that utterly incredible 
 thing, power seemed to have entered into her. She 
 still felt acutely anxious, also bitterly hurt with her 
 friend Eva, and full of concentrated dislike, and a 
 kind of scorn, for Eva's mean-natured husband. But 
 though she had made no plans as yet, there had come 
 back to her, if not a measure of resignation, then an 
 increasing measure of courage. 
 
 Birtley Raydon parted from Adelaide Strain more 
 pleasantly than usual; and after he had left for town 
 she went back into the garden-room, there to look up, 
 in the London telephone directory, the numbers of 
 two good employment bureaux. 
 
 After a good deal of irritating and troublesome 
 delay, she got through to the one she had reason to 
 think the best. 
 
 The woman at the other end of the telephone lis- 
 tened, not very patiently, to the short, businesslike 
 account of what kind of post the Raydons' lady- 
 
"birtley raydon telephoned " 151 
 
 housekeeper was now seeking, the sort of salary she 
 desired to obtain, and finally her qualifications. 
 Then came the quick, decisive answer: 
 "I am quite willing to put your name and address 
 on our books, Mrs. Strain; but I must tell you frankly 
 that I do not think we have the slightest hope of 
 finding what you want. If you will put your pride in 
 your pocket, and make up your mind to spend three 
 months in becoming a really first-class cook, then we 
 could immediately get you a good job, possibly at 
 about eighty to a hundred pounds a year; though 
 wages, as I expect you know, are beginning to come 
 down." 
 
 The manageress of the next employment bureau to 
 which she telephoned was even less courteous. 
 
 "Well-educated women, with the highest social 
 references, are eagerly taking the kind of job for 
 which you are looking, Mrs. Strain, for fifty pounds a 
 year and their keep. The kind of reference you tell 
 me your present employer is willing to give you would 
 be of little if, indeed, of any use. What you are 
 looking for is only found through a private introduc- 
 tion, and even then the hearing of such a position is a 
 matter of pure chance, or rather, I should say, of 
 exceptional luck. Highly trained, attractive girls are 
 finding it difficult now to get regular employment as 
 secretaries at three pounds a week, with no question 
 of living in. The market is flooded with women of 
 every age, class, and qualification looking for work. 
 
152 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 The only type of woman for which there is a big 
 demand is every type of domestic servant/' 
 
 As she left the telephone a feeling of sombre despair 
 filled every cranny of Adelaide Strain's embittered 
 heart. 
 
 It was the thought of her child, of Gilly's present 
 and of Gilly's future, that caused her anguish. She 
 might appeal to Mintlaw — she told herself that in 
 time that might be her only way out. But the 
 thought of doing so was inexpressibly distasteful to 
 her. He had always been, he was now, Eva's friend, 
 not hers. She had no claim on him of any sort. 
 The most she could ask of him was to help her tide 
 over a time of acute difficulty, if and when that time 
 came. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 | 
 
 "mrs. raydon by her own admission met " 
 
 AS EVA walked out of Waterloo Station that 
 /-\ morning more than one pair of masculine 
 X Jk. e y es softened as they rested on her pretty, 
 youthful figure. She looked a mere girl in her beige 
 frock and plain little black straw pull-on hat. And 
 also, what sometimes makes beautiful even a plain 
 woman's face, she looked radiantly happy. 
 
 Small wonder that she felt absurdly young, and 
 more light-hearted than she had been for years, with 
 that open cheque for three thousand pounds lying 
 folded in the inner pocket of the rather large, though 
 still smart-looking, pigskin bag, in which she had put 
 her big bundle of unpaid bills. 
 
 She had not fully realized, till to-day, how much 
 those tiresome debts of hers had depressed her, or how 
 seldom she had succeeded in throwing off the slight 
 but irksome feeling of anxiety which had lain beneath 
 her apparently gay and buoyant spirits. 
 
 Eva Raydon really loved her husband, and she had 
 hated the thought of how angry he would be if he ever 
 discovered even half, even a quarter, of all she owed ! 
 Now she exulted in the knowledge that he would 
 never know, and she thought very kindly of Jack 
 153 
 
154 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Mintlaw, the generous friend who was doing her such 
 a good turn and asking nothing in exchange. 
 
 What a dear, good, kind chap Jack Mintlaw was — 
 and how unlike most men! Why, during that long 
 afternoon when they had been alone together yester- 
 day, though she knew with absolute knowledge 
 that he — well? — adored her, he had behaved just 
 beautifully. It was true that for two minutes or so 
 he had held her hand tightly under the rug when she 
 had first got into the car; but when she had taken her 
 hand away, he had made no effort to recapture it. 
 
 At the time she had thought him just a little too 
 chivalrous, too good! But now she was glad that 
 he had been "like that" yesterday. Had he made 
 love to her, had he even, what is such a different thing, 
 told her that he loved her, it would have made the 
 writing of the letter she had scribbled secretly, while 
 dressing to go up to town last night, much more diffi- 
 cult than she had found it 
 
 Dear, dear Jack! She would never forget his 
 kindness, his delicately worded generosity. How 
 wonderful it must be to be a millionaire! 
 
 Her bright face clouded as she remembered how 
 tiresome Birtley had shown himself, once or twice, 
 about men who liked her. She would have to be very 
 careful this time; she must, in fact, make him believe 
 that Jack Mintlaw was becoming his friend, rather 
 than hers. . . . 
 
 Eva almost ran out of the big station; gaily she 
 jumped into a taxi. Then, when once the door was 
 
"mrs. raydon met 
 
 155 
 
 safely shut by a smiling porter, she opened her bag, 
 and, glancing at Mintlaw's cheque, she saw that his 
 bank was in Old Broad Street. 
 
 Putting her head out of the window, she called out 
 the address with such joy in her voice that the driver 
 turned round and grinned at her. He hadn't often 
 so attractive a fare as was this charming little lady. 
 
 As the taxi spun along, Eva began uncomfortably 
 turning over in her mind the various sums she owed of 
 which her husband knew absolutely nothing; and at 
 last she took the bundle of bills and a pencil out of her 
 bag, and began scribbling down the figures on the last 
 pages of her miniature diary. 
 
 In addition to the thirteen hundred pounds due to 
 Madame Domino, there were three or four other large 
 bills, some going back a very long way, with trades- 
 people whom she had kept quiet with frequent 
 small cheques on account. But there were, alas! 
 smaller bills, a great many of which she had more or 
 less forgotten; and when she added them all up she 
 found, to her genuine surprise and extreme dismay, 
 that the total amount was well over three thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 Thank goodness, she wasn't going to see old Mr. 
 Buck this morning! The head of the firm of Buck 
 and Hanson was one of the few men in the world who 
 had never really liked her or approved of her. Nasty, 
 sniffy old thing! He had certainly grudged her the 
 five thousand pounds her first husband's father had 
 left her — and he simply hated Birtley. 
 
I56 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Eva began to think hard, and the result of her 
 meditation was that she decided not to pay more than 
 five hundred pounds on account to-day to Madame 
 Domino. For one thing, as her husband was never to 
 know of this wonderful windfall, it would be very 
 unwise on her part to pay too much too suddenly. 
 If he found out she had done that, he would un- 
 doubtedly demand an explanation which it would 
 not be easy to make at all plausible. 
 
 She told herself, too, that Birtley ought to help 
 her over some of these bills. She felt sure he could if 
 he liked. He was always a little mysterious over his 
 money matters. And when one thought of all the 
 money his mother — narrow-minded, censorious old 
 Mrs. Raydon — saved every year, it was too absurd 
 that they should be always hard up. . . . 
 
 The taxi stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Shall I wait, miss?" asked the man. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes — do wait!" 
 
 She ran up the steps into the bank. There were 
 comparatively few people there, for by now it was 
 nearly one o'clock. 
 
 Taking the cheque out of her bag, she pushed it 
 under the high brass grille. Then she smiled a 
 delightful happy smile at the young cashier. But his 
 face changed a little when he saw the amount for 
 which the cheque was made out. 
 
 "Do you mind telling me your name, madam?" 
 
 She hesitated a perceptible moment, then took one 
 of her visiting cards out of her bag. 
 
'MRS. RAYDON MET 
 
 157 
 
 "Have you your passport/' he asked, "or any other 
 means of identification ? " 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. 
 
 "No, I never thought that anything of the sort 
 would be required. The cheque is not made out to 
 me." 
 
 "Will you wait a moment, please? Perhaps you 
 would like to sit down on the bench over there. " 
 
 She felt a sudden sensation of acute anxiety sweep 
 over her. Surely they weren't going to make any 
 trouble over Jack Mintlaw's open cheque? He had 
 made it out to self, and endorsed it on the back. 
 Didn't that make it all right ? 
 
 After what seemed a long while, the young man 
 came back. 
 
 "This cheque is for such a large amount," he said 
 hesitatingly. "Haven't you a banking account 
 through which you could pass it in the ordinary 
 way?" 
 
 "I have a banking account" — she was taken 
 aback, just a little frightened, by his manner and 
 look — "but I don't want to pass it through my 
 account. Am I compelled to do so?" 
 
 "Perhaps you would not mind seeing the manager 
 for a moment?" 
 
 She followed the cashier into the manager's room, 
 and then she felt more at ease, for the man who got 
 up to meet her from behind a large writing-table 
 looked at her kindly. 
 
 "An open cheque for so large an amount as three 
 
158 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 thousand pounds is seldom brought in to be changed 
 for cash by a stranger. Would you object to our 
 telephoning to Colonel Mintlaw?" 
 
 "Please do," she said eagerly. 
 
 "Do you know where he is likely to be found just 
 now?" 
 
 "He is staying at the Anchor Inn, Swanmere. 
 The number is 18 Farlow." 
 
 The manager stayed away for about five minutes. 
 Then he came back, and looking at her anxious face 
 he exclaimed, "It's all right! And you must accept 
 my apologies" — he glanced at the card he had in his 
 hand — "Mrs. Birtley Raydon, for having raised the 
 question. But I think you will understand " 
 
 "Of course I understand! It's such a tremendous 
 lot of money, isn't it?" 
 
 One of the attaching points about lovely Eva 
 Raydon was that she was never cross, never put out, 
 never disagreeable. 
 
 She held out her hand. "Thank you so much! 
 Colonel Mintlaw is a very old friend of mine — I knew 
 him during the war." 
 
 The manager smiled. He told himself that she was 
 no doubt a charming little war-widow, and that soon 
 he would hear of her approaching marriage to his 
 wealthy client. On the whole, he thought his client 
 was very much to be envied. 
 
 It is doubtful if there was in the whole City of 
 London a human being so absolutely happy as was 
 Eva Raydon as she almost danced into her taxi with 
 
"MRS. RAYDON MET " 
 
 159 
 
 her three thousand pounds in bank notes — hundreds, 
 fifties, tens, and fives — stuffed into her bag. 
 
 She felt, indeed, almost overawed at her marvellous 
 good luck. 
 
 After a moment's quick thought, she told the man 
 to drive to the Carlton Hotel. She had pleasant 
 associations with the Carlton Grill; it was there that 
 she had been entertained — whenever she was given 
 the choice of a restaurant — during the war. 
 
 Quiet though the city be in early September, it took 
 her what seemed a long time to reach the Haymarket. 
 She gave her driver two shillings over the fare, then 
 ran down the once familiar flight of stairs, and or- 
 dered an austere little lunch, for she had all your 
 modern young woman's fear of losing her slim, girlish 
 figure. 
 
 What fun to be sitting again in the luxurious, quiet, 
 low-pitched room where she had spent such happy 
 hours in the old days, when she was still a widow! 
 
 She smiled roguishly to herself at the thought of 
 how dreadfully shocked Birtley would feel were he 
 suddenly to see her sitting there eating a plain grilled 
 cutlet, which would doubtless figure in her bill at 
 about four times the price it would have cost when 
 raw in a butcher's shop. Her husband was fond of 
 making these sorts of calculations. Yet he was also 
 fond of good food, though, unlike Eva, he liked it to 
 be rich, and elaborately cooked. What he most 
 enjoyed was an excellent prix-fixe dinner, accom- 
 panied by the playing of a good band. He then felt, 
 
i6o 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 especially if free dancing on a perfect floor were in- 
 cluded, that he had had value for his money. 
 
 The waiter who served Eva, and who actually 
 remembered her from far-ofF days, was delighted at 
 the size of her tip. But Eva was in a generous mood 
 to-day. Already, as we know, she had given another 
 tip, one of ten shillings, that morning to little Gilly, 
 as she and a great company of men and women of all 
 ages and of all conditions of life were, later on, to have 
 good reason to remember. 
 
 After she had left the restaurant, there came what 
 the French call " le quart d'heure de Rabelais" She 
 drove about from shop to shop, from noted dress- 
 maker to noted milliner, rather dolefully paying that 
 moiety of her debts that, as the afternoon wore on, 
 she felt able and inclined to pay 
 
 By the end of two and a half hours, for it took her 
 all that time to pay out the monies, and to wait for 
 the stamping of the receipts, she had only six hundred 
 pounds left of Jack Mintlaw's miraculous gift. Still, 
 what a tremendous lot of money was six hundred 
 pounds — more than a whole year's pin-money! 
 
 She dismissed her taxi at half-past four, at the end 
 of Bond Street, and before she had come to the place 
 where the war-day Wigwam had once stood, she had 
 managed to spend thirty-odd pounds of the money 
 left to her, over pretty, attractive, and more or less 
 useless, trifles. 
 
 But it was a long, long time since Eva Raydon had 
 enjoyed what her grandmother had once described as 
 
"MRS. RAYDON MET " 
 
 161 
 
 "pocket ease," and she revelled in the delicious and 
 unwonted sensation. 
 
 She even bought, as a present for her husband, a 
 costly amber cigarette-holder. Birtley Raydon had 
 always been rather fussy about his health, and lately 
 he had had cause to be, for he had frequent bouts of 
 slight indigestion. This was one reason why he had 
 taken to smoking cigarettes with a holder. . . . 
 
 And then there did come just a queer little contre- 
 temps in this otherwise perfect day. The dear old 
 Wigwam, where she and the Jack Mintlaw of long ago 
 had spent such happy hours during the war years, had 
 completely disappeared! Again and again Eva 
 walked up and down that section of Bond Street 
 where the famous tea-shop restaurant had been, and 
 there came over her such a curious feeling — as if she 
 was a feminine Rip Van Winkle in a London that 
 knew her not. 
 
 Very disconcerting was that sensation, even to one 
 as unimaginative as was Birtley Raydon's wife. 
 
 And then, all at once, a delicious feeling of warmth, 
 of radiance, of slipping backwards into the happy 
 past, instead of being projected into an empty future, 
 enveloped her, for Jack Mintlaw had suddenly come 
 up behind her. 
 
 "Eva?" he exclaimed, "thank God you're here! 
 I feel as if I'd been waiting hours. The dear old Wig- 
 wam has gone — but I've found another place that I 
 think will do very well." 
 
 He put his hand on her arm, and they walked 
 
l62 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 quickly across the bare-looking roadway, for Bond 
 Street is almost deserted in early autumn. 
 
 For once Eva remained silent; she was deeply 
 moved at the thought of the great kindness which had 
 just been done her by the man now by her side. 
 
 At last she said in a trembling voice, "Jack, I 
 want to say how grateful I am to you for that wonder- 
 ful cheque. I can't tell you the difference it's 
 made " 
 
 He cut her short. "That's all right," he said 
 briefly. "The real fun of having money is being able 
 to help one's friends." 
 
 Eva spent a very happy hour in the tea-shop. She 
 told herself, childishly, that she would again have 
 "a burst" for once, so she forgot her figure and 
 insisted on eating three ices and three cream cakes 
 instead of having a milkless, sugarless tea. 
 
 Listening to her happy chatter, and watching her 
 artless enjoyment of her "burst," Jack Mintlaw told 
 himself tenderly that in many ways Eva had re- 
 mained a child, a delightful, high-spirited — he did 
 not say, even to himself, an extravagant and selfish 
 —child. 
 
 And Mintlaw was not the only man who thought 
 of Eva in that tender, indulgent way that fourth day 
 of September. Thus also she impressed her husband 
 when — once they were comfortably settled in their 
 empty first-class carriage — she gleefully produced the 
 amber cigarette-holder which she had bought for him 
 that afternoon. 
 
"MRS. RAYDON MET " 
 
 163 
 
 While just a little vexed at her extravagance, he 
 yet felt touched and pleased by her thought for him. 
 An extravagance is never so much an extravagance 
 when it is directly beneficial to the critic. 
 
 But when Birtley Raydon tried to make Eva de- 
 scribe her interview with Mr. Buck, her face clouded. 
 "Isn't it enough that I've done what you wanted me 
 to do ? I don't want to talk about it," she murmured 
 pettishly. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "as hungry as a hunter " 
 
 SOON after Birtley Raydon had left for Lon- 
 don, his lady-housekeeper received a letter 
 giving the exact time the new cook intended 
 to arrive at The Mill House in the middle of the next 
 week. 
 
 That meant that now she, Adelaide Strain, had her 
 marching orders, and she began to feel sorry she 
 hadn't spoken to Miss Jameson this morning. 
 
 But she had then been in a state of almost hysteri- 
 cal dismay, and very unlike her usual sensible, sober 
 self. So perhaps her instinct to say nothing had been 
 a wise one, after all. Still, the sooner Miss Jameson 
 now knew that she was leaving the Raydons, the 
 better. As it was not the sort of confidence she 
 cared to make over the telephone, she made up her 
 mind to go again to the Cottage Hospital after tea. 
 
 While she was eating her solitary lunch, and dur- 
 ing the earlier part of that long afternoon, she again 
 recalled, with painful vividness, her hopeless search 
 for work. More than once the thought of the three 
 guineas she had recently spent on a new evening frock 
 brought with it a sharp pang of regret. What she 
 ought to have bought was a neat and becoming coat 
 164 
 
"as hungry as a hunter " 165 
 
 and skirt in which she could have interviewed possible 
 employers. 
 
 At last she rang and told the parlourmaid she would 
 have her tea out of doors, under the cedar tree on the 
 lawn. 
 
 She had come to love the old garden of The Mill 
 House, and this last summer, when the Raydons 
 and their guests were on the river or out motoring, 
 she had spent many solitary hours there, feeling, if 
 not happy, then certainly at peace. 
 
 Just after the tea table and tray had been brought 
 out by Powell, the parlourmaid, a motor stopped in 
 the road, the gate of The Mill House swung open, and 
 Dr. Durham, the kindly, old-fashioned country doc- 
 tor who had looked, for close on forty years, after the 
 ailments of all the people, gentle and simple, who 
 lived in that healthy neighbourhood, came through it. 
 
 Adelaide Strain got up from her wicker chair, and 
 walked across the grass to meet him. "Dr. Dur- 
 ham? You're just in time for a cup of tea!" 
 
 There was a cordial note in her voice. The doctor 
 was one of the few people whom she had really come 
 to like in the last year, and he, on his side, was one of 
 the few local people who really liked the Raydons' 
 lady-housekeeper. 
 
 He thought Mrs. Strain, if in a physical sense un- 
 attractive, such a sensible, intelligent woman. She 
 was so different from the majority of his nerve- 
 racked, over-prosperous women patients; so different, 
 also, though he would hardly have said so even to 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 himself, from his own foolish, affected wife. He ad- 
 mired, too, Mrs. Strain's ardent, selfless devotion to 
 her little son. 
 
 "I shall be glad of some tea. But don't send for 
 another cup; Til have some in this basin, for I'm 
 rather in a hurry. Is Mr. Raydon in bed?" 
 
 Mrs. Strain looked very much surprised. "He's 
 in London. Surely you haven't come to see Mr. 
 Raydon?" 
 
 "Indeed I have! He telephoned to my house 
 this morning, said he didn't feel well, and seemed, so 
 my wife said, very disappointed not to find me in." 
 
 A satirical look came over Adelaide Strain's thin, 
 bloodless-looking face. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Raydon went to town last night, 
 and had dinner at the Ritz. Then they went on to 
 a night club — they both love dancing, you know — 
 and before starting back they had, I suppose, supper 
 at the club. I admit that he certainly didn't look 
 well this morning; but then — can you wonder?" 
 
 She was pouring out the tea while she spoke, taking 
 the doctor at his word, using, that is, the pretty basin 
 as a cup. 
 
 He had already sat down in a deep wide garden 
 chair heaped up with cushions, and he looked round 
 with a feeling of restfulness which he found very 
 pleasant. 
 
 "I really think The Mill House by far the most 
 attractive house in Swanmere," he exclaimed. "It's 
 
"as hungry as a hunter " 167 
 
 a pity our young friends have no children, Mrs. 
 Strain." 
 
 "If they felt the lack of them it would be a terrible 
 pity, but they neither of them want a child/' 
 
 She spoke in a tone of marked decision. "They're 
 completely absorbed in each other, and in themselves, 
 Dr. Durham." 
 
 "A typical modern couple," he said thoughtfully. 
 There was a pause, and while they were both drinking 
 their tea Adelaide Strain was wondering whether she 
 had better tell the doctor she was leaving the Ray- 
 dons, and how all-important it was for her — or rather 
 for Gilly — to find another well-paid post. After all, 
 she might as well enlist this kind man's help and 
 sympathy. 
 
 And then, just as she was going to tell him her 
 troubles, Dr. Durham exclaimed, "Well, I ought 
 to be going now! I'm on my way to Miss Jameson 
 at the Cottage Hospital. She has been wonderfully 
 good to an unfortunate patient of mine " 
 
 The words she had been going to utter died away 
 on her lips. She naturally did not wish Miss Jameson 
 to hear her bad news from any one but herself. 
 
 After they had both stood up, the old doctor turned 
 and gazed into her worn face. It was paler than 
 usual to-day. 
 
 "You look very tired," he exclaimed, and there 
 was concern as well as kindness in his voice. "Fm 
 afraid our young couple here are a very selfish pair, 
 
i68 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Mrs. Strain. You work far too hard to make them 
 comfortable. I hope they realize all they owe to you ! 
 Are you going to have a holiday soon? You look as 
 if you needed one." 
 
 "I may be going to have a holiday," she said 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "That's right! I'll willingly drop a hint to Mrs. 
 Raydon " 
 
 "Oh, no, I shouldn't like you to do that." 
 
 Again she almost told him that she was leaving 
 The Mill House. But again she checked herself. 
 
 "Perhaps you will kindly tell Mr. Raydon that I 
 just looked in. I daresay he'll come round and see 
 me on Saturday; he doesn't go to town on Saturdays, 
 does he?" 
 
 "No, hardly ever, for they generally have people on 
 that day to lunch, tea, and even dinner." 
 
 "Then do they never have any rest?" 
 
 Once more she smiled satirically by way of answer; 
 and then she began walking with him toward the gate. 
 
 "And do look after yourself," he said solicitously. 
 "I don't like to see you looking so tired, Mrs. 
 Strain. But your little boy is in fine form, isn't he ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed he is!" 
 
 Her face lit up at the mention of her child, and the 
 old man felt moved. One reason why he himself had 
 disliked Birtley Raydon more than usual, lately, was 
 because of Raydon's refusal to have Gilly Strain at 
 The Mill House for the summer holidays. The doc- 
 tor knew with what almost painful care Gilly's 
 
''AS HUNGRY AS A HUNTER — ■ — " 169 
 
 mother had kept Gilly out of her employers' sight and 
 mind when the boy had been their guest last Christ- 
 mas, and at Easter. 
 
 As Adelaide Strain stood at the gate, and watched 
 Dr. Durham drive off in his car, she suddenly told 
 herself that it would have been, well — rather amusing 
 to have asked him one or two questions concerning 
 the action of a certain well-known poison. 
 
 She knew that it would not have seemed at all odd 
 for her to ask him such a question or questions, for he 
 was aware that she, like most intelligent people, was 
 interested in the effect of drugs on the human body. 
 At one time he had supplied her with a strychnine 
 tonic, and she recalled a little talk they had had 
 concerning the curative and other effects of certain 
 poisons. 
 
 Her face darkened as she remembered what he had 
 said as to her own condition. She felt disturbed that 
 Dr. Durham thought she looked so tired, for she 
 knew, with a bitter knowledge, that employers have 
 an instinctive prejudice against people in that con- 
 dition. Mournfully she faced the fact that in the 
 labour market someone fresh and young-looking is 
 naturally preferred to a woman looking as she looked 
 to-day. 
 
 With a feeling of anxiety and unease she deter- 
 mined to try and rest during the next few days. And, 
 as a result of the doctor's remarks, instead of going 
 again to the place on the lawn where she had been 
 sitting, she went towards the house. She might as 
 
170 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 well lie down, now, for an hour, for she had given up 
 all thought of going to the Cottage Hospital this 
 afternoon. To-morrow morning would be quite time 
 enough to tell Miss Jameson her bad news. 
 
 The lady-housekeeper of The Mill House was still 
 lying down, an unprecedented thing for her to do in 
 the afternoon, when she was awakened by the sound 
 of Birtley and Eva Raydon coming into the hall, Eva 
 in peals of laughter at some joke of Birtley's. 
 
 She wondered hazily what Eva had told her hus- 
 band as to her imaginary interview with the solicitor, 
 Mr. Buck. Unless questioned she had probably said 
 nothing. But Raydon would be sure to ask her to 
 tell him everything that had happened. He had 
 an uneasy respect, as well as a strong dislike, for 
 Mr. Buck. 
 
 The spare figure and keen face of the cultivated 
 old lawyer rose before Adelaide Strain. Mr. Buck 
 was one of the few men whom Eva had never been 
 able to get round, but the noted family solicitor liked 
 and respected her, Eva's friend. Indeed they knew 
 one another quite well. He had had to do with her 
 several times during those years when she and Eva 
 had lived together, and when Eva, to use an old 
 phrase, had more than once outrun the constable. 
 
 On two occasions she, Adelaide Strain, had 
 persuaded Mr. Buck to do what he had declared he 
 would never do, that was to allow Eva a certain 
 moiety of her annuity in advance. Bur Eva Raydon 
 
"as hungry as a hunter " 171 
 
 never now recalled those days when she had had such 
 constant reason to be grateful to the woman who 
 was being sent away so unceremoniously from The 
 Mill House next week, or, if she did recall them, 
 it was always in connection with some trifling event 
 concerning herself. 
 
 Although Mrs. Strain heard Eva's happy voice 
 calling out her name more than once during the next 
 half hour, she remained in her own room, lying down 
 till she knew she would only just have time to dress 
 for dinner. 
 
 They all three met downstairs, in the drawing- 
 room, just before eight o'clock. Eva ran up and kissed 
 the other woman affectionately. 
 
 "I couldn't think where you were," she exclaimed. 
 And then, "I looked for you everywhere! Of course 
 I thought you were out. I wanted to ask you some- 
 thing very important!" 
 
 To that Mrs. Strain made no answer; but she told 
 herself, with a kind of acrid satisfaction, that it would 
 be a relief, at any rate, to be no longer at Eva's beck 
 and call. 
 
 Suddenly she turned to the man who was still her 
 employer. 
 
 "Dr. Durham called this afternoon. He thought 
 you wanted to see him, Mr. Raydon; he was quite 
 surprised to hear that you had gone to town to-day." 
 
 "I didn't feel quite the thing this morning. You 
 know, 'Mondayish'! Also I had a bit of a pain 
 in my back That was why I telephoned to know 
 
172 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 if I could see him on my way to the station. But he 
 was out, so I've saved half a guinea. I'm feeling all 
 right now, and as hungry as a hunter!" 
 
 After they had sat down in the octagon-shaped 
 dining-room, which was one of the most delightful 
 features of the old house, Birtley Raydon proved 
 the truth of what he had just said, for he enjoyed 
 every mouthful of the well-planned little dinner set 
 before him. 
 
 As for Eva, mindful of her figure, and remembering 
 this afternoon's secret "burst," she simply watched 
 the others eat. 
 
 The knowledge that she was now only a little in 
 debt, the delightful fact that she possessed upstairs, 
 in her pigskin bag, over five hundred pounds, 
 caused her to feel absolutely content, at peace with 
 herself, and all the world besides. 
 
 During the few moments that she and the lady- 
 housekeeper were alone in the drawing-room, while 
 Raydon was finishing his second glass of port, Eva 
 managed to give her old friend an amusing, if sketchy, 
 account of her exciting day in town. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AFTER . . . DINNER 
 
 THEY all three had coffee in the drawing- 
 room. And after Birtley Raydon had smoked 
 a cigar, and his wife two cigarettes, Eva ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "It's awfully hot in here! Why shouldn't we go 
 out into the garden? It will be ever so much nicer 
 there. We might walk up and down by the river for 
 a bit. I've had no exercise to-day, and I'm sure you 
 haven't, old boy " 
 
 She turned her smiling face first to her husband 
 and then to Adelaide Strain. The latter, however, 
 shook her head. 
 
 "I think I'll just stay quietly in here for a little 
 while, and then I'll go up to bed." 
 
 The lady-housekeeper had never troubled her two 
 employers with much of her company. Indeed, as 
 often as not, she went off straight after dinner to the 
 garden-room, there to sit alone, reading or sewing, for 
 the rest of the evening. 
 
 "Before you go upstairs, will you see that there's a 
 good supply of ice for my shandy-gafF, Mrs. Strain ? 
 I was very much vexed at there being no ice left in the 
 house the night before last." 
 
 173 
 
174 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 It was the third time Birtley Raydon had spoken to 
 the woman who was still in charge of the household 
 arrangements at The Mill House of the fact that the 
 ice had given out on Sunday. And she wondered, 
 now, whether he would say that sort of thing to Eva 
 after she, Adelaide Strain, had left. She told herself 
 that in time even he would see the uselessness of 
 doing so. 
 
 It was pleasant to reflect how very uncomfortable 
 he was going to be from next week onward. 
 
 Now, all she said in answer to his ungracious re- 
 mark was, "There is plenty of ice to-night, Mr. 
 Raydon." 
 
 With a view to keeping his weight down, Birtley 
 Raydon essayed to be temperate at meals, but he 
 always took a tall glass of shandy-gaff just before 
 going up to bed. 
 
 As she opened the drawing-room door, Eva, for- 
 getting that Adelaide Strain was still there, turned 
 out the electric light. But the woman left behind in 
 the room was grateful for the sudden darkness and, 
 as she lay back in one of the big chintz-covered chairs, 
 she told herself with a despondent sensation of fear 
 that it was frightening to feel so weary in spite of her 
 unwonted rest. 
 
 She longed to go to bed, but she felt too tired even 
 to get up and ring for the parlourmaid in order to 
 remind her to be sure to bring in plenty of ice. Also, 
 the maids must be having their supper just now, and 
 she had made it a rule, which she had even com- 
 
<f WHAT HAPPENED AFTER . . . DINNER " 175 
 
 pelled Eva to respect, never to disturb the servants 
 at their meals. 
 
 If she went to bed now she knew she would not 
 sleep, so she might as well wait downstairs till the 
 tray was brought into the hall. That couldn't be 
 very long now, for already it had struck half-past 
 nine, and although it was so hot, even sultry, for 
 September, the days were closing in, and it was quite 
 dark. 
 
 At last, thanks to the stillness and peace brooding 
 over the long room, she began to feel less nervously 
 fatigued. 
 
 Getting up from her easy chair she walked to the 
 door, opened it, and, crossing the brightly lit hall, 
 went into the garden-room. 
 
 Why not wait there, in her own quarters, till the 
 parlourmaid brought the tray into the hall, for 
 she had no wish to see the Birtley Raydons again 
 to-night. 
 
 For the hundredth time since Eva had given 
 her notice, Adelaide Strain told herself, wordlessly, 
 that she had never known a man and a woman so 
 completely, so selfishly, absorbed in themselves, and 
 in their own futile concerns, as were those happy two. 
 
 It was not only hot, but airless, too, so leaving 
 the room in darkness she went across to the long 
 French window, and looked out into the garden, feel- 
 ing if less tired yet restless, and very heavy-hearted. 
 
 Suddenly there rose on the heavy air the sound of 
 voices close by. . . . 
 
ij6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Her employers were evidently sitting together on a 
 bench which stood to the left of the window, and 
 with no thought of eavesdropping she overheard the 
 following words, uttered in Raydon's most peevish 
 voice: 
 
 "What rot you do talk sometimes, Eva! We don't 
 owe her anything — in fact, she's been grossly over- 
 paid. She's got very careless, too, lately. Last 
 month's bills were nearly five pounds more than the 
 first month she was with us last year, yet the price 
 of living has actually gone down three points." 
 
 "We had a lot of people down last month, while 
 you were having your holiday, darling." 
 
 Eva's soft voice was rather more defiant, more 
 decided, than usual. 
 
 There was a pause, and then Eva spoke again, "I 
 do hope she'll get a good job, Birtley, because of little 
 Gilly." 
 
 Birtley Raydon's answer came at once, coarsely, 
 jeeringly, emphatic: 
 
 "I loathe that child! Beastly, unnatural little 
 prig — always with a book in his hand. As for a job — 
 Mrs. Strain will be jolly lucky if she gets sixty pounds 
 a year and her keep! No one will take her for her 
 looks; she's one of the plainest women of her age I 
 ever saw. And for all she has such a good opinion of 
 herself, she's never had a business training. I found 
 out the other day that she doesn't even know double 
 entry!" 
 
 Double entry ? A curious expression with which to 
 
U WHAT HAPPENED AFTER . . . DINNER " IJJ 
 
 steel a heart, but that expression did steel Adelaide 
 Strain's heart, and caused her veins to fill, as it were, 
 with running fire. 
 
 She heard the two get up and stroll away, towards 
 a stone-paved path that bounded the property on 
 the river side. 
 
 The master of The Mill House was fond of walking 
 up and down that path, maybe a dozen times, before 
 he went to bed. It gave him a pleasant feeling that 
 he had had what he called "a bit of exercise. " Dr. 
 Durham had told him long ago that he ought not only 
 to diet, but also to do a certain amount of walking 
 each day. 
 
 Meanwhile, the woman just within the window of 
 the garden-room stood for a few moments still as an 
 image carved of wood or stone. 
 
 At last she stepped out of doors into the garden, 
 so hurt, so angry, so filled with hatred of Birtley 
 Raydon, that for a few moments she was hardly 
 aware of what she was doing. 
 
 For a while she walked to and fro over the lawn. 
 Then, still moving as if in a dream, she crossed 
 over to the herbaceous border, and followed it till she 
 found herself close to the gate with which terminated 
 the gravel path. 
 
 Turning, she went down the path, her high-heeled 
 evening shoes crunching on the gravel, till she stood 
 on the threshold of the still brightly lighted hall. 
 
 For a few moments, dazzled by the light, she saw 
 nothing. Then she gradually began to see every- 
 
I78 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 thing that was there, and notably that the tray, laden 
 with decanters and glasses, stood on the table where 
 it was always put each evening. It had been brought 
 in, obviously, while she was overhearing Raydon's 
 cruel jeering words concerning herself and her boy, 
 Gilly. 
 
 Taking a step forward, she stood listening intently 
 just inside the open front door. 
 
 From the road, on the other side of the wall hard 
 by, she heard the sound of two young voices murmur- 
 ing together. But the old Mill House was very still. 
 There came no movement from the servants' quarters 
 or from upstairs. 
 
 Treading lightly now, she went across the hall, up 
 to the side-table on which stood the tray. 
 
 When close to it she deliberately so placed herself 
 that the table, and all that was on it, would have 
 been entirely concealed from any one who, in the 
 darkness of the night, might have crept up silently 
 across the grass outside the open door. . . . 
 
 With quick deft fingers she opened her gray 
 velvet evening bag and, taking out of it the envelope 
 addressed to herself, which she had transferred from 
 her day bag to her evening bag just before she went 
 down to dinner, she shook out of it the two or three 
 pinches of powder it had contained, into the only 
 tall glass on the tray. . . . 
 
 Now Birtley Raydon, who was constitutionally a 
 very lazy man, hated even the little trouble of mixing 
 
"WHAT HAPPENED AFTER . . . DINNER " 179 
 
 his nightcap of shandy-gaff, and it had become one of 
 Mrs. Strain's regular duties to do so for him. 
 
 To-night, after she had poured out the beer and 
 ginger-beer with a steady hand, and put into the 
 tall glass plenty of broken ice, she went out again 
 into the garden. 
 
 But this time she avoided the gravel path and 
 stepped up at once on to the lawn. 
 
 There she stood, very still, realizing what it was 
 that she had just done. Then, clasping her hands 
 together, she told herself, consciously, that the die 
 was not yet cast. 
 
 It was still open to her to go back into the hall, 
 walk quickly over to the table, and pour the contents 
 of that tall glass which now stood on the tray out on 
 to the grass on which she was now standing, close to 
 the hall door. 
 
 But at the moment of final decision she again 
 heard rising on the calm air the hateful, familiar 
 voice of Birtley Raydon. 
 
 This time he was saying something about the boat- 
 house. 
 
 She slipped quickly indoors again, and then she 
 noticed that the drawing-room door was wide open. 
 She had not realized that this was so when she had 
 been in the hall — was it five minutes, or aeons of 
 time ago? 
 
 With a sudden sensation of abject dread she walked 
 through the door, and turned up the electric light. 
 
i8o 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Of course there was no one concealed in the pretty 
 long sitting-room which was so little used during the 
 summer months of the year, save in the evening; and 
 she told herself, vexedly, that it was foolish of her to 
 have thought there could be. 
 
 Deliberately she turned out the light and, groping 
 her way to a chair, she sat down, feeling breathless, 
 spent — almost, indeed, as if she had been running a 
 race. 
 
 Had her child's life depended on it, she could not 
 have said how long it was before she heard Eva's light 
 footsteps in the hall, and then the sound of something 
 being poured from a jug into a glass. But on hearing 
 that sound the lady-housekeeper got up from her 
 chair in the dark drawing-room, and came out into 
 the hall. 
 
 "Addie? Not gone up yet? You did startle me! 
 Have you been sitting there in the dark all this 
 time?" 
 
 Mrs. Strain parried the question by another. 
 
 44 Where's Mr. Raydon?" she asked. 
 
 "He thought he heard someone in the boat-house. 
 He's so tiresome — always thinking that!" 
 
 And as his wife said the word "that," Birtley 
 Raydon hurried into the hall from the garden. 
 
 Adelaide Strain gazed at him fixedly. How — how 
 curious to see him standing there, looking so strong, 
 so full of life and, though he was not really in good 
 condition, of vigour. 
 
 At last she turned away and stared at the pale 
 
"WHAT HAPPENED AFTER . . . DINNER " l8l 
 
 green panelled wall. She was experiencing a physical 
 sensation she had never experienced before. It was 
 as if the whole of her slight body was in a state of 
 violent internal commotion. 
 
 She seemed to hear a stufBess voice say: "Seize 
 that glass. Rush with it to the open door. Fling 
 it down on the ground. Even if the glass breaks, you 
 can pay for it." 
 
 But it was as if she could not obey that stuffless 
 voice. Even the power to move seemed to have left 
 her. 
 
 "I hope you've put in plenty of ice this evening?" 
 she heard Raydon say, in an unpleasant carping tone 
 of voice. 
 
 "Yes, I think you'll find that there's plenty of ice 
 this evening," she heard herself answer tonelessly. 
 
 "Good!" he exclaimed. And taking the tall full 
 glass of shandy-gafF from off* the tray, he thirstily 
 drained it to the last drop. 
 
 Then he said waggishly, "I say, Eva. You'll have 
 to buck up a bit after Mrs. Strain has gone! Mind 
 you see that our new cook always keeps up a good 
 supply of ice; I hate tepid drinks!" 
 
 His wife was still sipping daintily her glass of iced 
 lemonade. 
 
 "Drinks are not tepid in winter, old boy. We 
 sha'n't be wanting ice beyond the next week or two." 
 
 Adelaide Strain also was now sipping some iced 
 lemonade. Her throat seemed curiously parched, 
 almost closed. There was a strange expression of 
 
182 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 surprise and of doubt on her pallid face. She was 
 feeling as if something at once incredible and irrevoca- 
 ble had taken place, and yet that it was something 
 that must surely be revocable, if she chose to make 
 it so ? 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "some hours later " 
 
 HOW long was it? One, two, three hours — 
 Adelaide Strain could not have told you how 
 long, and that though during all the long 
 fearful time of suspense and anguished waiting she 
 hardly knew for what, she had lain awake, listening 
 — before there came a loud, frightened knock at her 
 door, and the sound of Eva's voice crying, "Wake 
 up! Wake up, Addie! Birtley's frightfully ill!" 
 
 For a few moments the woman in bed cowered un- 
 der the bed-clothes, pretending not to hear. Then 
 the door opened, letting in a stream of bright light. 
 
 "Addie ! Addie ! " rang out again the old pet name 
 which Eva never used in front of her husband. 
 
 "Wake up! I'm terrified! Birtley's so ill " 
 
 And then at last Adelaide Strain sat up in bed. 
 Had it come? That awful moment she had tried to 
 assure herself hundreds of times since during this 
 long, long night, would never come? 
 
 She had gone so far at one moment as to vision the 
 dispensary with Miss Jameson standing at her white 
 deal table, engaged in the task of filling that sinister 
 blue bottle marked "Arsenic" with some kind of 
 harmless white powder of which there are so many in 
 use nowadays. . . . 
 
 183 
 
I84 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Eva burst into the room. She turned up the elec- 
 tric light and ran over to the bed. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Strain in a 
 dazed voice. 
 
 "Birtley's been fearfully sick, and he says he's 
 suffering agonies." 
 
 More quietly she added, "Perhaps I'm foolish to 
 be so frightened. Men do so hate pain." 
 
 The lady-housekeeper slipped out of bed; she 
 reached out for her dressing-gown, and wrapped it 
 round herself. 
 
 Surely this was a dream — a horrible nightmare, 
 born of her own fearful imaginings? But alas! woe 
 was her, she knew it was no dream. 
 
 Eva clutched her cold hand nervously. "Just 
 listen !" 
 
 But from the moment the door had opened Ade- 
 laide Strain had heard those awful moans. 
 
 "I suppose it was that iced drink on the top of his 
 dinner," Eva went on. 
 
 "I suppose it was." 
 
 She. heard herself give the stupid answer. Her 
 teeth were chattering, and she had never experienced 
 that peculiar and most disturbing physical sensation 
 before. 
 
 "D'you think a little brandy would do him good?" 
 asked Eva anxiously. "He wants me to send for Dr. 
 Durham, but I don't like to do that at three in the 
 morning — if it's only a bad attack of indigestion." 
 
 The other forced herself to say, "I expect it's only 
 
"some hours later " 
 
 indigestion. Yd better go downstairs and get the 
 brandy." 
 
 Anything, anything — to put off the going into that 
 luxurious room of agony and coming death. 
 
 She went quickly downstairs, and then, when in the 
 hall, she stopped and put her fingers over her ears. 
 
 She would have given years of her life to have been 
 able to run out of the house, away, away, away — 
 out of hearing of those agonizing, long-drawn-out, 
 heartrending groans. 
 
 But at last she walked through into the dining- 
 room, and turned up the light there, only to remem- 
 ber that Birtley Raydon had decided some time ago 
 to add the key of the cellarette to the keys he gener- 
 ally carried on his person. 
 
 Slowly she went up the staircase again and, after 
 waiting for a moment in the wide corridor, she 
 knocked at the Raydons' bedroom door. 
 
 "Come in! Come in!" 
 
 It was Eva's distracted voice. 
 
 Slowly Mrs. Strain turned the handle of the door 
 and walked through it into the room. 
 
 Birtley Raydon lay stretched across the large 
 low Italian painted bed. The embroidered yellow 
 silk coverlet lay in a heap on the floor — the bedclothes 
 were all in disarray, and among them Birtley Raydon 
 was lying on his face, groaning more feebly now. 
 
 "Where's the brandy?" asked Eva eagerly. 
 
 "I haven't the key of the cellarette. Mr. Raydon 
 took it away the other day," whispered the other. 
 
i86 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Seeing Birtley Raydon made her feel, somehow, 
 less afraid. He looked so big, so solid, lying there; 
 even, God help him! slightly ridiculous. 
 
 Also, she remembered, with a sensation of acute 
 relief, that he had "gone on" very much as he was 
 doing now last winter, when he had had an abscess 
 under one of his teeth. 
 
 Eva ran across to the bed, and leant over her 
 husband. 
 
 "Where's the key, darling — the key of the cellar- 
 ette?" 
 
 He muttered something hoarsely, and she looked 
 round, helplessly. 
 
 "I can't make out what he says! Oh, dear! 
 What shall we do?" 
 
 She came close up to Adelaide Strain, "I think I 
 ought to send for Dr. Durham, don't you, Addie?" 
 As she uttered the word "Addie", she instinctively 
 lowered her voice. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you ought to send for him." 
 
 The lady-housekeeper answered the half-question 
 with a slight touch of hesitation in her voice. 
 
 But after a moment she went on: "And I will call 
 the maids, and see about some fomentations." 
 
 On her way down to the telephone, Mrs. Strain 
 roused the servants, and ordered the fire to be lit in 
 the kitchen. And then, with a good deal of delay 
 and difficulty, she got through to Dr. Durham. 
 
 He was an old man, and she could hear his cross, 
 sleepy voice, " Eh ? What? Who is it?" 
 
"some hours later " 
 
 187 
 
 "I'm speaking from The Mill House. Mr. Birtley 
 Raydon has been taken ill. He complains of great 
 pain/' and she went into details, answering his ques- 
 tions quickly, accurately. 
 
 She had expected the doctor to be very much 
 surprised to hear of Birtley Raydon's sudden illness. 
 But he only called back in a grumpy tone: 
 
 "It's an attack of acute indigestion, of course! I 
 can't say I'm surprised if, as you tell me, he took a big 
 glass of iced shandy-gaff within less than a couple of 
 hours of his dinner. I suppose I must get up and 
 come round, eh?" 
 
 "I'm afraid you must. He seems to feel very bad, 
 and Eva is terrified " 
 
 "Very well. Say I'm coming." 
 
 But when, about half an hour later, Dr. Durham, 
 having arrived at The Mill House, had examined his 
 unfortunate patient, he became, from ill-tempered, 
 kind, and very grave. 
 
 Mrs. Strain saw a peculiar look come over his face, 
 and a sensation of chilling terror swept over her. 
 
 Beckoning the two women out into the corridor, 
 and addressing the sick man's wife, he said in a low 
 tone, and looking at her pityingly, "I'm afraid, Mrs. 
 Raydon, that you should at once send for your hus^ 
 band's mother." 
 
 "Oh, please not!" Eva clasped her hands together. 
 "Surely he can't be as bad as that, doctor? For 
 one thing it would frighten Birtley into fits if I sent 
 for old Mrs. Raydon." 
 
i88 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "In my opinion you ought to do so. I fear your 
 husband is dying." 
 "Dying!" 
 
 Eva gave a scream of protest. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" she cried violently. "Don't be 
 offended, Dr. Durham. But do let's telephone to 
 London for the biggest specialist you can think of, 
 and if he agrees with you, 1*11 send for my mother-in- 
 law." 
 
 "If you wait to do that, my dear," he was looking 
 at her with great kindness and sympathy, "she will 
 arrive too late to see her son alive." 
 
 "Very well, then ! Try and get through to Howard 
 Crescent, Addie," and Eva, like a frightened child, 
 burst into a storm of tears, while the doctor and Mrs. 
 Strain went downstairs, and so to the garden-room, 
 to get the two calls through to London 
 
 In answer to the agonized look on his companion's 
 face, for she asked no questions, Dr. Durham said 
 briefly: 
 
 "He was probably feeling the preliminary symp- 
 toms of what has just taken place, I mean perforation, 
 when he rang up my house this morning. I should 
 advise you, Mrs. Strain, to telephone to old Mrs. 
 Ray don before we try and get on to Pringle." 
 
 "Pringle?" she repeated, bewildered. 
 
 "Pringle's the best man for this sort of thing. But 
 having him down now is perfectly useless. However, 
 if it will bring any comfort to our poor little friend, of 
 course it must be done. I suppose she can afford it?" 
 
"some hours later " 189 
 
 "Oh, yes, she can afford anything/' said Mrs. 
 Strain in a strangled whisper. 
 
 She was telling herself that this was a dream, a 
 frightful, frightful dream, and that soon she would 
 wake to know that it was all untrue. 
 
 But it was no dream, and before either the famous 
 specialist or old Mrs. Raydon was able to reach Swan- 
 mere, Birtley Raydon lay dead. 
 
 It was Mrs. Strain who, to Dr. Durham's unaf- 
 fected admiration, soothed and "managed" the 
 unhappy, bewildered, terrified young widow, and 
 persuaded her to go to bed in her, Adelaide Strain's, 
 room, and to swallow a strong sleeping draught. 
 
 After Eva had settled down, Dr. Durham and the 
 lady-housekeeper held a short conference which 
 brought a measure of relief, even of comfort, to Ade- 
 laide Strain's fear-laden heart. 
 
 "It's most fortunate that I saw the poor chap less 
 than a fortnight ago. But for that I could not have 
 signed the death certificate. You may not have no- 
 ticed it, but he had rather avoided me before that. I 
 hadn't seen him, professionally of course I mean, for 
 over two months. It was as if he couldn't bring him- 
 self to forgive me for having told him that what he 
 really required was a good starve!" 
 
 "You mean that had you not seen Mr. Raydon 
 recently there would have had to be an inquest?" 
 she asked, and as she uttered the words she felt a 
 tremor of sick terror. 
 
 "Yes, of course I mean that." 
 
190 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 He looked at her with commiseration. Her face 
 was frightfully drawn and pale, and Dr. Durham told 
 himself what a good kind woman she must be to mind 
 so much; always he had resented Birtley Raydon's 
 short, peremptory way with the lady-housekeeper 
 who was also Mrs. Birtley Raydon's oldest friend. 
 
 That terrible morning seemed to have lasted so long 
 that Adelaide Strain lost count of time, and yet it 
 was only ten o'clock when the parlourmaid sought her 
 out to say in a subdued voice: 
 
 "There's a gentleman on the telephone who wants 
 to speak to you, ma'am. I have put it through again 
 to the garden-room." 
 
 A gentleman? She braced herself to answer — 
 who? 
 
 And then she heard what had once been such a 
 familiar voice exclaim, in a jovial tone, "May I speak 
 to Eva, Mrs. Strain? Or is it too early?" 
 
 For a few moments the woman sitting near the 
 telephone instrument in the garden-room said noth- 
 ing. For one thing, she could have sobbed with sheer 
 relief. 
 
 Then she whispered, "Are you alone, Colonel 
 Mintlaw?" 
 
 Somehow she did not feel she could call him 
 "Jack," as she had done in the old days. 
 "Yes — no — I'm speaking in a passage." 
 "I'm afraid I'm going to give you a great shock." 
 "Eh? What?" 
 
"some hours later "' 
 
 191 
 
 He was evidently very much disturbed. She 
 knew by the tone in which he said "Eh? What?" 
 that he thought she was going to give him bad news 
 of Eva. 
 
 "Mr. Birtley Raydon died this morning." 
 
 She heard the incredulous "Good God!" uttered 
 under the speaker's breath, followed by, "It must 
 have been very sudden?" 
 
 She answered tonelessly: "It was indeed. He 
 appeared quite well yesterday, though, as a matter of 
 fact, he had rung up the doctor in the morning. He 
 had had a good deal of indigestion these last few 
 months and, without any one knowing it, although 
 the doctor seems to have had a sort of half suspicion, 
 he had a duodenal ulcer, and something he ate or 
 drank last evening caused perforation." 
 
 "What an awful thing " he spoke in a hushed 
 
 tone. 
 
 "Everything was done that could be done," she 
 went on, speaking more firmly now. 
 
 "And Eva — how is Eva?" he murmured. 
 "She's quite prostrate." 
 
 There was a pause, and then, in a voice which was 
 lowered lest what she was going to say should be 
 overheard by someone in the Anchor Inn, "If I 
 were you, I should go back to town to-day," she said. 
 
 "You're right. I will, certainly. Poor chap! 
 You know we were to have met next Saturday?" 
 
 There was a defensive note in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, I knew that." 
 
192 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 She then asked hesitatingly, "Where will you be 
 staying in London?" 
 
 "At the Berkeley. I say— Addie?" 
 "Yes— Jack." 
 
 "Do say to Eva all that's proper for me. I really 
 
 am shocked, and, and " did he say the word 
 
 "sorry"? She could not feel quite sure. 
 
 It may have been her fancy, but it seemed to 
 Adelaide Strain that, as she went into the hall, 
 Powell, the parlourmaid, was standing suspiciously 
 near to the door she had just opened. 
 
 "The master's mother would like to see you, 
 ma'am, in the drawing-room. She told me to draw 
 down all the blinds, so I have been doing so. As 
 there are no blinds in the garden-room, may I draw 
 the curtains together?" 
 
 The lady-housekeeper said hastily, "Yes, of course 
 you may, Powell. I ought to have thought of the 
 blinds, but there seems to have been so much to do 
 this morning." 
 
 The parlourmaid looked at her with real sympathy. 
 The servants all liked Mrs. Strain. She was always 
 ready with praise where praise was due, and she had 
 been very kind, a few days ago, to a gardener's boy 
 of whom the maids at The Mill House had been fond, 
 and whom the man now lying dead upstairs had 
 accused of theft, with little, if any, evidence to go 
 upon. Mrs. Strain had bravely taken the lad's part, 
 and had gone so far as to say that she would give him 
 a character if Mr. Raydon refused to do so. . . t 
 
"some hours later " 
 
 193 
 
 With her hand on the handle of the door she stood 
 for more than a whole minute outside the drawing- 
 room, for she shrank inexpressibly from the thought 
 of facing Birtley Raydon's mother. 
 
 Mrs. Raydon had arrived at six that morning, only 
 a few moments after her son had drawn his last con- 
 vulsive breath, and ever since then, again and again, 
 Adelaide Strain had seen herself in the stern-lookingold 
 woman's place. Supposing it were she who had been 
 sent for to Gilly's death-bed — to arrive just too late? 
 
 Slowly she turned the handle of the door and forced 
 herself to walk into the shadowed room. 
 
 A fire had been lit in there this morning, for it had 
 turned cold and blustery. But Birtley Raydon's 
 mother sat far away from the fireplace, and she had 
 chosen one of the few upright, uncomfortable chairs. 
 But she rose to her feet, as the lady-housekeeper 
 came in. 
 
 "If you could spare the time," she said quietly, 
 "I should be very much obliged, Mrs. Strain, if you 
 would tell me exactly what happened last evening, 
 after my son came home?" 
 
 She sat down again, and somewhat imperiously 
 motioned to the younger woman to sit down, too. 
 
 "I wish to ask you a rather delicate question, and 
 I hope I may rely on you to give me a strictly truth- 
 ful answer." 
 
 Mrs. Strain bent her head. She could not bear to 
 see the look of set anguish in the other woman's 
 sunken gray eyes. 
 
194 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Were Birtley and his wife on apparently good 
 terms with one another last night?" 
 
 Without looking up the other answered at once, 
 "On excellent terms, Mrs. Raydon. They had both 
 been to town — Eva to see her lawyer about raising 
 the money to pay her dressmaker's bill." 
 
 There came a little colour into Adelaide Strain's 
 white face as she uttered the lying words. 
 
 "Did my daughter-in-law go into the matter of 
 the lawyer or the bill during the course of the eve- 
 ning?" 
 
 "I don't think so, but I cannot be sure, for they 
 both went out into the garden after dinner. It was 
 very hot, indeed sultry, last night." 
 
 "And you are sure there was no quarrel?" 
 
 "Quite sure, for when they came in again we were 
 all exceptionally cheerful, even merry. Mr. Raydon 
 was chaffing Eva about her poor housekeeping. You 
 are probably aware, Mrs. Raydon " 
 
 Adelaide Strain waited a moment, and the other, 
 seeing into her mind, said composedly: 
 
 "Yes, I am aware, Mrs. Strain, that my son was 
 going to tell you that he thought Eva ought in future 
 to manage her very simple household without your 
 kind help." 
 
 " Well, we just touched on that — and then we went 
 to bed." 
 
 Old Mrs. Raydon's hand wandered down to her 
 silk skirt. Unconsciously she smoothed out an 
 
"some hours later " 195 
 
 imaginary crease in it. She grew first red, then pale, 
 before she put her next question. 
 
 "Eva said something to me, but I really could not 
 make out what it was exactly she did say, about the 
 doctor having put down my son's death to an iced 
 drink he had had just before going to bed. But I 
 can hardly believe any doctor would say anything so 
 foolish. " 
 
 "I think what Dr. Durham meant was that the 
 iced drink, following on a hearty meal, may have 
 been the determining cause of the perforation which 
 led to his death." 
 
 There was a pause between the two women, and 
 then Birtley Raydon's mother said firmly, "As to the 
 perforation, that is only a theory of the doctor." 
 
 As she saw a look of surprise cross the other's face 
 she went on, "I mean that it is either true or not 
 true. In any case, it is one of the things which will 
 have to be ascertained." 
 
 She suddenly drew an envelope out of the deep 
 pocket of her full, old-fashioned skirt. 
 
 "Will you kindly address this for me to the doctor? 
 And then will you send it at once to his house? I do 
 not recall his name. But I have written and asked 
 him to come here and see me at his earliest conve- 
 nience. I shall defer my return to town till I have 
 seen him." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 "mysterious factors in the case " 
 
 OW Dr. Durham was no longer a young man. 
 
 He had been roused at about three o'clock 
 
 ^ that morning, and he had not gone to bed 
 again. Also, the death of the patient whom he had 
 never liked, and whom he had not regarded as being 
 in any real danger, had given him a considerable 
 shock. So he felt it to be rather hard on him that 
 poor Birtley Raydon's mother should insist on his 
 going to see her now, at once, before lunch. But 
 on coming in from his morning round he had found a 
 short note, written in a firm, upright, old-fashioned 
 lady's hand, pleading for his presence "as soon as 
 possible," and so he had started out again for the 
 place which he knew would henceforth hold for him a 
 sad and perplexing memory. 
 
 There was something impressively, massively, 
 gloomy about The Mill House, on this stormy Sep- 
 tember day. 
 
 The front door was shut; the blinds were all drawn 
 down; and the garden was deserted. 
 
 He rang the bell, and when at last Powell, the 
 parlourmaid, opened it, "I've come to see Mr. 
 
 196 
 
"mysterious factors in the case " 197 
 
 Raydon's mother," he explained, instinctively lower- 
 ing his voice. 
 
 Silently Powell ushered him into the darkened 
 drawing-room and, for a moment or two, the doctor 
 thought the room empty. Then he saw that a spare 
 elderly woman, of a calm, unruffled appearance, had 
 risen from a chair, and was gazing at him earnestly. 
 
 When he went close up to her he noticed, with a 
 feeling of deep pity, that though her face looked set, 
 even stern, her hands were twitching. 
 
 "I have asked you to come, doctor," she said, in a 
 low, clear voice, "in order to express to you my 
 desire that a post-mortem may be held as soon as 
 possible on the body of my son. I am not satisfied 
 with the explanation my daughter-in-law has given 
 me as to the cause of his death." 
 
 Dr. Durham felt a sudden sharp pang of irritation 
 pierce his weary brain. Still, he could imagine the 
 muddled, stupid way in which Mrs. Birtley Raydon 
 had doubtless transmitted his attempt to make her 
 understand what had brought about the unexpected, 
 and yet, he had quickly reasoned himself into be- 
 lieving, only too natural, tragedy. 
 
 "What happened," he exclaimed, perhaps a little 
 brusquely, "is quite simple, Mrs. Raydon." 
 
 He waited a moment, and she said quietly, "What, 
 according to you, doctor, did happen?" 
 
 Choosing his words carefully, he answered her: 
 
 "Your son had been suffering from indigestion for 
 a considerable time. Some months ago I tried to 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 persuade him to go on a rather strict diet. But he 
 did not care to do that, neither did he follow my ad- 
 vice and consult a leading specialist. I gather from 
 Mrs. Strain — he does not seem to have mentioned it 
 to his wife — that he had a certain amount of pain 
 yesterday morning. As a matter of fact, he tele- 
 phoned to my house to say that he would like to see 
 me on his way to the station. Unfortunately I was 
 out. I am inclined to think that he took no meal in 
 London, for he had breakfasted very late. Be that 
 as it may, he ate a hearty, a far too hearty dinner, 
 and then, within less than two hours after his dinner, 
 he drank a very big glassful of iced shandy-gafT. 
 Perforation occurred in the early morning, and death, 
 before there was time for an operation, resulted/' 
 
 "My son spent nearly an hour with me the day 
 before yesterday. He was then in perfect health," 
 said Mrs. Raydon emphatically. 
 
 " People suffering from duodenal ulcer often appear 
 to those about them to be what is called in 4 perfect 
 health/ And then there comes a sudden attack of 
 the kind I have indicated, and life hangs on a thread. 
 In this case the thread snapped. Not the most 
 skilled surgical aid could have saved your poor son 
 this morning." 
 
 "Am I to understand," she asked, looking at him 
 searchingly, "that you refuse to have a post-mortem, 
 Dr. Durham?" 
 
 He felt what he looked, acutely uncomfortable, 
 and, yes, by now really angry. 
 
"mysterious factors in the case " 199 
 
 "Should his widow insist on a post-mortem, of 
 course one shall be held. But I have reason to believe 
 that Mrs. Birtley Raydon would be strongly opposed 
 to the idea." 
 
 "Let us see if she is." 
 
 Old Mrs. Raydon went quickly, unusually quickly 
 for a woman of her years, to the door. Opening it, 
 she passed into the hall, and he heard her say, in a 
 tone of relief, 
 
 "Is that you, Mrs. Strain? Would you kindly ask 
 Eva to come down?" 
 
 As she came back into the drawing-room, Mrs. 
 Raydon observed, "Perhaps I ought to tell you, 
 Dr. Durham, that whatever be her feeling on the 
 matter, I intend to ask my daughter-in-law to agree 
 to what I feel ought to be done." 
 
 They waited for what seemed a long time, and 
 though Dr. Durham felt very sorry for Birtley Ray- 
 don's mother, he thought her the most unpleasantly 
 autocratic, as well as the most disagreeable, woman 
 he had ever met. 
 
 At last Eva came into the room. She looked 
 unutterably wretched, and spent with crying. 
 
 "I wish to know," said her mother-in-law coldly, 
 "whether you feel any serious objection to a post- 
 mortem? I wish one to be made — indeed I feel it 
 ought to be made, considering the peculiar circum- 
 stances of" — she stopped abruptly, then forced her- 
 self to finish her sentence — "Birtley's death." 
 
 The colour rushed into the younger woman's face. 
 
200 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Oh, must that be done?" She turned pleadingly 
 to the old doctor. "I would so very much rather 
 not!" 
 
 "In my view a post-mortem is quite unnecessary/' 
 he answered. "I saw your husband on the twenty- 
 third of August, scarcely a fortnight ago, when, as 
 you may remember, he was suffering from acute in- 
 digestion. I strongly advised him, and not for the 
 first time, to consult a specialist. He said he would 
 think about it." 
 
 "He hated the thought of having what I think is 
 called a bismuth meal," said Eva in a low voice. 
 
 The doctor went on in a decided tone: 
 
 "I have not the slightest doubt of the nature of his 
 fatal illness. What happened early this morning 
 was the result of the unsuitable dinner he took last 
 night, followed by his drinking a large quantity, I 
 understand over a pint, of iced shandy-gaff." 
 
 "That's just what I think, too," said Eva eagerly. 
 
 "Fow. ? " exclaimed Birtley Raydon's mother. 
 
 Dr. Durham, though he was not a very observant 
 man, felt startled by the amount of concentrated 
 hatred, as well as of contempt, contained in that 
 one word. 
 
 What a dangerous, as well as what a malignant, 
 old woman! 
 
 Doctors are sometimes unwilling witnesses of the 
 family dissensions that often follow on a death; 
 but this doctor told himself that he had never seen 
 
"mysterious factors in the case " 201 
 
 any one behave quite as old Mrs. Raydon was behav- 
 ing now. 
 
 "May I take it that you will bow to the wish so 
 clearly expressed by your son's widow ?" he asked 
 brusquely. 
 
 "No, doctor, I will not bow to her decision. I 
 consider that in a case of a death so sudden and 
 mysterious as that of my only son, the proper thing 
 to do is to hold an inquest/' 
 
 "An inquest ?" 
 
 He could not keep the indignation and surprise he 
 felt out of his level voice. 
 
 "Yes, such is my opinion," said Mrs. Raydon 
 firmly. "Not long ago an old friend of mine, a 
 woman of eighty, died a perfectly natural death. 
 Yet because she had not happened to consult a doctor 
 within two months of her death, her family were put 
 to the odium and the pain of an inquest." 
 
 "Surely," said Dr. Durham earnestly, "you do not 
 wish this lady to be put to the pain — I will not say 
 the odium, for I do not think that any odium attaches 
 to an inquest — but to the pain, of having to appear at 
 an inquest? She would be the chief witness, apart, 
 of course, from myself." 
 
 "And I should like to give evidence, too, for I saw 
 my son only two days before his death, and he then 
 appeared to me in perfect health." 
 
 "He may have seemed all right," broke in Eva. 
 "But he often complained, especially after we'd been 
 
202 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 dancing, of a fearful stitch in his side. I know he felt 
 very queer yesterday morning, for Adelaide Strain 
 told me he complained to her. I shall never forgive 
 myself for not having waited and gone up to town 
 with him," and she melted into tears. 
 
 Mrs. Raydon gave her daughter-in-law a glance full 
 of dislike and suspicion. Then she turned to the 
 doctor. 
 
 "I see," she said, "that neither my wishes nor my 
 views are likely to influence you, Dr. Durham. I 
 regret that I troubled you to come and see me." 
 
 "Please don't say that!" he exclaimed. "I was 
 very glad to come, and I hope" — he hesitated awk- 
 wardly — "I hope you will allow me to express my 
 deep sympathy in your terrible bereavement." 
 
 But she did not put out her hand; and, bowing, he 
 got himself out of the room. 
 
 There followed a painful silence between the two 
 women. At last Eva said nervously, "I don't feel 
 as if I want any lunch. Will you excuse me if I go 
 upstairs and lie down? I was awake almost all 
 night." 
 
 And then her husband's mother asked what ap- 
 peared to the newly made widow an almost shocking 
 question. 
 
 "Is any one with Birtley now, Eva?" 
 "No, at least I — I — don't think so." 
 "Then I will myself go up there for a while." 
 "Won't you have a little lunch first?" 
 "I thank you, no." 
 
"mysterious factors in the case " 203 
 
 Eva told herself pathetically that not once had 
 old Mrs. Raydon called her "my dear," or, indeed, 
 uttered a word of even conventional sympathy, since 
 she had arrived at The Mill House a little after six 
 o'clock this morning. 
 
 As young Mrs. Raydon turned slowly away, tears 
 welled up into her tired eyes, and there came over her 
 a terrible feeling of desolation and loneliness. It 
 seemed so against nature that Birtley, her masterful 
 lover of a husband — who yet, in a sense, had been as 
 wax in her hands — was dead, and so would never 
 either pet her or scold her again. 
 
 Though she had kept the fact to herself, not even 
 telling the friend who had been so kind and helpful 
 to her during those terrible hours, this was the first 
 time that Eva Raydon had actually seen anybody die; 
 and she was shaken and overawed by the new knowl- 
 edge of how thin is the dividing line between the 
 living and the dead. 
 
 As she again lay down on Adelaide Strain's bed, 
 she heard old Mrs. Raydon come swiftly up the stairs, 
 walk through into the death chamber, and then turn 
 the key in the lock. 
 
 Burying her face in the pillow, Eva burst into bitter 
 sobs. 
 
 The sound of the key turning in the lock of her 
 bedroom door had made her suddenly remember 
 the loving reconciliation which had so soon followed 
 on her and her darling Birtley's silly quarrel the day 
 before yesterday. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 "the one pathetic figure " 
 
 FTER she had walked through into the spa- 
 
 cious, now shadowed, bedroom, Mrs. Raydon 
 
 did not go up to the bed and draw the sheet 
 from off her dead son's face, as many a woman in her 
 place would have done. Neither did she kneel down 
 and try to find some measure of comfort in prayer, 
 as she had done the first time she had been left alone 
 with the dead body of the husband whom she had 
 passionately and jealously loved. 
 
 Instead, she walked straight across to her daughter- 
 in-law's dressing-table, still covered with useless, ex- 
 pensive trifles. 
 
 From the first she had feared, disliked, despised, 
 and condemned, her son's beautiful wife. As time 
 went by, her prejudice deepened, as also her bitter 
 jealousy of the woman who had all Birtley Raydon's 
 heart, and who held him in a way his mother, who 
 knew very little of masculine human nature, had not 
 known that a woman could hold a man. 
 
 Though she would have coldly denied it, even to 
 herself, she had listened to her son's confidences two 
 days ago with a sensation of triumph as well as of 
 satisfaction, and, since the interview between herself 
 
"the one pathetic figure ,? 205 
 
 and Birtley, Eva and Eva's folly and extravagance 
 had occupied almost the whole of her waking 
 thoughts. 
 
 Then had come this morning's fearful ordeal — 
 beginning, at half-past three, with the sudden percep- 
 tion that the telephone bell on the ground floor was 
 ringing, ringing, ringing. . . . 
 
 At last, unwillingly, not believing the call could be 
 for her, she had gone downstairs, to hear the terrible 
 news of her son's grievous illness, and the summons 
 to herself. ... 
 
 It was again of Eva that she was thinking, now, as 
 she turned and, deliberately avoiding looking to her 
 left, where stood the low, broad bed, she cast a 
 searching, probing glance over every piece of furni- 
 ture, and at every closed cupboard door, in the large 
 room. Though she was not given to vain imaginings, 
 something seemed to tell her that here, in this now 
 darkened bedchamber, there was that which would 
 confirm her anguished suspicion that her son had 
 not died a natural death. 
 
 Suddenly she turned round again, and stared 
 fixedly down at the dressing-table. 
 
 It was a fine piece of furniture, a small eighteenth- 
 century chest of drawers of serpentine shape, one of 
 the many real bargains which the Birtley Raydons 
 had obtained when they had bought The Mill House 
 and its contents. 
 
 Bending forward, she opened the top drawer and, 
 with the colour rising to her pale face, she began 
 
206 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 making a careful, methodical search of its con- 
 tents. 
 
 This was not a very easy matter, for Eva, like so 
 many women of her type, though exquisitely dainty 
 in everything that concerned her personal ways and 
 habits, was exceedingly untidy, for the simple reason 
 that she had never been taught, as a child and girl, 
 to be anything else. 
 
 Birtley Raydon's mother felt angered, and sickened, 
 too, by all that she found — and she found a great deal 
 — which indicated mere senseless, useless extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 Eva, again like so many women of her type, was 
 something of a hoarder. Though she was generous, 
 she did not like throwing things away; and now old 
 Mrs. Raydon remembered bitterly her son's half- 
 annoyed, half-amused description of the masses of 
 expensive trumpery his wife had accumulated, when 
 they turned out of the furnished flat where they had 
 spent the first few months of their marriage. 
 
 After having thoroughly sifted and inspected the 
 contents of the drawers in the dressing-table, Mrs. 
 Raydon walked across to an inlaid writing-table. 
 
 On the table stood a showy frame containing a 
 photograph of her son as a handsome child of seven. 
 With a sharp, agonized sigh, she put the frame down 
 flat on its face. The sight of the beloved strong- 
 featured little face seemed to mock her grief. She 
 had not given that old photograph to Eva. Birtley 
 had found it among his father's papers. 
 
THE ONE PATHETIC FIGURE " 20/ 
 
 There was but one drawer to the writing-table, and 
 at first Mrs. Raydon supposed it locked. But soon 
 she discovered that by turning the knob in a certain 
 way the drawer opened. 
 
 And then there did come an eager, excited look over 
 her worn lined face, for lying there, not even fastened 
 together, lay a number of bills. She recognized 
 Madame Domino's four-leaved account among them. 
 
 She lifted them all out of the drawer, instinctively 
 putting them in order as she did so. Then she saw 
 with a sudden feeling of misgiving, as well as of great 
 surprise, that each bill bore a receipt, dated the day 
 before, for in some cases very considerable sums of 
 money which had been paid in cash. 
 
 Feeling at once bewildered, and suspicious she 
 hardly knew of what, Birtley Raydon's mother 
 walked over to one of the blinded windows. There 
 she carefully looked at each of the bills again, casting 
 up the various receipted amounts in her own mind as 
 she did so. 
 
 She sat down at last, the bundle of various-sized 
 accounts still clutched in her thin right hand. Where 
 could her daughter-in-law have obtained, at a mo- 
 ment's notice, the money to pay what in the aggre- 
 gate came to a good deal over two thousand pounds ? 
 These payments, large and small, had all been made 
 within twenty-four hours of Birtley's discovery of 
 Eva's debt to Madame Domino. 
 
 Mrs. Raydon recalled how she had warned her son 
 that the dressmaker's bill was almost certainly only 
 
208 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 one of several; but even she was amazed to discover, 
 now, how large was the amount of money which her 
 daughter-in-law had owed. 
 
 But the real mystery, and it was indeed a mystery, 
 was how Eva could have obtained the "cash" which 
 was noted on every one of the receipted accounts she 
 had just looked at in such careful detail. Before 
 the most trustworthy and solvent of clients can ob- 
 tain even a small loan from a solicitor, certain docu- 
 ments must be prepared, signed, and delivered. 
 Though it had always been old Mrs. Raydon's happy 
 fate to invest and not to borrow, she was far too good 
 a woman of business not to know as much as that 
 concerning the seamy side of money. 
 
 At last she stood up and walked slowly back to the 
 writing-table. When there she put the bills back in 
 the drawer where she had found them. 
 
 And then, just as she was hesitating what to do 
 next, she suddenly saw that on the floor, close to 
 where she had been sitting just now near the dressing- 
 table, there lay a pigskin bag. It was partially 
 covered by the bottom of a window curtain, and had 
 evidently been pushed by accident off the table, and 
 so overlooked by whoever had hurriedly tidied the 
 bedroom on this tragic morning. 
 
 Picking up the bag she noticed that on one side of 
 it were Eva's initials in gold, and then she remem- 
 bered having seen it among her daughter-in-law's 
 wedding presents. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated, for normally Birt- 
 
"the one pathetic figure " 209 
 
 ley Raydon's mother was a scrupulously honour- 
 able woman. Then she reminded herself how far 
 she had already departed, since she had entered her 
 son's death-chamber, from her usual code. 
 
 Deliberately she opened the bag to find that, in 
 addition to a little loose change, it only contained 
 two envelopes — one large, the other of ordinary 
 letter size. 
 
 Slowly she took out the large envelope. The flap 
 was not even fastened down, and she saw at once that 
 it contained a wad of bank notes held together by an 
 elastic band. 
 
 She slipped off the band, and began counting the 
 notes. There were three one-hundred pound notes, 
 four fifty-pound notes, and seven five-pound notes — 
 that is in all five hundred and thirty-five pounds. 
 
 Laying the notes, and the envelope which had con- 
 tained them, on the dressing-table, Mrs. Raydon took 
 the other, smaller, envelope out of the bag. That 
 also was open, and on it was written the one word 
 "Eva," in a man's firm handwriting. 
 
 With a strong prevision that at last she was going 
 to find what she sought, that is evidence of some kind 
 against her dead son's wife, she took out the letter 
 the envelope contained. 
 
 It was written on two pieces of common notepaper 
 headed "The Anchor Inn, Swanmere," and was 
 simply dated "Tuesday." 
 
 Slowly she read it through from the beginning — 
 "It's more than a shame that you should be worried, 
 
2IO 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Eva," down to "Would you like me to motor you up 
 to town early this morning? I'd cash the cheque for 
 you, and then we could lunch at the Wigwam, as we 
 used to do in the good old days which contained the 
 only really happy hours I have ever had in my life." 
 
 With a feeling of fierce triumph flooding her miser- 
 able, vengeful heart, she placed the larger envelope, 
 that containing the bank notes, back in the bag; but 
 the letter, together with its envelope, she put in her 
 pocket. 
 
 She hesitated for a few moments as to whether she 
 should leave the pigskin bag on the dressing-table. 
 But she finally decided, though that particular kind 
 of deceit was repugnant to her, to place it back on 
 the floor where she had found it. 
 
 Having done so she straightened herself, and went 
 swiftly across the room, stepping lightly over the pale 
 blue garlanded Aubusson carpet, which had also 
 been one of the remarkable bargains the Birtley 
 Raydons had acquired with The Mill House. 
 
 And then, kneeling down by the bed on which lay 
 the body of her dead son, who had been, as she now 
 felt convinced, foully murdered by his faithless wife, 
 Amelia Raydon offered up to God thanks for having 
 allowed her to become the instrument of His just 
 vengeance. 
 
 She stayed on her knees for a long, long time. But 
 at last she got up and, feeling under the sheet, she 
 found the dead mans cold hand. 
 
 Telling him wordlessly that he would be avenged, 
 
"the one pathetic figure " 211 
 
 she laid her own warm hand over it for a moment. 
 Then, with passionate lingering tenderness, she kissed 
 the palm of the hand now sanctified by having lain on 
 his. 
 
 With a feeling of dumb agony she drew the sheet 
 from her son's face. On it there had come already 
 the great peace. Did he know, now, how the woman 
 he had loved with so intense a love had betrayed him? 
 
 Part of his unhappy mother hoped that he did 
 know, but there was another and nobler side of her 
 nature which strove to believe that everything evil 
 and earthly was henceforth to be hidden from him. 
 Indeed she already thought of Birtley as among the 
 saints, and forming part of the Choir Invisible. 
 
 Very slowly she drew the sheet up over the marble- 
 looking face. Then, with faltering steps, she walked 
 to the door, unlocked it, and went down the broad 
 shallow stairs. 
 
 For a long while she stood in the empty hall of the 
 old house which she reminded herself, with a feeling of 
 horror, was the property of the woman she was now 
 convinced had not only been an unfaithful wife, 
 but also the murderess of a devoted and most trustful 
 husband. 
 
 How could she leave this hateful house without 
 seeing Eva again? 
 
 Her one wish, now, was to return to London, there 
 to put before the proper authorities a statement of 
 the discoveries she had made. So it was with relief 
 that she saw Mrs. Strain, the woman whom she had 
 
212 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 never liked, and whom she had regarded as a super- 
 fluous extravagance on her daughter-in-law's part, 
 come out of the garden-room. 
 
 And then, in spite of herself, Mrs. Raydon's heart 
 softened, for Adelaide Strain looked, not only 
 desperately weary, but also very sad. 
 
 It was certain that this woman, at any rate, had 
 done everything she could for the unhappy Birtley, 
 and if his agony had been, in any sense, alleviated, 
 it was the lady-housekeeper who had brought about 
 the alleviation. So much the dead man's mother had 
 been told by the parlourmaid, Powell, who had been 
 on the staff of a hospital during the war, and with 
 whom she had had, that morning, a somewhat 
 lengthy conversation. 
 
 "Won't you let me make you a cup of tea in the 
 garden-room?" 
 
 Mrs. Strain said the words in a whisper, adding: 
 "I have everything necessary there, and I know how 
 tired you must be, Mrs. Raydon." 
 
 "I thank you, no," said Birtley Raydon's mother. 
 "I am anxious to get back to town as soon as possible. 
 There will be so many things to see to, and even a 
 certain number of people, old friends and relations, 
 to whom I ought to write to-day." 
 
 She waited a moment, then added, deliberately, 
 "Besides, although I know Eva does not wish it, I 
 am strongly of opinion that a post-mortem should be 
 held without the loss of more time than is necessary ." 
 
 Mrs. Strain could not keep out of her face the sur- 
 
"the one pathetic figure " 213 
 
 prise, even the horror, that swept over her on hearing 
 those words. 
 
 "A post-mortem ?" she echoed. 
 
 It was the one word which had reached her weary, 
 over-excited brain. 
 
 "Surely that will not be necessary ?" 
 
 "Whether necessary or not, I consider it ought to 
 take place. " 
 
 Adelaide Strain said nothing in answer to that. 
 There had come over her a queer feeling of faintness, 
 even of physical nausea. 
 
 She put out her hand blindly, gropingly, and Mrs. 
 Raydon clasped it strongly. "Mrs. Strain" — she 
 spoke in a tone of real concern — "all this has been 
 too much for you," and she guided her to a chair. 
 
 Adelaide Strain sat down. She made a prodigious 
 mental and physical effort. She visualized, with 
 extraordinary, startling clearness, her son Giily. She 
 forced herself to remember the cruel words Birtley 
 Raydon had used concerning Gilly. 
 
 Could those words have been uttered only last 
 night? It seemed a lifetime since she had heard 
 them. 
 
 "I'm all right, now," she said, in a voice she strove 
 to make steady; and the older woman was too much 
 absorbed in her own dread thoughts, and the sinister 
 discoveries she had just made in her. son's death- 
 chamber, to take any real account of the lady- 
 housekeeper's singular agitation. 
 
 "Will you be so good as to tell Eva that I did not 
 
214 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 wish to disturb her, and that I preferred to go 
 straight back to town without waiting to see her?" 
 
 And after the other had bent her head, she went on, 
 " Do you feel well enough to show me the way to the 
 garage?" 
 
 "Certainly I do." 
 
 They both left the darkened house, and walked 
 round to what had been the stable-yard, and where 
 the hired car which had brought Mrs. Raydon down 
 early that morning was waiting for her. 
 
 For a moment she felt a strong impulse to tell the 
 chauffeur to drive straight to Scotland Yard, but she 
 resisted that impulse, and it was in her own house, 
 and on her own notepaper, that she wrote, two hours 
 later, the letter which she hoped would at any rate 
 ensure the holding of a post-mortem on her son 
 Birtley Raydon's body. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 "DR. DURHAM WAS ALSO EXTREMELY AVERSE " 
 
 A DELAIDE STRAIN stood still for quite a 
 A-\ long time on the stone floor of the garage. 
 -A- She appeared to be staring at the old stable 
 clock, but she was like a blind woman and saw 
 nothing. 
 
 Post-mortem? Post-mortem! Post-mortem. Such 
 was the word which seemed to be clanging, in venge- 
 ful accents, into her shrinking ears. 
 
 She tried to remember certain remarks which 
 had been made, was it to Eva or to herself? early this 
 morning by Dr. Durham. 
 
 And then there came to the unhappy woman a 
 curious lightening of the spirit, for there had sprung 
 into life the very form of words the doctor had used, 
 and to herself, when they two had at last found 
 themselves alone together. 
 
 She recalled, with sudden clearness, that he had 
 said what a good thing it was that he had seen Birtley 
 Raydon professionally within the last two or three 
 weeks as, otherwise, owing to the long time which 
 had elapsed since the previous consultation, he could 
 not have signed the death certificate. 
 
 Thank God — God who pities mothers — for that. 
 
 215 
 
2l6 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 What a terrible ruthless being was cruel old Mrs. 
 Raydon, speeding now on her way back to her deso- 
 late home! Why should she long, as she evidently did 
 long, to bring shame and added sorrow on poor, in- 
 nocent, foolish Eva? 
 
 And then there came across the woman standing 
 there in the September sunlight a torturing thought. 
 
 Would it have been of any use for her to make a 
 strong appeal to Mrs. Raydon to abandon her wish 
 for a post-mortem? Then she told herself no, that 
 such an appeal would have had no effect on Birtley 
 Raydon's mother. 
 
 Suddenly she remembered with relief that English 
 law does not give much power to the father and 
 mother of a human being, once he or she is grown up. 
 Vaguely she recalled that it was to her that every 
 communication respecting the disposal of her hus- 
 band's dead body in France had been made, not to 
 the old father who had loved his son so well that 
 he had not outlived him more than a very few 
 months. 
 
 She turned away at last and, leaving the garage, 
 she walked quickly past the boat-house, and so back 
 into the garden-room. 
 
 There she sat down, worn out not only by the 
 terrible ordeal she had gone through last night and 
 early this morning, but also by the only partly formu- 
 lated, but none the less agonizing fears which had 
 assailed her during the last half-hour. 
 
 But she was not allowed to enjoy even so slight 
 
"DR. DURHAM WAS EXTREMELY AVERSE " 217 
 
 a measure of peace for long. The telephone bell rang, 
 and with a shrinking sensation of dread she walked 
 across to it. 
 
 Oh! what a comforting sensation it was to hear 
 a suave respectful voice enquire: "Am I speaking to 
 Mrs. Birtley Raydon?" 
 
 "No, but you can give me a message. I am Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon's housekeeper." 
 
 "Dr. Durham has communicated to us, madam, 
 the news of Mrs. Birtley Raydon's sad loss. He 
 suggested that I should telephone and ask if I may 
 wait on Mrs. Birtley Raydon ?" 
 
 Someone sent by Dr. Durham? Then of course it 
 was quite all right! 
 
 "May I ask who you are?" she asked. 
 
 "I am the head of the firm" — the unseen speaker 
 hesitated for a moment — "of Messrs. Beavan and 
 Legge. We undertake most of the funerals in this 
 neighbourhood, madam." 
 
 The funeral ? How extraordinary that she should 
 have forgotten about the funeral! What a good, 
 kind, useful friend Dr. Durham was proving himself 
 to be. 
 
 "If I call within the next hour, could I see Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon?" 
 
 "I expect so," she said hesitatingly. 
 
 And then the suave voice went on, "Perhaps you 
 would like us to communicate with the Registrar, 
 and arrange for him to come over some time to-day or 
 to-morrow?" 
 
218 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Much relieved, she said eagerly, "Yes, indeed. 
 We should be grateful if you would do so/' 
 
 She had scarcely hung up the receiver before some- 
 thing else happened which in a sense brought with it a 
 feeling of comfort and reassurance. This was the 
 sight of Dr. Durham advancing, with leisurely steps, 
 across the lawn towards the room he knew to be in a 
 special sense that of the lady-housekeeper of The Mill 
 House. 
 
 "Someone has just told me in the village that poor 
 Raydon's mother has gone back to London," he said 
 in a low tone. 
 
 As Mrs. Strain nodded, he stepped up into the 
 garden-room, and shut the long French window be- 
 hind him. 
 
 "I thought I would come back to see if I can do 
 anything for that poor young thing. How is she, 
 Mrs. Strain?" 
 
 "She is still resting," said Eva's friend. "And, 
 oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dr. Durham! It was 
 most good of you to have put us in touch with Mr. 
 Beaven. He's coming here this afternoon, and I 
 want you to tell me when you think the funeral should 
 take place. I'm absolutely ignorant about those 
 things, for my husband," her face twitched, "was 
 killed in France very early in the war." 
 
 He looked at her thoughtfully, and again he told 
 himself what a nice, kind, unselfish woman was this 
 Mrs. Strain, and how very fortunate silly, feather- 
 
"DR. DURHAM WAS EXTREMELY AVERSE " 219 
 
 pated little Eva Raydon should think herself to have 
 such a woman here, as a friend and stay. 
 
 "To-day is Wednesday. Under the circumstances 
 I should advise that you try and persuade Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon to allow the funeral to take place 
 on Saturday." 
 
 "Wouldn't that be very soon?" 
 
 "Yes, rather soon. But I had this morning a most 
 unpleasant interview with poor Raydon's mother. 
 She made some very offensive observations indeed. 
 Even allowing for the great shock she had had, they 
 were exceedingly uncalled-for." 
 
 "What sort of things did she say?" asked Mrs. 
 Strain. 
 
 She had gripped the back of a chair, and was 
 looking at him fixedly. 
 
 "She requested that a post-mortem should take 
 place. She even spoke of an inquest! I felt indeed 
 sorry for our poor little friend." 
 
 "Can old Mrs. Raydon do anything to bring about 
 a post-mortem?" 
 
 The question was asked in so urgent and anxious a 
 tone that Dr. Durham felt just a little surprised. 
 
 "Well, no, I don't think she can — especially in view 
 of the fact that I haven't a doubt as to the cause of 
 death. Still, I do advise that the funeral be — I will 
 not say hurried on, but arranged to take place as soon 
 as is seemly. The world has altered very much, even 
 in our own time, as regards such things. When I 
 
220 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 was a young chap, nearer forty than thirty years ago : 
 a funeral often did not take place for a full week. 
 It is now recognized that such is not the way to show 
 proper grief." 
 
 Though Adelaide Strain said nothing for a moment 
 or two, Dr. Durham, though not a particularly obser- 
 vant man, could not help noticing the change in her 
 face. From looking strained and apprehensive, there 
 had come over it an expression of peace and serenity. 
 
 "I know that Eva has a horror of post-mortems," 
 she said at last. "The last time I was with her, when 
 old Mrs. Raydon was upstairs, Eva was almost in 
 hysterics." 
 
 "I don't wonder at it," he interjected. "Mrs. 
 Raydon evidently hates the poor little woman — 
 maternal jealousy, I suppose. For, after all, the two 
 were very happy together?" 
 
 He looked enquiringly at the pale woman standing 
 before him, and she could feel his unspoken surprise 
 that any young woman should have been really happy 
 with Birtley Raydon. 
 
 "They were extraordinarily happy," she said em- 
 phatically. "In fact, I think that of late Mr. Ray- 
 don was more in love with Eva than he had been 
 during the early months of their married life — I mean 
 when they lived in London. He was tremendously 
 proud of her, too, and she simply adored him " 
 
 "There's a story going about the village," he ob- 
 served, rather shamefacedly, "that they had an ugly 
 quarrel two or three days ago — that the poor chap 
 
"DR. DURHAM WAS EXTREMELY AVERSE " 221 
 
 was furiously angry because she'd been out with some 
 other man." 
 
 "What won't people say!" she exclaimed indig- 
 nantly, and streaks of bright red colour came into 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "I'll tell you the truth, Dr. Durham. Eva did go 
 out, the day before yesterday, for a motor drive with 
 Colonel Mintlaw — a very nice man whom she and 
 I used to know when we lived together in London. 
 But, as a matter of fact, Birtley Raydon did not 
 even know of his existence! Eva meant to bring 
 them together next Saturday. As you've probably 
 been told, Colonel Mintlaw was staying at the 
 Anchor Inn." 
 
 "Then the two had no qnarrel, " he asked; and she 
 saw he was looking at her rather hard. 
 
 "They did have a quarrel," she answered reluct- 
 antly. "But it was only about a stupid bill. Eva's 
 dressmaker sent a debt-collector to Mr. Raydon's 
 London office, and he was very much upset when he 
 found how much she owed the woman. That was the 
 cause of their quarrel. But they very, very soon 
 made it up again — in fact, within less than an hour 
 they had started for London together to dine at the 
 Ritz! You will remember my telling you about their 
 having gone to a night club, and how they had come 
 home at two in the morning?" 
 
 "Aye, aye," he said quickly, "I do remember your 
 telling me that. And they had no further quarrel 
 yesterday?" 
 
222 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Yesterday ?" 
 
 She stared at him. Was it only yesterday that 
 Birtley had still been here — his strong, if peevish and 
 to her odious, personality pervading The Mill House? 
 
 " Yesterday," to Adelaide Strain, seemed aeons of 
 time ago, and she would have given everything she 
 had in the world, except Gilly, to have gone back to 
 yesterday. 
 
 "Yes," went on the old doctor rather sharply. "I 
 should rather like to know what happened yesterday. 
 I don't mean in the evening — you've already told me 
 all about that — but during the day." 
 
 "Both Mr. and Mrs. Raydon were in London all 
 day yesterday. He went up rather late and, as you 
 will remember, after having telephoned to you. Eva 
 went up before he did, in order to pay the account 
 about which they had had words the night before. 
 They finally met at Waterloo, as they had arranged 
 to do, and came back together. Mr. Raydon was in 
 a particularly good humour, for she had bought him 
 a present — a beautiful amber cigarette-holder. Eva 
 is a kind, generous little thing, Dr. Durham." 
 
 "Yes, I know she is," he assented cordially. 
 
 It was on the tip of his tongue to say that in that 
 Eva Raydon was very difFerent from her late hus- 
 band, but he checked himself, remembering the old tag. 
 
 Just as she had done on the previous afternoon, 
 Adelaide Strain walked with the kind doctor across 
 the garden to the wrought-iron gate which formed the 
 one break in the high rose-red wall of The Mill House. 
 
"DR. DURHAM WAS EXTREMELY AVERSE " 223 
 
 As he clasped her hand, she said, in what was for 
 her an impulsive way: 
 
 "You don't know — you never will know — how 
 grateful not only Eva, but I myself feel to you, Dr. 
 Durham! I don't know what we should have done 
 early this morning if you hadn't been so wonderfully 
 kind and good. And oh, you've been such a comfort 
 to me now! I do hope you will come and see us again 
 to-morrow. It isn't easy, you know, managing poor 
 Eva." 
 
 He was touched by the eager sincerity in her voice. 
 
 "Perhaps it might be as well, Mrs. Strain, if you 
 took as much of the trouble over the formalities that 
 have to be gone through, off poor Mrs. Birtley Ray- 
 don's shoulders. But I do advise you to tell her now, 
 at once, what you and I both agree will be best — I 
 mean about the funeral arrangements. Old Mrs. 
 Raydon impressed me as a mischief-maker, as well as 
 a very determined woman." 
 
 After she had watched him drive away, Adelaide 
 Strain began walking back to the house; and, as the 
 sound of her shoes crunching on the gravel reminded 
 her of last night, she stepped up on to the grass. 
 
 There she stood still for a moment, feeling again 
 sick and faint, living over what had happen' d last 
 night, when she had come out and waited on this 
 stretch of lawn, wondering if there was still time to 
 undo that which she had just done. 
 
 What was it that had stayed her hand? 
 
 And then suddenly it all came back to her. What 
 
224 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 had intervened at that moment of final decision had 
 been such a trifling thing — the familiar accents of 
 Birtley Raydon rising on the still air, saying some- 
 thing about the boat-house in the same hateful voice 
 with which he had spoken, a few minutes before, of 
 little Gilly Strain. It was that, or so she now per- 
 suaded herself, that had sentenced him to an awful 
 death, and doomed her to endure what had become 
 an unceasing agony of dread. 
 
 At last she went indoors, and so upstairs to the 
 room which was now Eva's as much as hers. 
 
 She found Eva awake, and as soon as she had 
 spoken, the other exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, yes, Addie! Indeed I should like the funeral 
 to be as soon as possible. I know my darluig Birtley 
 would not want me to go on feeling as utterly miser- 
 able as I do now." 
 
 Bursting out crying, she sobbed, "It's so fearful 
 feeling that he's there, in our room, looking at once so 
 like and so unlike his darling self! I had no idea 
 death was like that." 
 
 As her friend remained silent, she said childishly, 
 taking hold of Adelaide Strain's hand, and looking up 
 at hec with a pleading, frightened face: 
 
 "You won't leave me, Addie? You will stay with 
 me? Of course Birtley's death has changed every- 
 thing now. I couldn't bear you to go away! I shall 
 never, never forget how good you've been to me this 
 dreadful time. . . 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 "the further facts " 
 
 THE two days, a Thursday and a Friday, that 
 followed Birtley Raydon's sudden death, were 
 spent by his widow and the lady-housekeeper 
 of The Mill House in absolute quietude. 
 
 Everything had been arranged decorously and 
 smoothly, with the authoritative competence which 
 was characteristic of Mrs. Strain. On each one of 
 the men with whom she had been brought in contact 
 on the Wednesday she had produced both an agree- 
 able and a good impression. She was so sensible, so 
 direct, and on behealf of Mrs. Birtley Raydon, so 
 discreetly generous. 
 
 Birtley Raydon's partner, who incidentally had 
 never liked old Mrs. Raydon, had motored down from 
 town to see Eva. His visit had broken the monotony 
 of the sad day following her husband's death. He 
 had treated her not only with respect and confidence, 
 but with the touch of sympathetic kindness which 
 most men show to a beautiful young woman. 
 
 Eva had also seen the rector of Swanmere twice; 
 and, on the occasion of his second visit, he had per- 
 suaded her to accompany him to the pretty church- 
 225 
 
226 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 yard where she had chosen the place she wished her 
 husband's grave to be. 
 
 As she had walked along the village street in the 
 dusk towards the church, both men and women had 
 hurried to their doors and looked at the slight, sable- 
 clad figure. The sudden death of Birtley Raydon 
 had excited a good deal of comment in the neighbour- 
 hood, a fact of which Adelaide Strain became grad- 
 ually aware as time went by, and which filled her, at 
 times, with vague unease. 
 
 The only person who came frequently to The Mill 
 House was Dr. Durham. Though his ministrations 
 were welcomed by the newly made widow, the person 
 there who longed, with an almost painful longing, for 
 his comforting presence was Adelaide Strain. 
 
 For one thing he was so absolutely convinced of 
 the cause of Birtley Raydon's sudden decease. So 
 sure indeed that at times she almost persuaded her- 
 self that he was right, and that those hours of agoniz- 
 ing pain, ending in death, had been in fact caused by 
 the bursting of a duodenal ulcer. 
 
 At such moments she found herself dwelling with a 
 sensation of securit}^ on the small, yet undoubtedly 
 real, signs of physical unease betrayed by Raydon in 
 the last couple of months. She even tried to put 
 down his lack of kindness and courtesy to herself to 
 the fact that he had been, all unknowingly, an ailing 
 man. 
 
 How amazed Dr. Durham would have been could 
 
"the further facts " 
 
 227 
 
 he have seen even a little way into that apparently 
 quiet and composed woman's heart and brain! 
 
 At times the lady-housekeeper looked very ill, 
 unnaturally worn and wizened, and with what old- 
 fashioned people call "a bad colour." But she was 
 going through what the doctor, to himself, character- 
 ized as "a rough time." Eva easily became hyster- 
 ical, and she not only insisted on sharing her friend's 
 bed, but she talked half the night as well, so Mrs. 
 Strain had once confided, with a wry smile, to Dr. 
 Durham. 
 
 He would have been surprised indeed had he known 
 the truth — that it was Adelaide Strain, not his selfish, 
 now overwrought patient, who dreaded the dark 
 hours. 
 
 The lady-housekeeper lived through each long day 
 fairly well; but lying wide awake, and that in spite of 
 strong doses of bromide, by Eva's side, in the room 
 which she had occupied alone till three or four nights 
 ago, she went through tortured hours of depression 
 threaded with sharp, agonizing stabs of fear. 
 
 In vain she tried to keep before her the knowledge 
 that no longer need she fear for her child's immediate 
 future. Always there would steal into her heart the 
 dread knowledge of what that security was costing 
 her, and might yet cost her. She would have given 
 all the years that remained to her of life to have found 
 herself back again in the condition in which she had 
 been last Tuesday afternoon; and she longed, with 
 
228 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 an intensity which at times affected her physically, 
 making her feel as if certain organs of her body were 
 disintegrating, for Saturday to be over. 
 
 Of remorse, in the ordinary sense of the word, 
 Adelaide Strain felt none. She was too honest, in- 
 tellectually, to feel her view as to Birtley Raydon's 
 mean nature and smallness of character modified by 
 the fact that he was dead, and that she had, as deep 
 in her heart she knew to be almost certain, compassed 
 his death. 
 
 But at times, especially when she was alone in any 
 room associated with his presence in life, she felt that 
 his vigorous personality survived, full of potential 
 menace still, for her and for her child. 
 
 Eva had suddenly become very kind to Gilly 
 Strain, and on the Friday afternoon she spent nearly 
 two hours playing with him, first at dominoes, and 
 then at an interminable card game which someone 
 had given the boy for his birthday. When he had 
 gone back to the Cottage Hospital, Eva had said 
 slowly : 
 
 "After dear Birtley's funeral, we might have Gilly 
 here for a bit. He's such a clever, nice little boy. 
 You have brought him up very well, Addie!" 
 
 Outwardly, whatever the secret drama being 
 played out at The Mill House, those two quiet days 
 were only broken across by one painful incident. 
 
 Adelaide Strain, without asking her friend, took it 
 on herself to telephone a message to old Mrs. Raydon 
 concerning the arrangements which had been made 
 
"the further facts 
 
 229 
 
 with regard to her son's burial. She thought it very 
 strange that Eva had heard nothing from her, and she 
 herself felt a strong wish to conciliate Birtley Ray- 
 don's mother. 
 
 To her surprise (she was well aware that old Mrs. 
 Raydon disliked the telephone, and never used it 
 herself, though she had reluctantly consented to hav- 
 ing it put into her house last year), after a few mo- 
 ments' parley with the parlourmaid, she suddenly 
 heard the clearly articulated voice, whose last words, 
 uttered to herself, had filled her with so great a dread. 
 
 "I cannot exactly understand your message, Mrs. 
 Strain. Surely the funeral of my son has not been 
 arranged, without any consultation with me, for 
 Saturday — that is the day after to-morrow? To my 
 mind this would denote a shocking haste." 
 
 "It lay between Saturday and Tuesday, Mrs. 
 Raydon. There are two funerals already arranged 
 for Monday, and Eva followed the advice of our 
 rector. That was why Saturday was chosen." 
 
 "I see; and does my daughter-in-law intend to be 
 present herself at the church, and afterwards at the 
 graveside?" 
 
 "I think she does," she answered hesitatingly, sur- 
 prised, made a little uncomfortable, by the question. 
 
 At once there came in stern, peremptory accents 
 the words, "If my daughter-in-law intends to be at 
 my son's funeral, then I, myself, will not be there." 
 
 And then Adelaide Strain did something she was 
 rather sorry afterwards that she had troubled to do. 
 
23O WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 She made a strong appeal to Birtley Raydon's hard- 
 natured mother. 
 
 "Don't ask me to take such a message as that to 
 Eva," she said urgently. "It would hurt her so very 
 much! And do believe me, Mrs. Raydon, when I tell 
 you what is not only absolutely true, but within my 
 own knowledge. Eva loved your son with all her 
 heart, and she made him very, very happy. No one 
 could be in a better position than I was myself, to 
 judge of the terms they were on, and that for over 
 a year." 
 
 "I know that such is your honest opinion, Mrs. 
 Strain," the words were uttered slowly and coldly. 
 " But it is not mine. However, I have no wish to 
 impose on you the unpleasant duty of telling Eva 
 that I shall not be there on Saturday. She is not 
 likely even to miss my presence." 
 
 There was a pause, and then: "I understand she 
 has already ordered very handsome mourning." 
 
 "Very handsome mourning?" 
 
 The expression made Adelaide Strain shudder. 
 "I should hardly describe it as that," she observed. 
 
 "There again we must agree to differ, Mrs. Strain. 
 By a curious circumstance I have become aware that 
 the dressmaker whom Eva has honoured with her 
 order is none other than the Madame Domino who 
 was the cause of her quarrel with my poor son, a 
 quarrel which I know — and this I hope you will ac- 
 cept as being a fact — darkened the last two days of 
 his life." 
 
"the further facts " 
 
 231 
 
 To that Adelaide Strain made no answer. She, 
 herself, had felt very sorry when Eva had asked her to 
 telephone to London for a representative of Madame 
 Domino's famous establishment. Indeed, she had 
 gone so far as to say, "Oh, Eva, I shouldn't do that 
 if I were you! Can't you get some simple little dress 
 run up here?" 
 
 But Eva had shaken her head pettishly. 
 
 "Why, they've got all my measurements! It 
 would be absurd to go anywhere else." 
 
 That short, bitter conversation over the telephone 
 with old Mrs. Raydon left Adelaide Strain feeling, if 
 uncomfortable, yet in a sense relieved. 
 
 It had made one thing quite clear to her mind. 
 This was that Birtley Raydon's mother had taken 
 no steps with regard to that strongly expressed wish 
 of hers for a post-mortem, though no doubt she was 
 sore and angry that no notice had been taken of her 
 desire. 
 
 More than once, during the hours that followed, 
 Eva's friend told herself, with a touch of questioning 
 discomfort, that it was indeed a curious thing that 
 old Mrs. Raydon had heard of the mourning order to 
 Madame Domino — in a way the fact was almost 
 inexplicable. 
 
 But at last that long-drawn-out time of unacknowl- 
 edged tension and agonizing suspense on Adelaide 
 Strain's part began drawing to a close. It was now 
 Saturday morning, and within less than an hour from 
 
232 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 now Birtley Raydon would be lying in his deep 
 grave. 
 
 Meanwhile the village of Swanmere was full of stir 
 and animation. Indeed, a stranger passing through 
 the lovely Thames-side hamlet might have thought 
 that a wedding, rather than a funeral, was about to 
 take place, for the lozenge-shaped green before the 
 Anchor Inn was covered with people who had come 
 from the country round, and the roadway was 
 blocked with cars and carriages. 
 
 After a little while, however, the passing stranger 
 would have become aware that it was a death, and 
 not a marriage, that had brought that concourse to- 
 gether; for both just outside and inside the Anchor 
 Inn stood little groups of men dressed in black, talk- 
 ing in subdued, if cheerful, tones. 
 
 Birtley Raydon had been, though still young in 
 years, the senior member of an old and highly re- 
 spected city firm; and a considerable number of his 
 business friends and acquaintances had journeyed 
 down by car and rail to render him the last tribute of 
 respect. 
 
 Quite a number of these gentlemen were acquainted 
 with Mrs. Birtley Raydon. Some of them recalled, 
 to-day, having met her and her husband under happy, 
 even joyful auspices, especially during the months 
 which had followed the marriage of the prosperous 
 young couple. Many of the mourners had really 
 come to Swanmere to-day with the kindly wish of 
 showing the young widow a mark of attention; and 
 
"the further facts " 
 
 233 
 
 this was specially the case with those among them 
 who were bachelors. 
 
 It was impossible to feel really melancholy on so 
 beautiful a September morning, and several of the 
 men who had motored from London told themselves 
 that even if Birtley Raydon's life had been cut short 
 in so tragic a way it had been a singularly fortunate 
 life, at any rate during recent years. Not only had 
 he been blessed with wealth, and quite sufficient 
 health to enjoy his money, but he had been, for 
 nearly two years, the husband of an exceptionally 
 sweet-natured and most attractive wife. 
 
 The funeral had been fixed for eleven o'clock. It 
 was now twenty minutes to the hour, and soon the 
 considerable concourse of people began moving to- 
 wards The Mill House. 
 
 At seven minutes to eleven the coffin was already 
 on the hearse, and only the front mourning coach of 
 all was empty. All present knew that it was waiting 
 for Birtley Raydon's widow, and her devoted friend, 
 Mrs. Strain. 
 
 Round the gate, and standing about the broad 
 country road, were groups of country people, while 
 the grander folk were all seated in their cars and car- 
 riages. 
 
 Eva, dressed in deep mourning, was just stepping 
 out of the front door of The Mill House, her long 
 veil drawn over her face, when a man suddenly came 
 up from behind and touched her arm. 
 
234 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Mrs. Raydon," he said in a low voice, "I am the 
 Coroner's officer, and I have come to tell you that the 
 funeral of your husband, Mr. Birtley Raydon, cannot 
 take place to-day. The Coroner considers it desir- 
 able that a post-mortem should be held on Mr. 
 Raydon's body, and I therefore suggest that the 
 coffin be taken straight to the mortuary. " 
 
 The stranger's tone was not unkind, but it was very 
 peremptory. 
 
 Eva threw back her veil. She was so agitated, so 
 amazed, that for a moment or two she found it im- 
 possible to speak. 
 
 Gazing with growing sympathy into her now 
 flushed face, he went on: 
 
 "I am sure the Coroner would wish me to express 
 to you his sincere regret that this course must be 
 followed. It is unfortunate that the decision as to 
 the post-mortem was only finally arrived at this 
 morning. ,, 
 
 No one thought of, no one looked at, Adelaide 
 Strain. She stood quite still, scarcely breathing, 
 while the Coroner's officer was holding his brief collo- 
 quy with Eva Raydon. 
 
 During the few seconds of silence which followed 
 his last respectful, kindly words, she seemed to see 
 again, with horrid distinctness, Birtley Raydon, as 
 she had seen him just before they had begun screwing 
 down the lid of his coffin. 
 
 But instead of the peaceful-looking, as if awe-filled, 
 dead face at which she had taken — God alone knew 
 
"the further facts " 
 
 235 
 
 with what singular feelings of remorse, aversion, 
 fear, and yes, far, far greater than anything else, relief 
 — a last long look, she now saw that face, if marble 
 pale, yet alive with the life of the spirit, and gazing 
 at her with wide-open eyes filled with triumphant, 
 jeering, vindictive malice. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "the facts that followed 99 
 
 DETECTIVE HENRY PLIMMER, of the 
 Criminal Investigation Department of Scot- 
 land Yard, felt in his bones that the case of 
 which he had been put in charge was going to be a 
 very big thing, and not the less big because he had 
 already made up his mind, more or less, as to the 
 main facts of the story. 
 
 Partly because the weather had completely 
 changed, and also because he didn't want any of the 
 papers in his bag to be tossed about by the strong 
 wind, he pulled up and shut both windows of the car 
 which was taking him to Swanmere. Then he opened 
 his bag, and took out of it the notes he had made for 
 his own private use, as well as copies of the principal 
 documents — including three letters — which seemed 
 to present a strong prima facie case of murder against 
 a newly widowed lady called Mrs. Birtley Raydon. 
 
 He glanced through his notes, though he practically 
 knew them by heart. And then he read with close 
 attention the letter, addressed to the Commissioner 
 of Police, and ultimately forwarded to the Chief 
 Constable of the county, which had started the in- 
 vestigation. 
 
 236 
 
THE FACTS THAT FOLLOWED " 237 
 
 The letter was signed "Amelia Raydon." It had 
 been sent from a good South Kensington address, 
 and was dated the fifth of September: 
 
 Sir, — May I put certain facts before you? My son, Mr. 
 Birtley Raydon, senior partner of Raydon, Cork, & Co., of Old 
 Broad Street, E. C, died this morning after a few hours' illness 
 at his residence, The Mill House, Swanmere-on-Thames. 
 
 He called on me two days ago, being then apparently in perfect 
 health. His death is attributed by the old country doctor who 
 was sent for by my son's wife, Mrs. Birtley Raydon, about an 
 hour and a half before my son's death, to the bursting of an un- 
 suspected duodenal ulcer. 
 
 Under the circumstances I consider a post-mortem desirable, 
 the more so that my son and his wife were not on good terms. 
 Their most recent disagreement concerned the debts, or rather, 
 one very large debt, of Mrs. Birtley Raydon. 
 
 As I think you will agree, the enclosed love-letter, addressed 
 to Mrs. Birtley Raydon, proves conclusively that my daughter- 
 in-law appealed for a large sum of money to a man-friend of hers 
 of whose existence my unfortunate son was not even aware. 
 That gentleman, whose name, I have ascertained, is Colonel 
 Mintlaw, was, at the time, staying at the Anchor Inn, Swanmere. 
 He apparently provided Mrs. Birtley Raydon with cash to the 
 extent of about three thousand pounds, for, yesterday, she paid 
 bills amounting to about two thousand four hundred pounds, 
 and there remains in her possession in bank notes over five 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 Colonel Mintlaw is a man of great wealth, and was in love with 
 my daughter-in-law before she met my son. 
 
 Were not my brother, General Sir Rundle Birtley, an invalid, 
 and residing in the Channel Islands, I would have asked him to 
 undertake for me the painful duty of making you acquainted 
 with the above facts. 
 
 If you will kindly arrange to see me, I can suppy you with 
 further important information. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 Amelia Raydon. 
 
 Now, such letters are received at Scotland Yard 
 more often than the public would think at all possible. 
 
238 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 And it may be said that perhaps in as many as forty- 
 nine cases out of fifty, the writer is suffering from a 
 delusion caused either by acute grief, or, more often, 
 by hatred of some particular individual, generally a 
 near relation. 
 
 Each letter of the kind, however, receives due 
 consideration, and in this case Inspector Plimmer had 
 been detailed to go and see Mrs. Amelia Raydon. 
 That lady had produced on him a strong impression 
 of mental power and of sincerity, the more so that all 
 she pleaded for was that a post-mortem should be 
 held on the body of her son. 
 
 Dr. Durham had next been sent for, and both the 
 Inspector and the medical officer who had examined 
 the doctor had been unfavourably impressed by the 
 old man's over-confident assertion as to the certain 
 cause of his patient's death. 
 
 Plimmer now recalled, with a grim smile, the second 
 time he had seen the country doctor. That had been 
 within an hour after the result of the post-mortem 
 had become known at Scotland Yard; and he, Plim- 
 mer, had never seen a greater change in any man. 
 All the stuffing, so to speak, had been taken out of 
 the poor old chap! 
 
 Mrs. Raydon had enclosed in her communica- 
 tion a letter with no beginning or end which she 
 admitted having taken from her daughter-in-law's 
 bedroom. 
 
 A copy of this curious epistle was read over, now, 
 by the Inspector: 
 
"the facts that followed " 239 
 
 It's more than a shame that you should be worried, Eva. I'm 
 honoured that you thought of me, and the idea of my lending you 
 money is absurd. 
 
 You needn't feel the slightest delicacy about accepting the 
 enclosed as a gift. It's literally true that what I'm giving you is 
 less to me now .than a fiver would have been in the days when 
 I was stony broke. 
 
 I want to know if you can come for another spin to-day. I'll 
 telephone to Mrs. Strain and find out. By the way, do give her 
 my love. I always had a kind feeling for her. I've already told 
 the good folk here that I knew her and her jolly little kid during 
 the war. 
 
 Would you like me to motor you up to town early this morn- 
 ing? I'd cash the cheque for you, and then we could lunch at 
 the Wigwam, as we used to do in the good old days which con- 
 tained the only really happy hours I have ever had in my life. 
 
 Old Mrs. Raydon had described this letter as a 
 " love-letter," but he, Plimmer, could not bring him- 
 self to call it that, although it undoubtedly did be- 
 token great intimacy and friendship between the 
 writer and the lady to whom it was presumably ad- 
 dressed. He was very anxious to secure the letter, 
 written by Mrs. Birtley Raydon, to which this com- 
 munication had been an answer on the part of Colonel 
 Mintlaw. Fortune had favoured him, for this very 
 morning there had been received at Scotland Yard 
 a postcard which ran: 
 
 Swanmere, Friday. Ask Iris Jones about the bits of the letter 
 she got out of the Colonel's paper-basket and pasted up on a 
 sheet of glass. — Friend of Justice. 
 
 The name of the present occupier of The Anchor 
 Inn, Swanmere, was undoubtedly Jones, and a tele- 
 phone inquiry to the local police had elicited the 
 information that he had a daughter named Iris. 
 
240 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 As soon as certain initial enquiries had been set 0/« 
 foot, statements had been obtained from a good man} 
 people concerned directly or indirectly with the 
 events which had preceded Birtley Raydon's death 
 by arsenic poison. These included Colonel Mintlaw, 
 the manager of that gentleman's bank, and the fa- 
 mous dressmaker, Madame Domino, to whom Mrs. 
 Raydon had paid five hundred pounds in cash on the 
 fourth of September. 
 
 But, so far, no one at Swanmere had yet been inter- 
 viewed in connection with the strange and sinister 
 story, and to see them was the job on which Inspector 
 Plimmer, and the detective sergeant who had come 
 down by train, and who was to take statements from 
 some of the subsidiary people concerned with the 
 mystery of Birtley Raydon's death by poisoning, 
 were engaged to-day. 
 
 The Inspector had made up his mind to go first W 
 the Anchor Inn, there to see Iris Jones and, if it were 
 really in her possession, secure the letter which, 
 according to Colonel Mintlaw, had been destroyed by 
 him immediately after he had read it. 
 
 The Colonel, when recently interviewed in London, 
 had asserted in the most earnest manner that there 
 had been nothing in Mrs. Birtley Raydon's letter but 
 a request for a small loan from a virtuous woman 
 who looked upon him as a brother. 
 
 It is wonderful what a little whitewash and a few 
 pots of pink geraniums will do to transform an old- 
 
"the facts that followed " 241 
 
 fashioned country public-house into an attractive 
 country hotel. The Anchor Inn, Swanmere, is now 
 quite noted among motorists for its charming appear- 
 ance and excellent, though plain, fare, and as In- 
 spector Plimmer walked through into the bar he told 
 himself that this was indeed a cosy little place. Just 
 the sort of place where a wealthy gentleman like 
 Colonel Mintlaw would like to lead the simple life, 
 especially if the Anchor Inn were within easy reach 
 of a dear lady friend. 
 
 He looked sharply at the young woman who was 
 engaged in serving a motorcyclist with a glass of 
 lemonade, and made up his mind that she was not 
 Iris Jones. He was at once proved to be right. 
 
 "Miss Jones? Is she expecting you? I don't 
 know that she can see you, for she's that upset over 
 The Mill House mystery. As I was telling this 'ere 
 gentleman, though there's nothing known at all, so 
 to speak, everything being put off for ten days since 
 the hinquest, folk 'ere are talking of nothing else!" 
 
 The young man had slid away, and the Inspector 
 observed, "I've come here to make enquiries about 
 that very affair. Here's my card. Please take it to 
 Miss Jones." 
 
 He always found it best to be frank when engaged 
 on such an investigation as this. It saved a lot of 
 fuss and trouble. 
 
 "Well, I never!" cried the girl. 
 
 She dropped her voice, " I think I knows why you 
 wants to see Miss Jones," she said, and Plimmer told 
 
242 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 himself that she was almost certainly, "Friend of 
 Justice." 
 
 She showed him into a stuffy parlour smelling or 
 beer, though there was a piano, and an air of frigid 
 gentility about the room. 
 
 After a few minutes of impatient waiting, he heard 
 steps in the passage, and a sharp-faced little man 
 walked in, with his, Inspector Plimmer's, card in his 
 hand. 
 
 "I see you've come from Scotland Yard, sir, and 
 I'm told you want to see my daughter, Miss Iris 
 Jones? She's got nothing to do with what they're 
 calling The Mill House Mystery. She didn't even 
 wait on Colonel Mintlaw when he was here. Would 
 you like to see the young person as did wait on him ? " 
 
 "I may want to see her afterwards, but my busi- 
 ness now is with Miss Jones." 
 
 "Would you mind telling me your business?" 
 
 The innkeeper looked pugnacious, as well as anx- 
 ious and worried. 
 
 "Well, no, I don't think I can do that, though I've 
 no objection to you, as being Miss Jones's father, 
 staying in the room while I take a statement from 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Jones left the room, and soon he came back 
 accompanied by a pale, nervous-looking girl. 
 
 "Here's the gentleman from Scotland Yard who 
 wants to see you, my dear. I've told him you had 
 nothing to do with the Colonel. Why, you never 
 went even into his sitting-room, did you, my dear?" 
 
"the facts that followed " 243 
 
 "Never when he was there, Dad," she said falter- 
 ingly. 
 
 The Inspector looked keenly at them both. 
 
 "Now, look here, Mr. Jones. I do ask you as a 
 favour to leave this young lady alone with me for a 
 few minutes. I'm a father myself; you needn't be 
 afraid that I shall scare her." 
 
 He half smiled as he spoke, and he saw a look of 
 relief flash across the girl's face. 
 
 Mr. Jones turned to his daughter, "What do you 
 say, child?" 
 
 "Perhaps I'd best be alone with the gentleman, 
 Dad; it does make me nervous, seeing you stand star- 
 ing at me like that." 
 
 Mr. Jones went out of the room and shut the door, 
 and at once the visitor's manner became confidential, 
 as well as kind. 
 
 "I take it you know, Miss Jones, even if your dad 
 doesn't, what I've come after? You'd better just 
 hand over that letter Mrs. Raydon wrote to Colonel 
 Mintlaw without any fuss. I expect a good many of 
 your friends have seen it by now, eh?" 
 
 "Not a great many," she answered in a low, 
 shamed voice. "Just my young man — the gentle- 
 man I'm engaged to, I mean — and one or two partic- 
 ular lady friends. I suppose it was one of them that 
 gave me away?" 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" he said, smiling. 
 
 She stood irresolute. 
 
 "It doesn't seem a fair thing to do," she muttered. 
 
244 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 To that the Inspector made no answer. The ways 
 of women/ and especially of young women, were 
 beyond him. Fancy doing the thing that this girl 
 had done, and then speaking as though it were not a 
 fair thing to show it to the one person who had a 
 right to see it — that is, Plimmer himself! 
 
 "Just you go and fetch it," he said, still speaking 
 in a kindly, though rather more peremptory, tone. 
 
 And then she began to laugh, a little hysterically. 
 "I haven't got to go and fetch it. It's here, in this 
 room!" 
 
 "In this room?" 
 
 He felt a touch of relief sweep over him. He had 
 been just a little bit afraid, only just a little bit — she 
 didn't look that sort, but you never can tell with a 
 woman, leastways not with a young girl, what she'll 
 do— that she might leave the room either to hide, or 
 to destroy, that precious letter. 
 
 "You can look round and round " 
 
 Unconsciously her visitor was doing so. 
 
 " — but you'll never guess where it is!" 
 
 "I give it up!" he exclaimed genially. 
 
 Iris Jones went up to the piano and, stooping down, 
 she drew out from under it a dusty pane of glass on 
 which had been pasted, looking very like a jig-saw 
 puzzle, some thirty to forty pieces of a torn-up letter. 
 
 With a triumphant feeling of relief and self- 
 congratulation Inspector Plimmer took the piece of 
 glass from the girl's hand, and went and stood by the 
 window. 
 
THE FACTS THAT FOLLOWED " 245 
 
 Monday night. 
 
 Oh, Jack, I'm in the most awful trouble! I've had a frightful 
 row with my husband. A brute of a woman who has made my 
 clothes for a long time and to whom I owe a rather big bill, sent 
 a man to-day to Birtley's office to collect the money. 
 
 Unluckily we're very hard up just now. This woman wants 
 five hundred pounds within ten days. And that's not all! I 
 have a lot of other bills about which Birtley knows nothing. 
 
 I am really writing to ask you whether you can and will lend 
 me a thousand pounds. I have got fifteen hundred a year of 
 my own. I think I could pay you off in, say, two years. 
 
 I feel such a beast for asking you to do me this great favour, 
 but I can't tell you how wretched I feel! The one thing about 
 which Birtley and I have always quarrelled is money. I hate to 
 write it down, but the truth is his mother brought him up to be 
 frightfully mean. 
 
 Your 
 
 Eva. 
 
 The Inspector read the letter over again. 
 
 Truth to tell, he felt disappointed. He had ex- 
 pected a far more compromising document. But 
 this letter was undoubtedly valuable as showing the 
 very intimate terms on which these two people had 
 been. Also, he was, quite unconsciously, both 
 shocked and pleased at the way Mrs. Birtley Raydon 
 had ended her letter to this old, and now very wealthy, 
 friend. 
 
 Inspector Plimmer cast his mind back to the time 
 when he had been a young married man himself. He 
 would not have been at all pleased had his wife signed 
 a letter to a cousin of hers of whom he had once been 
 jealous, "Your Janey." 
 
 "I suppose you know the lady who wrote this 
 letter, Miss Jones?" 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 She looked uncomfortable. "I can't exactly say 
 I know her." 
 
 "Did she ever come along to this hotel and ask to 
 see Colonel Mintlaw? " 
 
 "No, that she never did!" 
 
 The decided answer was disappointing. He re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 Suddenly she added w^ith a giggle, "The telephone's 
 sometimes useful." 
 
 "Oh, ho! So she used the telephone, did she?" 
 
 "Well, I don't think she ever did. But the Colonel 
 did. Never asked for her, though. He'd always 
 ask for Mrs. Strain." 
 
 "Mrs. Strain? Who's she?" 
 
 But even as he asked the question he remembered 
 the passage in Colonel Mintlaw's letter which referred 
 to this very person. 
 
 "Mrs. Strain's been the lady-housekeeper at The 
 Mill House almost ever since they came here," said 
 Iris Jones confidently. "She's a great friend of 
 young Mrs. Raydon." 
 
 "Then this Mrs. Strain, I take it, acted as a go- 
 between between the Colonel and her friend?" 
 
 "Couldn't say as to that; but I do mind how once 
 when he asked for Mrs. Strain it was Mrs. Raydon 
 who answered, for I heard her voice. She was 
 chaffing him, like, all the time. That was the day 
 they went out together to lunch and on the river." 
 
 "Out together? Do you mean Colonel Mintlaw 
 and Mrs. Birtley Raydon?" 
 
"the facts that followed " 247 
 
 That was "the spin" to which there had been a 
 reference in the Colonel's letter, no doubt! 
 
 "Why, yes, on the very day but one, so to speak, 
 before poor Mr. Raydon's death, they had a right 
 down jolly time. The Colonel's shover told me all 
 about it. They had a good tuck-in at the Beche 
 Hotel, and then they were on the river a couple of 
 hours. Out from half-past twelve to about half-past 
 six they were, and when they was nearly back here 
 Mrs. Raydon said to the Colonel, says she, ' Don't 
 take me right up to the gate, please.' So the car was 
 stopped a tidy little way from The Mill House, 
 and " The girl stopped short. 
 
 " — and what?" he asked gently. 
 
 "Well, if one's to believe what one's told, she and 
 her poor gentleman had a fearful row after she got 
 home. A regular dust-up in their drawing-room. 
 The parlourmaid was in her pantry, ever so far away, 
 but she could hear him bawling at her, and her an- 
 swering him back." 
 
 "When d'you say that happened, Miss Jones?" 
 
 Iris Jones walked over to the mantelpiece on which 
 stood a calendar. "It's the twelfth to-day. It must 
 'a' been on the third the Colonel took Mrs. Raydon 
 on that jaunt." 
 
 "He died early on the morning of the fifth," ob- 
 served Plimmer slowly. 
 
 Though he looked very grave, he was full of exulta- 
 tion. Everything, so he told himself, was going far, far 
 better than he could have had any hope it would do. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "not in dispute " 
 
 FTER having made so promising a start at 
 
 the Anchor Inn, it was natural for the In- 
 
 spector to feel in a very good humour as he 
 stood waiting for Mrs. Birtley Raydon in the charm- 
 ing drawing-room of The Mill House. He also felt, 
 what he rarely did feel, just a little excited at the 
 prospect of his coming interview with the woman 
 who, he already felt sure, was going to be the central 
 figure of a cause celebre. 
 
 When she came into the room, looking not only 
 very lovely in her simple black frock, but also sad, 
 and with a bewildered expression on her face, Plim- 
 mer told himself, with a touch of satisfaction, that 
 Birtley Raydon's widow was even more cunning and 
 artful than he had expected to find her. This being 
 so, he would surely be justified in letting her suppose 
 that she was producing on him just the impression 
 she meant to produce. 
 
 In one sense his ruse succeeded admirably. Eva, 
 to whom the terrible and surprising events of the last 
 week had been as a living nightmare, had not as yet 
 the remotest suspicion of what already a great many 
 people suspected, and, indeed, considered to be not 
 even in doubt. 
 
"not in dispute " 249 
 
 Did the big, kindly looking man, who was dressed 
 in a well-cut gray suit, and who she felt must surely 
 be a friend, warn her that what she now said might be 
 used in evidence against her? No, for that was not 
 his duty. 
 
 There had recently been "a fuss" made in the pub- 
 lic press about the manner in which a statement had 
 been obtained from a person on whom more than a 
 mere suspicion of murder rested. Yet, as the In- 
 spector had often put it with some heat both to him- 
 self and to some sympathetic friend, the sentimental 
 folk who so disapprove of certain methods of getting 
 at the truth don't give a thought to the unfortunate 
 victim on whose behalf the investigations are being 
 made. An innocent person has very, very rarely — 
 Inspector Plimmer would have told you never — 
 reason to fear being made to tell the truth. 
 
 Certain definite rules are laid down for the guid- 
 ance of the C.I.D. men conducting such an enquiry, 
 and from these the Inspector did not intend to de- 
 part. But he knew that these rules did not bind him 
 to warn Eva Raydon definitely that what she said 
 now might be used in evidence against her. That 
 painful task could be left to the man who arrested 
 her, if arrested she was, on the charge of having killed 
 her husband. 
 
 So he set himself to make her feel that absolute 
 truthfulness, and the holding of nothing back, would 
 be her best and wisest course. 
 
 She was reassured by the kind and respectful man- 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 ner of the official from Scotland Yard. It was an 
 agreeable contrast to the behaviour of the local police, 
 who had been far from civil. This man did seem to 
 be her friend, and soon she was answering his quick 
 questions with almost eager frankness. 
 
 For the most part they went over what was to the 
 Inspector already familiar ground. But now and 
 again he elicited some new and, to him, most impor- 
 tant fact. Thus, in answer to a quiet question as 
 to when she had last been to the Cottage Hospital, 
 Eva told of her visit there on the way to the station. 
 
 Now it had very soon become known to the local 
 police that the Cottage Hospital was the only place 
 near Swanmere where arsenic was available. 
 
 One pitiful little concealment Mrs. Birtley Ray- 
 don did attempt to make — this was concerning her 
 motor expedition, her luncheon, and her long after- 
 noon with Colonel Mintlaw on the river. But there 
 Inspector Plimmer played quite fair. He told her 
 at once that he knew all about that happy, care-free 
 day. 
 
 Once or twice she asked plaintively, "But what has 
 all that to do with my husband's death?" only to be 
 answered, evasively, "In a business of this sort we 
 are bound to get at everything that happened just 
 before, during, and after the affair about which we 
 are holding an enquiry." 
 
 There was a moment when a most disturbing sus- 
 picion flashed into the mind of Birtley Kaydon's 
 
"not in dispute — — " 
 
 251 
 
 widow. Was it conceivable that any one could sus- 
 pect Jack Mintlaw to have been concerned in that 
 utterly inexplicable and mysterious administration 
 of arsenic? 
 
 But she had quickly rejected so monstrous an idea. 
 Why, Jack had never even seen poor, darling Birtley! 
 
 No communication, rather to her distress, had 
 passed between herself and Mintlaw since the mes- 
 sage of condolence conveyed to her by Adelaide 
 Strain on the day of Raydon's death. But she knew 
 that he was in touch with her friend, and that he had 
 asked more than once if he could be of any use. 
 "Addie," however, had said that it would be very 
 foolish of her, Eva, to write to him, and quite out of 
 the question to ask him to lunch or to tea at The Mill 
 House till the inquest was over. 
 
 At the end of what had been a very searching ex- 
 amination — and, yes, cross-examination — Inspector 
 Plimmer exclaimed, "And now I should like to see the 
 lady, I mean Mrs. Strain, whom you have mentioned 
 so often, and who is, I understand, your housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Raydon " 
 
 " — and a great friend, " Eva ended his sentence for 
 him. 
 
 Then she went on again with that touch of eager- 
 ness which he thought so sinister: "Mrs. Strain and I 
 shared a flat before my second marriage; and as my 
 dear husband," her voice faltered, and Inspector 
 Plimmer told himself that she was indeed an accom- 
 
252 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 plished actress, "did not think me at all good at 
 household management, I asked her to come to be 
 our lady-housekeeper." 
 
 "Can I see her now, at once?" he asked. 
 
 Eva went out of the room, and came back a few 
 moments later with a plain, sensible-looking woman 
 who looked, to the eyes of the C.I.D. official, about 
 forty. 
 
 This was the sort of woman with whom he, Prim- 
 mer, liked to have to do, because experience had 
 taught him that with such a person there was no fear 
 of hysteria or futile dissimulation. 
 
 All the same he saw, by the nervous, anxious look 
 Mrs. Strain cast at young Mrs. Raydon, that she was 
 well aware what people in the know were saying and 
 thinking. As to what Birtley Raydon's widow her- 
 self thought, he could not quite make up his mind. 
 But on the whole the result of their interview caused 
 him to suppose that she still believed herself free from 
 any suspicion. 
 
 The type among whom Inspector Plimmer had 
 already classed Eva Raydon — that is, the physically 
 attractive, utterly unscrupulous, vain and venal, 
 post-war girl and woman — lives in a world of illusions, 
 the greatest of them being the conviction that, what- 
 ever sin or folly she may commit, that sin or folly 
 will not find her out. 
 
 "I suppose you would rather see Mrs. Strain 
 alone?" 
 
 Poor Eva would have liked to stay and hear her 
 
"not in dispute 
 
 253 
 
 friend's account of all that had happened during 
 those two days which, for a reason she could not di- 
 vine, were regarded as being crucial both by the local 
 police who had harassed her so often during the last 
 few days, and by the pleasant-spoken and pleasant- 
 mannered official from Scotland Yard. So she was 
 disappointed, as well as rather taken aback, by the 
 peremptory, "I must certainly see Mrs. Strain 
 alone." 
 
 She wondered nervously if she had annoyed this 
 kind man in any way, for he was looking at her now 
 quite differently from what he had done up to now. 
 It was as if he was longing for her to go away — 
 quickly. 
 
 After Mrs. Birtley Raydon had left them together, 
 walking very slowly to the door, much as does a 
 child who hates being sent away, the two sat down, 
 and the Inspector noticed that Mrs. Strain looked 
 weary, and far from strong. He told himself with 
 sympathy that this must have been a terrible time 
 for the woman who was not only the lady-house- 
 keeper, but the close friend, of Mrs. Birtley Raydon. 
 
 He wondered what she knew, what she suspected, 
 above all, of what value anything she had to say 
 would be in building up the case. 
 
 " I want you to tell me, as clearly as you can do so, 
 all you can remember about the evening of the fourth 
 of this month, Mrs. Strain." 
 
 She waited awhile, as if she were indeed trying to 
 
254 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 remember. In reality, she was telling herself that for 
 Gilly's sake she must keep her wits about her and 
 make no slip — no slip. 
 
 So, looking at him frankly, she answered, after a 
 short pause: 
 
 "There's very little to remember. But I do recall 
 the fact that Mr. Raydon seemed remarkably well 
 that evening. He said he was 'as hungry as a 
 hunter/ and I was rather glad to hear him say it, 
 for Mrs. Birtley Raydon eats very little, and I had 
 taken special pains to order a nice dinner." 
 
 "So he ate heartily, did he?" 
 
 This time she answered at once: 
 
 "Yes, he ate very heartily of everything." 
 
 "What did the dinner consist of?" 
 
 Again she answered at once: 
 
 "We had sole done up with a rich sauce — Mr. 
 Raydon liked rich food — and then we had a duck 
 with some of the second crop of green peas from our 
 own kitchen garden." 
 
 "What wine was drunk?" 
 
 "Mrs. Raydon and I drank only water. In 
 theory, if I may put it so, Mr. Raydon did not drink 
 with his meals. Such, at least, was the advice of his 
 doctor; but in practice he frequently broke that rule. 
 And I do remember that the evening before his 
 death" — her voice shook a little as she uttered the 
 word "death," and again Plimmer felt really sorry 
 for her — "he had some rather sweet French wine 
 
"not in dispute " 
 
 255 
 
 that he was fond of, which he used to get direct from 
 France." 
 
 "In cask or in bottle?" 
 
 "In bottle." 
 
 "Bottled in France?" 
 
 "Yes, bottled in France." 
 
 Inspector Plimmer made a special note of that fact. 
 He liked to feel that he was being absolutely fair. 
 
 "Was there a pudding?" he asked, and there came 
 just a glint of a smile over his firm mouth. 
 
 "Yes, a cold plum tart, and with it was served a 
 cream ice flavoured with pineapple. Mr. Raydon 
 took a big helping of both the tart and the ice-cream." 
 
 "I call that a very nice dinner!" 
 
 Had not the occasion been so solemn, not to say 
 sad, he would have added that the recital of this to 
 him very attractive menu made him feel quite hungry. 
 He had only had a snack of lunch at the Anchor Inn 
 before coming on to The Mill House. 
 
 "I mustn't forget the savoury." 
 
 And then there also came across Mrs. Strain's pale 
 lips a ghost of a smile. 
 
 "We had that evening Mr. Raydon's favourite 
 savoury — a thin biscuit just slightly dusted over with 
 Parmesan cheese, and then toasted before the fire." 
 
 He asked suddenly, "Mr. Raydon didn't drink 
 anything else beyond the French wine you mentioned 
 just now?" 
 
 "He had a glass of port before Mrs. Raydon and I 
 left the dining-room, and " She hesitated. 
 
256 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Yes?" he said encouragingly. 
 
 "I feel fairly sure that he had a second glass before 
 he came into the drawing-room/' 
 
 "I see. Where was all this wine kept?" 
 
 "In an old brass-bound mahogany bin, of which 
 Mr. Raydon himself kept the key." 
 
 "I see/' 
 
 He waited for what seemed to the woman watching 
 him a long time. Then, "I understand that after 
 dinner Mr. and Mrs. Raydon went out into the 
 garden?" he said in a grave tone. 
 
 He saw her face change. Then she knew that they 
 were now approaching the heart of the matter — and 
 that her evidence would be all-important! 
 
 "Yes, they asked me to go with them, but I felt 
 very tired, so I stayed in the drawing-room. I meant 
 to go up to bed early. But Mr. Raydon had said 
 something about hoping there would be plenty of ice 
 in his shandy-gaff, and I waited to see whether 
 enough ice was brought in on the tray. Also he 
 always liked me to mix his shandy-gaff, and I waited 
 for that as well." 
 
 "You must be glad now you did that," he said, 
 with a note of sympathy in his voice. 
 
 She nodded gravely, and he leant forward. 
 
 "I want you now to try and remember exactly 
 what happened, Mrs. Strain, after you had mixed the 
 shandy-gaff. " 
 
 "I went back into the drawing-room " 
 
 "And then?" he looked at her searchingly. 
 
"not in dispute " 
 
 257 
 
 He was anxious, exceedingly anxious, to obtain 
 what he believed to be the truth from her. 
 
 She did not answer at once, and he observed, in a 
 quiet tone, "Mrs. Birtley Raydon has just admitted 
 to me that she came into the hall from the garden 
 before her husband did so." 
 
 He saw that she looked — was it surprised or only re- 
 lieved ? — that the onus of decision was taken from her. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Birtley Raydon came along into the 
 hall, and I heard her pour some lemonade into a glass. 
 I then joined her." 
 
 "Did she say anything?" 
 
 "Yes, she said that Mr. Raydon thought he had 
 heard a noise near the boat-house, and had gone to 
 look if any one was there. He was always exceed- 
 ingly fussy about the boat-house. He was always 
 thinking people were getting in there on the river 
 side, though that was really quite impossible. I had 
 one key, and he had the other." 
 
 There was a pause. The Inspector gave her a 
 long thoughtful look. She wondered if he could see 
 her heart fluttering. 
 
 "How long was Mrs. Raydon alone in the hall 
 before you joined her?" he asked at last. 
 
 Eagerly she answered, "Only a few moments." 
 He believed her, and indeed it was the truth. 
 
 Even so he pressed her closely. "I suppose you 
 really mean a minute or two?" 
 
 "No, not nearly as long as that." 
 
 "Sixty seconds?" 
 
258 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "I don't think so. But of course it may have been 
 as long as sixty seconds." 
 
 Again he uttered the two words which may mean 
 so much or so little, " I see." 
 
 She ventured, "Just long enough to pour out a 
 glass of lemonade." 
 
 "And then, Mrs. Strain, just after you had joined 
 Mrs. Raydon, Mr. Raydon came into the hall? He 
 joined you two ladies, in fact?" 
 
 "Yes, and he drank off the shandy-gaff practically 
 in one gulp." 
 
 Inspector Plimmer again looked at her hard, and 
 she went on quickly: 
 
 "I remember thinking it was a stupid thing to do, 
 for of course it had become frightfully cold by that 
 time. The ice had been in the glass for full five 
 minutes, if not longer." 
 
 "Thank you. That's all I need trouble you with, 
 Mrs. Strain." 
 
 She tried, successfully, to hide her great relief. 
 
 "Mrs. Birtley Raydon has told me of how her 
 husband's illness began," he resumed, to her un- 
 easy surprise, "and of how you telephoned for the 
 doctor, and afterwards, on the doctor's advice, for a 
 specialist, and for Mr. Birtley Raydon's mother. 
 Mrs. Birtley Raydon spoke very warmly of your 
 kindness to her just now. I take it you two ladies 
 have been dear friends?" 
 
 "We are still very dear friends," she said quickly, 
 defensively. 
 
"not in dispute " 259 
 
 She walked to the door, and she already had her 
 hand on the handle when all at once she turned round 
 and faced him. 
 
 "I would stake my soul," she whispered in a 
 strangled voice, "that Eva Raydon is absolutely 
 innocent concerning the way her husband came by 
 his death." 
 
 "You'll be able to say everything you can on 
 your friend's behalf if and when you appear as a 
 witness for the defence," he said in a kind, serious 
 voice. 
 
 On the whole, he felt she deserved well at his hands. 
 It was quite clear that Eva Raydon had had ample 
 time, during those few moments that she had been 
 alone in the hall, to add the arsenic to the already 
 prepared shandy-gaff. 
 
 "As a witness?" she faltered. "Then are you sure 
 there will be a trial?" 
 
 "I'm sure of nothing," he replied testily. "But 
 it's a clear case of murder, isn't it? No one can 
 pretend that the unfortunate gentleman did away 
 with himself, can they? You yourself have just told 
 me that he was as jovial as possible that evening — no 
 thought of death and judgment in his mind, eh?" 
 
 "No," she said. And then again she said, rather 
 loudly, "No." 
 
 "By the way" — he came up closer to her — "I 
 suppose you knew Colonel Mintlaw quite well in the 
 days when he was courting your friend, before she 
 had met her second husband?" 
 
260 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Yes," she said quietly, for by now she had re- 
 gained her usual self-command. "I knew Colonel 
 Mintlaw very well." Emphatically she added, 
 "He is a thoroughly nice man." 
 
 "Thoroughly nice men sometimes do very queer 
 things when they're in love," he said dryly. "Not 
 that I'm thinking that the Colonel's done anything 
 queerer than a great many men do every day of the 
 week, mind — not to speak of Sunday." 
 
 Inspector Plimmer was very thorough. This was 
 one reason why he was generally entrusted with a 
 type of investigation where thoroughness counts very 
 much more than does cleverness, or so-called intui- 
 tion. 
 
 Now, experience had taught him that it is always 
 worth while to take very special trouble with regard 
 to the servants who form the household staff* in such a 
 house as that in which he was, or so he fully believed, 
 building up a prima facie case against Mrs. Birtley 
 Raydon. 
 
 So it was that, having concluded his conversation 
 with Mrs. Strain, he intimated that he would like to 
 interrogate each of the maids as to the events which 
 had followed one another on the evening of the fourth 
 of September, and on the morning of the fifth. 
 
 Following in this the advice of the lady-house- 
 keeper, he began with the cook, a pleasant, sensible 
 woman, who, by her own wish, so she told him, was 
 leaving to better herself, the late Mr. Raydon having 
 
"not in dispute — — 261 
 
 refused to sanction the increase in her wages to which 
 she, and the Raydons' lady-housekepeer as well, had 
 long deemed she was entitled. 
 
 She gave what might have been described as the 
 highest character to Mrs. Strain. But as to Mrs. 
 Birtley Raydon she had very little to say; it was 
 clear that she had had practically nothing to do with 
 the nominal mistress of the house. 
 
 The capable, somewhat emotional, parlourmaid, 
 Powell, had a great deal to say; and yet again, to 
 quote Inspector Plirnmer's own way of putting the 
 thing, "it all boiled down to very little." 
 
 It was plain that Powell had disliked the master 
 she valeted, while in a way she was fond, though 
 perhaps grudgingly fond, of her pretty mistress. 
 
 Powell was startled to find that this gentleman who 
 listened to her so quietly had already heard of the 
 violent quarrel which had taken place between her 
 late master and his wife on the third of September. 
 
 Thinking, maybe, to shield her mistress, she re- 
 vealed what she had hitherto kept to herself. This 
 was that Mr. Raydon had a violent, indeed a nasty, 
 temper. As an example, she described, in a few 
 resentful words, the way he had treated the garden- 
 er's boy a few days before his death, accusing the lad 
 of theft, and trying to browbeat him into confessing 
 it. 
 
 This story Inspector Plimmer cut somewhat short, 
 to his own subsequent regret. 
 
 As to what occurred on the evening when Birtley 
 
262 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Raydon had undoubtedly absorbed the arsenic which 
 caused his death, Powell had a great deal to say. 
 She had waited at dinner, and it was she who had 
 prepared and brought the tray into the hall about a 
 quarter to ten on that same night. 
 
 Again and again the Inspector pressed the parlour- 
 maid as to what exactly had been on the tray, and 
 he felt slightly exasperated when once or twice the 
 woman contradicted herself. 
 
 But the essential facts were of course quite plain. 
 The ingredients for the shandy-gaff had both been 
 brought in on the tray, and when she, Powell, after 
 the dreadful events of the night and early morning, 
 had at last removed the tray from the hall, the tall 
 glass had been, most unfortunately as it turned out, 
 at once washed, dried, and put away, by herself. 
 
 Next the housemaid went through an exciting 
 quarter of an hour, and that though she had not been 
 concerned in the tragedy at all. Their examiner 
 proved how good a man he was at his job, for not one 
 of the three women, after their interviews with him, 
 had the slightest idea of where his own suspicions lay. 
 
 From The Mill House Inspector Plimmer drove to 
 the Cottage Hospital, there to take a very momen- 
 tous, though short, statement from Miss Jameson. 
 
 He would have liked to interview the maid who had 
 left the front door of the hospital open on the morn- 
 ing of the fourth of September. But the girl had 
 just left for her holiday, and the facts as to what had 
 occurred were not in dispute. 
 
"not in dispute " 263 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Birtley Raydon's chauffeur had seen 
 his lady push the door open; and Mrs. Birtley Ray- 
 don had herself told him that she had gone first to 
 Miss Jameson's sitting-room, and then into the dis- 
 pensary, there only to see through the window that 
 the two she sought were in the garden, where she had 
 at once joined them. 
 
 What she had not said was now most reluctantly 
 revealed by the dispenser herself. This was that on 
 that morning of the fourth of September the door of 
 the cupboard where the arsenic and other dangerous 
 drugs were kept, had been left open, with what could 
 only be described as criminal carelessness. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 "a woman of education and intelligence " 
 
 FEEL I must get away now — not for very long, 
 but just for a few weeks ! You would come with 
 me, wouldn't you, Addle?" 
 
 Eva Raydon was crouching over the fire, a thing 
 Adelaide Strain had never seen her do before. She 
 looked pinched and worn, and there was still on her 
 face the expression of bewilderment which had been 
 there when she had come back, an hour ago, after 
 an ordeal of four hours spent at Scotland Yard. 
 In fact, before her friend could answer her question, 
 her mind had swung back to what had happened 
 to her to-day. 
 
 "I can't think why they wanted to know so much 
 about our money matters," she said plaintively. 
 "They'd already found out a tremendous lot. I 
 was quite astonished at all they knew! It isn't as if 
 any one in the world could imagine for a moment 
 that dear Birtley had wanted to do away with him- 
 self. Besides, his business affairs were all in perfect 
 order, and though he was always talking about it, 
 he had only a very little overdraft at his bank — only 
 about ninety pounds. But oh, Addie, it was so 
 terrible! They asked me a lot more about that row 
 264 
 
"a woman of education'' 
 
 265 
 
 that we had — you remember? the day he came home 
 early, the day, I mean, that Madame Domino sent 
 that dreadful man to him about my bill. Of course I 
 declared most solemnly that we had entirely made 
 it up — " — and a little colour came into her face, 
 — "that we had had a sort of reconciliation dinner 
 and dance in London that very night. But I could 
 see that they didn't really believe me." 
 
 "They ought to have done that," muttered Ade- 
 laide Strain. 
 
 She was not looking at her friend. She was staring 
 into the fire. 
 
 "I've never felt before that a man had a sort of 
 cold dislike of me. Even Mr. Buck, at his worst, 
 wasn't ever like the man I saw to-day — and it was so 
 odd, for he was quite a gentleman," she ended naively. 
 Then she went on: "Of course I know to whom I 
 owe all this horrid trouble and worry!" 
 
 "I suppose you mean your husband's mother?" 
 said the other dully. 
 
 "Of course I do! She has always hated me. She 
 never believed that I really cared for Birtley. Yet, 
 God knows I did," and the tears began to trickle 
 down out of her tired eyes. 
 
 "If she really loved poor Birtley, and I suppose 
 she did in a way, then she oughtn't to have put the 
 horrible affront on me, his wife, of saying she would- 
 n't come to his funeral if I was to be there, too! Mr. 
 Buck told me that. But I expect she knew, really, 
 that there wouldn't be a funeral at all that day." 
 
266 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 To this Adelaide Strain made no answer, though she 
 did not believe it to be true. Instead, she said slowly : 
 
 "Mr. Buck is behaving very well and kindly, Eva. 
 He told me to telephone to him at any time if you 
 wanted to see him. He even gave me the number of 
 his private house." 
 
 "That's been one of the surprises of my life!" 
 
 A little smile dimpled round Eva's pretty mouth. 
 
 "But I really owe it to you, Addie. Mr. Buck 
 thinks such a tremendous lot of you! I wonder if he 
 is a widower?" and this time she laughed right out. 
 
 Adelaide Strain gave no answering smile. There 
 was an acutely anxious, curiously listening, look on 
 her face. 
 
 "I'd like to go to France," said Eva suddenly. 
 "It's so funny that I've never been abroad, isn't it? 
 I'll tell you what we could do, Addie! We might 
 motor to Dover next Saturday, and take the car over 
 to do a tour of the battlefields. I've always longed to 
 see poor Bobbie's grave." 
 
 "Bobbie?" echoed the other, surprised. 
 
 "Why, of course. Surely you remember Bobbie 
 was the name of my first husband ? Robert Fitzroy 
 Halnaker — a funny name, isn't it? I've had two 
 or three letters about his grave since I married again, 
 but I always hid them from Birtley. Poor Birtley! 
 He was rather touchy about the war — I think that 
 when it was all over he was very sorry he hadn't been 
 out. But that was his mother again. She pre- 
 vented his going out — I know she did!" 
 
"a woman of education" 
 
 267 
 
 Mrs. Strain remained silent. She was listening. 
 Since the day of Birtley Raydon's interrupted funeral 
 she was always listening for the sound of the gate 
 opening to admit — whom ? 
 
 "Well? What about a little trip to France, 
 Addie?" 
 
 "I should like to go very much." 
 
 She told herself, sorely, that Eva hadn't remem- 
 bered that she, Adelaide Strain, also had a war grave 
 — that of the husband she had truly loved, and still 
 often thought of, especially lately, with an aching 
 heart. 
 
 "I know a woman who went a tour of the battle- 
 fields last year. She made a place called Amiens her 
 headquarters, hired a motor, and saw a tremendous 
 lot! I quite envied her. After that she went to 
 Paris for a week." 
 
 Eva concluded, in a rather shamefaced voice, "I 
 don't see why we shouldn't go to Paris for a week, 
 Addie. You speak beautiful French, don't you?" 
 
 "I don't know about 'beautiful.' But yes, I can 
 speak French," said Adelaide Strain slowly. 
 
 She was staring into the fire now. It was amazing, 
 nay, more, astounding, that Eva had not even a dim 
 suspicion of the danger she was in! 
 
 The fact that Jack Mintlaw had had no direct 
 communication with her since Birtley Raydon's 
 death ought to have made her realize that there was 
 some sort of trouble in the wind, as also old Mrs. 
 Raydon's extraordinary behaviour both during her 
 
268 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 brief visit to The Mill House on the day of her son s 
 death and since. 
 
 Eva had written twice to her husband's mother, 
 short, dignified letters composed by her friend; but 
 to neither letter had she had any reply, though one of 
 them really required an answer, for it concerned the 
 dead man's will. 
 
 Then again, Dr. Durham had behaved so very 
 strangely of late! Eva had been really ill on hearing 
 the result of the post-mortem, and she, Adelaide 
 Strain, had telephoned for him. But, instead of 
 coming himself he had arranged for a very young 
 doctor who sometimes, when he was away from home, 
 dealt with his practice, to see Mrs. Birtley Raydon. 
 
 That stranger doctor's manner had been singular, 
 very singular indeed, full of a curious kind of mingled 
 aversion and familiarity which Eva's friend had 
 deeply resented, though Eva had not seemed aware of 
 it. And, on the occasion of his second call, he had 
 done a most extraordinary thing. He had brought 
 his wife with him to The Mill House, and had prac- 
 tically compelled his new patient to receive her for 
 a few moments. 
 
 Everyone in the house, excepting Eva herself, had 
 known why. The woman had longed to gaze on one 
 whom she believed to be a murderess, and owing to 
 lack of decent feeling in her husband she had accom- 
 plished her wish. 
 
 The only human being who had behaved really 
 well, from the point of view of Mrs. Strain, had been 
 
"a woman of education' 
 
 269 
 
 Mr. Buck, the solicitor who, in her prosperous, happy 
 days, had so much disliked and disapproved of Eva. 
 
 When the date of the inquest had been fixed, Mrs. 
 Strain, at her own suggestion, had gone up to see Mr. 
 Buck, to ask him to represent her friend on that 
 painful occasion. Unwillingly he had consented to 
 do so, and then, as the days had gone by, the old 
 experienced lawyer had become slowly but surely 
 convinced that Eva had had nothing to do, either 
 directly or indirectly, with the tragedy of Birtley 
 Raydon's death by poison. 
 
 All the same, it was he who had warned the lady- 
 housekeeper only yesterday night, and in somewhat 
 cryptic language, for he was speaking on the tele- 
 phone, that he fully expected his client to be arrested. 
 Indeed, he had spoken as though it were a question of 
 hours, rather than of days. 
 
 "Hark! There's a car stopping at the gate!" Eva 
 jumped up. Her pale face flushed. She longed for 
 something to happen. Especially did she long to see 
 Jack Mintlaw. This might be, nay, probably was, 
 Jack. 
 
 Adelaide Strain went over to the window, and then 
 she waved the other woman back, imperiously. 
 
 "Don't let any one see you," she said sharply. 
 "Stay where you are, Eva!" 
 
 But Eva crept near, and hiding behind one of the 
 long silk curtains, she peeped out. 
 
 "Who can it be?" she exclaimed, and then, "It's 
 that horrid man we saw first. And oh, look, Addie! 
 
270 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 There are two policemen walking behind him. More 
 trouble for me, I suppose. I shouldn't be a bit sur- 
 prised if they've been sent here by old Mrs. Raydon!" 
 
 But if Eva was entirely unknowing of what was 
 coming, that was not so with any of the members of 
 her household. Powell, the parlourmaid, was visibly 
 affected as she opened the drawing-room door to ad- 
 mit the local Inspector of Police. 
 
 He had been there before, for he had been the first 
 man to examine and cross-examine the inmates of 
 The Mill House after Birtley Raydon's death. Eva 
 had very much resented both his questions and his 
 manner, and they had parted as enemies. And now, 
 having convinced himself that she had compassed the 
 death of her husband, this man could not help feeling 
 a certain satisfaction that it was he to whom had been 
 detailed the duty of arresting her. 
 
 He stepped forward into the room and put his hand 
 on Eva's arm. 
 
 Then all his feeling of satisfaction ebbed away, 
 and it was in a nervous tone that he uttered the dread 
 words, "I arrest you, on the charge of having mur- 
 dered your husband, Mr. Birtley Raydon, on the 
 fourth day of this month of September." 
 
 His prisoner made no answer. She was looking at 
 him with dilated, astonished eyes. 
 
 "I must warn you," he went on tonelessly, "that 
 anything you say henceforth may be used as evidence 
 against you." 
 
 And then she spoke in a quiet, clear voice, "I have 
 
"a woman of education" 
 
 271 
 
 nothing to say," she looked at him fearlessly, "ex- 
 cept " 
 
 He put up his hand. "Now, be careful, madam !" 
 She took no notice of this, to her, impertinent in- 
 terruption. 
 
 "The only thing I want to say," she repeated de- 
 liberately, "is that I am entirely and wholly innocent. 
 I loved my husband, and he loved me. As far as I 
 know neither of us had an enemy in the world — no, 
 there I am wrong! His mother was, and indeed is, 
 my bitter enemy." 
 
 She turned to Adelaide Strain, and though she 
 was now trembling with agitation, she showed no sign 
 of cowardice, or even fear. 
 
 "I want you to bear witness, Addie, that I said 
 that at once, after being arrested." 
 
 "The less you talk, the better it will be for you, 
 Mrs. Raydon," said the Inspector sharply. 
 
 He no longer felt nervous, he felt angry. 
 
 "You will have plenty of opportunities of saying 
 what you wish to say, later on." 
 
 But as he saw the woe-laden, nay, agonized look 
 on Mrs. Strain's face, his heart softened. All his 
 dealings with the lady-housekeeper of The Mill House 
 had been pleasant, and, from his point of view, most 
 satisfactory. 
 
 "Can you get Mrs. Raydon ready in about a quar- 
 ter of an hour?" he asked in a low voice. "I don't 
 want to be harsh or unreasonable, but we've a good 
 way to go, and it's after four o'clock." 
 
272 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "May I go with her as far as the prison?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 He noticed, with concern, that she had gone a 
 queer chalky colour. Strange that often the innocent 
 friends of the guilty seem to suffer more than the 
 guilty themselves. 
 
 "Mrs. Raydon is not going to prison now," he said 
 quickly. "She will be taken to the police station 
 where the charge against her will be entered in the 
 book kept for that purpose, and, of course, read over 
 to her. From there, as I believe the magistrates are 
 sitting, we shall go straight to the police court. The 
 Justices will hear what evidence there is against and 
 for her, and they will then commit her for trial, or 
 give her her discharge." 
 
 As he saw a look of intense relief come over, not 
 only Mrs. Birtley Raydon's face, but also that of her 
 friend, he was sorry that he had said even the little 
 he had said. 
 
 "Might I speak to you for a moment?" 
 
 He was looking at the woman he had heard de- 
 scribed as "that bad Mrs. Raydon's good angel" in 
 a significant manner. 
 
 In a sense she appeared even more disturbed and 
 distressed than his prisoner. But then she was ob- 
 viously not only much older, but far more intelligent 
 than her beautiful friend. 
 
 Quickly Adelaide Strain left Eva's side, and walked 
 over to one of the windows with him. 
 
 "I think it would be just as well if she took a bag 
 
"a woman of education' 
 
 2 73 
 
 with her containing her night things and so on," he 
 said in a low tone. "The proceedings at the police 
 court may last two or three days. There are a 
 considerable number of witnesses to be examined, 
 yourself of course among them, Mrs. Strain." 
 
 "Do you believe," she dropped her voice to an 
 almost inaudible whisper, "that Mrs. Birtley Raydon 
 will be committed for trial?" 
 
 "That is not for me to say," he answered cau- 
 tiously. "But if I were you, Mrs. Strain, I would 
 not encourage her to think otherwise. And now will 
 you help her to get together what she may require? 
 Anything left or forgotten can of course be sent on to 
 her; all reasonable facilities are given, as you proba- 
 bly know, to a prisoner under remand." 
 
 As the two women went upstairs they saw that the 
 Inspector, while himself going out into the garden, 
 had left a policeman in the hall. 
 
 Eva Raydon hardly spoke while she helped Ade- 
 laide Strain to look out what the latter advised she 
 should take with her. 
 
 Strong in the consciousness of her complete inno- 
 cence of the terrible charge on which she had been 
 arrested, she was excited and indignant, rather than 
 frightened. But she spoke with bitter anger of what 
 she called old Mrs. Raydon's spiteful wickedness. 
 She felt convinced that she owed this terrible and 
 humiliating experience to her mother-in-law's half- 
 demented prejudice against her. 
 
 " Don't look like that, Addie," she said at last. "I 
 
274 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 am not in the least afraid, though of course I can't 
 help feeling very, very angry. And I think you will 
 understand that I would rather you did not come with 
 me now. I would much rather you stayed here, 'to 
 hold the fort,' and to telephone to certain people for 
 me." 
 
 She grew even redder than before as she went on, 
 a little defiantly, "I think Jack Mintlaw ought to 
 know what's happened, also Mr. Buck. Perhaps he 
 would come down to-day. I'm sure I ought to have 
 a good lawyer looking after me, for I know she will 
 have someone there trying to — " she hesitated, and 
 then with a rather bitter laugh she concluded her 
 sentence — "do me in!" 
 
 For a moment Adelaide Strain felt as if she could 
 not speak, but with what was a considerable mental, 
 as well as physical, effort, she forced herself to an- 
 swer. 
 
 "I will get through to Jack and to Mr. Buck the 
 moment you are gone, Eva. I daresay you are right 
 to go off alone now. You are plucky," and then, to 
 Eva's aghast surprise, her friend burst into hard 
 gasping sobs. 
 
 "Addie! Darling! Don't be so upset. There's 
 really nothing to worry about. Think of Gilly and 
 cheer up! Have Gilly to stay here from to-day till 
 he has to go back to school. And Addie?" 
 
 "Yes?" sobbed Mrs. Strain convulsively. 
 
 She had sunk down on the floor, and was rocking 
 
"a woman of education" 275 
 
 herself backwards and forwards in an agony of fear 
 and horror. 
 
 "Do you want any money? I have quite a lot of 
 Jack's money left! By the way, I'm afraid I ought 
 to pay him back that three thou' as soon as poor 
 Birtley's will is proved. I shall be quite rich, 
 then 99 
 
 "No, I don't want any money yet," said Mrs. 
 Strain, drying her eyes. 
 
 She was obeying Eva's injunction, and was now 
 thinking of Gilly — only of Gilly. . . . 
 
 She must not do anything which would bring ever- 
 lasting disgrace on her child. As to herself, she was 
 now so utterly spent with the mental torture that 
 had filled almost every waking moment since Birtley 
 Raydon's death, that she felt confession would be the 
 only thing which might assuage her ever-increasing 
 agony and feelings of acute apprehension. 
 
 But she faced the fact that the assuagement for 
 which her soul and body craved must never be hers, 
 because of her child, and that child's future life. . . . 
 
 As soon as Eva Raydon and her friend had left the 
 house, and as they began walking down the gravel 
 path to the front gate, the four maids who constituted 
 the household staff of The Mill House crowded round 
 the front door and watched their progress. 
 
 "Don't take hold of my arm," she said in a clear 
 voice. "I'd rather walk alone, Addie." 
 
 But when they were close to the gate she did shrink 
 
276 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 back suddenly, for it was as if the whole of the popula- 
 tion of Swanmere had gathered there to see her dis- 
 tress and her humiliation. 
 
 She was hurried, unceremoniously, into the closed 
 motor, and, as it moved off, she waved her hand to 
 her friend. 
 
 Adelaide Strain walked out into the road. 
 
 "You ought all to be ashamed of yourselves," she 
 said in a loud, cutting voice. "Mrs. Birtley Raydon 
 has always been very, very kind to everyone in Swan- 
 mere, and I should like to believe you all to be as inno- 
 cent of wrong-doing as she is! Whoever caused the 
 death of Mr. Birtley Raydon, it was certainly not his 
 wife." 
 
 A good many of the people gathered there clapped 
 their hands, not because they agreed with what the 
 housekeeper of The Mill House had just said, but 
 because they liked her personally, and believed her 
 to be a good, kind lady. 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 I. OPPORTUNITY AND MOTIVE 
 
 IT HAD been expected that the Judge would finish 
 his summing up on the fourth day of the trial. 
 But, rather to the surprise of those who had sat 
 through the long hours listening with intent interest 
 to every well-weighed word that fell from his lips, he 
 decided to conclude his address when the jury, which 
 consisted of ten men and two women, should have 
 fresh morning, rather than wearied afternoon, minds. 
 
 Yet another reason was perhaps indicated to those 
 who were familiar with the workings of Mr. Justice 
 Lenison's intellect and conscience by the words with 
 which he resumed the final charge: 
 
 "I am minded to-day, which will, I hope and be- 
 lieve, see the end of this long, careful, and, as I am 
 well assured, most fair trial, to offer you, members of 
 the jury, a word of advice. Remember that you are 
 in a court of justice, trying what I fear I must charac- 
 terize not only as a vulgar, but even as a common, 
 crime. Not only you, but all those concerned with 
 this case, have lived for four days in an unnatural, 
 almost an unreal, atmosphere. Now we have not 
 been listening to a play from the stalls of a theatre. 
 277 
 
278 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 We have been in a court of justice. But courts of 
 justice are in this country open to the public. Our 
 fellow citizens have a right to come and listen to our 
 proceedings. In this case a great number of our 
 fellow citizens have wished to hear the proceedings, 
 and they have heard the proceedings. 
 
 "But their presence has created, as I have said, a 
 somewhat unreal atmosphere. It is your bounden 
 duty to try and escape from that atmosphere, and 
 concentrate your minds, ladies and gentlemen of the 
 jury, on what the charge really is; I am not saying 
 whether it is proved. That charge, as you are aware, 
 is the not unusual or uncommon charge of a wife 
 murdering her husband in order that she may wed the 
 man who is suspected of being her paramour/' 
 
 The Judge paused for a few moments. He had 
 seen — everyone who had looked her way had seen — 
 the pale face of the woman in the dock turn crimson, 
 while a most painful look of shame came over her face. 
 But there seemed to be no pity, but rather disgust, 
 in the tone with which the Judge continued what was 
 evidently his most disagreeable duty: 
 
 "Far from me to say that even in these days such 
 cases are many. But there has always been, there 
 always will be, the case of a husband who, in order 
 to marry some woman who has allured him, is desir- 
 ous of getting rid of his wife. There has always been, 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 279 
 
 there always will be, the case of a woman who wishes 
 to get rid of her husband. " 
 
 With an air of relief at having thus disposed of 
 what was plainly to him a particularly unpleasant 
 part of his task, the Judge turned from this moral 
 condemnation to the intellectual interest of the ex- 
 amination of evidence. And unconsciously the tone 
 of his voice altered to one of dispassionate enquiry, as 
 if he was a scientist weighing in the balance the facts 
 for and against some theory of the order of nature: 
 
 "I must now trouble you with some remarks upon 
 what is, I think you will agree, not only the most 
 crucial, but perhaps the most material, element of 
 this case, and the one which undoubtedly, in my 
 opinion, presses more strongly than any other against 
 the prisoner. I allude to Mrs. Birtley Raydon's 
 visit, on the morning of the fourth of September, to 
 the Cottage Hospital. 
 
 "There is one point, and I admit it is a strong 
 point, in the prisoner's favour. That is that she 
 neither concealed, nor made the slightest attempt to 
 conceal, the fact that she called at the Cottage Hos- 
 pital on her way to the station. Nay, more, she has 
 also admitted freely, indeed we only have her own 
 word for it, the fact that, finding the front door open, 
 she went along to thejlispensary in the hope of find- 
 ing there the child, little Gilly Strain, whom she had 
 come to see. 
 
28o 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Now, as you will recollect, there was in the dis- 
 pensary a cupboard of which the doors had been 
 carelessly left open that morning, and which con- 
 tained a jar, not only filled with white arsenic, but 
 clearly and conspicuously labelled with the word 
 'arsenic' But for the prisoner's own admission, 
 there would always have remained some doubt as to 
 whether she had, or had not, had access to that bottle 
 or jar containing the poison, a certain quantity of 
 which we may reasonably assume caused the death 
 of Mr. Birtley Raydon." 
 
 The Judge waited for a moment, then he went on 
 gravely: 
 
 "You have heard what the prisoner had to say 
 concerning this hurried visit to the Cottage Hospital. 
 She gave as a reason for her calling there the fact that 
 she wished to give her friend, Mrs. Adelaide Strain's, 
 little boy a present, what is commonly called a tip, of 
 ten shillings. She asserts that she first looked into 
 what she called the Staff sitting-room, then went on 
 to the dispensary, there to see, through the window, 
 the child she was seeking. She hastened out of the 
 hospital, after having been, according to her own 
 account, with which the chaufFeur agreed, inside the 
 building only about two minutes. 
 
 "The chauffeur's evidence as to that, for what evi- 
 dence as to time is worth, is a point in her favour. 
 It is not disputed that she went along a path leading 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 28l 
 
 round the hospital and crossed a lawn into the kitchen 
 garden, where, with the words, 'I can only stay a 
 minute, Miss Jameson, for I am on my way to the 
 station/ she handed the boy, Gilly Strain, a ten-shilling 
 note. Then she set off running, literally running, 
 across the lawn, and hastened back round the build- 
 ing, and so out to her car. 
 
 "You have heard the lady-dispenser, Miss Caro- 
 line Jameson, admit that for a considerable time, she 
 puts it at about an hour, the cupboard in her dis-) 
 pensary, which contained not only arsenic but othei) 
 deadly drugs, was wide open. As the front door of 
 the hospital, the staff being away on holiday, had also 
 carelessly been left open, it is obvious that any num- 
 ber of people might have had access to the jar con- 
 taining the arsenic. 
 
 "However, my friend, Sir Joseph Molloy, wisely 
 did not make much of that point, for he was as well 
 aware as you must also be, members of the jury, that 
 the question of access to the deadly poison which 
 caused the death of Birtley Raydon brings us face to 
 face with a question which has no doubt filled your 
 minds during the last few days in a sense to the ex- 
 clusion of all else — I refer to the question of motive. 
 
 "You are not bound to look for a motive in a case 
 of murder, but you are fully entitled to consider 
 motive as playing an all-important part in the great 
 majority of cases of this kind. Now, I think you will 
 agree with me that there were but two people in or 
 near Swanmere on the crucial day, the fourth of last 
 
282 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 September, who had, or could have, the slighest mo- 
 tive for wishing to cut short Mr. Birtley Raydon's 
 life on this earth. The one was the prisoner, for 
 reasons that have been fully laid before you; the 
 other may have been the lad, Amos Purcell, unfor- 
 tunately now dead, who undoubtedly had strong 
 reason for both bitter and vengeful feelings concern- 
 ing his late employer. 
 
 "But, members of the jury, it is my duty to point 
 out to you in that connection one important fact. 
 We have had nothing before us connecting young 
 Amos Purcell with the Cottage Hospital on that cru- 
 cial date of September the fourth. You have heard 
 Robert Daniels, the lad Purcell's pal, as he called 
 himself, admitting that his pal was frequently at the 
 Cottage Hospital, and at least once, if not twice, in a 
 place where he should not have been, that is, in the 
 dispensary. But no evidence has been brought before 
 you to prove that the doors of the cupboard contain- 
 ing these noxious drugs and poisons was unlocked 
 at the time of his furtive visits there. 
 
 "The most that can be said as to that very impor- 
 tant point is that Miss Jameson may have carelessly 
 left the cupboard doors unlocked on. more than one 
 occasion. That she has told you herself. Or, again, 
 she may have left the key in the lock, especially when 
 she was sent for in a hurry while making up medicines 
 in the dispensary. As you know, a most careful 
 examination was made, first of The Mill House, and 
 more recently of the cottage where there still live the 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 283 
 
 bereaved parents of the lad Amos Purcell. In 
 neither place was any trace of arsenic found. Who- 
 ever the poisoner, he or she destroyed the piece of 
 paper, or possibly the pillbox, in which the arsenic 
 had been put when subtracted from the jar. 
 
 "The prisoner actually admits that she had at any 
 rate the opportunity, even though she declares that 
 she was unaware of it, to obtain a dose of the deadly 
 poison which undoubtedly caused the death of her 
 husband. That admission on her part is, I repeat, 
 a point in her favour. But from another point of 
 view it naturally is an admission which cannot but 
 tell against her. 
 
 "I will not trouble you at any great length with 
 certain subsidiary facts which are doubtless in your 
 minds; the most important of these, in my opinion, 
 was the strongly expressed determination of the 
 newly made widow to prevent a post-mortem exami- 
 nation of her husband's remains. We are not deal- 
 ing with the case of an ignorant or stupid person, but 
 of a woman of education and intelligence. That be- 
 ing so, why this morbid horror and determination to 
 prevent, if possible, a post-mortem or the holding of 
 an inquest? Had it not been for the action taken by 
 Mr. Birtley Raydon's mother, the unfortunate man 
 would have been buried, I fear I must say, with in- 
 decent haste, and the truth as to his tragic death 
 would have remained hidden till the Day of Judg- 
 ment. 
 
 " However, I should not think it fair to make much 
 
284 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 of this point, if only because it is clear that the dead 
 man's own family physician, Dr. Durham, was also 
 extremely averse from a post-mortem, and undoubt- 
 edly backed up Mrs. Birtley Raydon in her opposition 
 to the poor mother's clearly expressed wish. 
 
 "My task is almost done. This trial, I repeat, has 
 been carried out in an absolutely fair manner. On 
 the one hand, the Solicitor-General discharged his 
 duty fully and strongly, but always fairly, putting 
 before you all those matters which, in his judgment 
 and according to his experience, ought to inform the 
 mind of the tribunal which will ultimately have to 
 decide the question of the prisoner's guilt or inno- 
 cence. On the other side, from Sir Joseph Molloy, 
 you have heard a most eloquent, nay, an impassioned, 
 speech for the defence. He made the most, as he had 
 every right to do, of every point in favour of the 
 prisoner, and he wound up with a most moving peror- 
 ation, in which he told you that the spirit of justice 
 in the jury-box would be the friend and protector of 
 the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, let me say that the spirit 
 of justice, and whose friend it is to be proved to be, 
 depend upon the antecedent question, which is not 
 yet determined: Is there guilt here or is there inno- 
 cence here? The spirit of justice, if there be guilt, 
 cannot be invoked to conjure up doubts or to protect 
 a criminal. Even as justice is blind, so ought the 
 spirit of justice to be deaf to appeals to prejudice or 
 to passion. 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 285 
 
 "At the same time, members of the jury, the law 
 requires that you should give — and it rightly requires 
 that you should give — the benefit of any fair or rea- 
 sonable doubt which upon the facts remains in your 
 minds. You are entitled, aye, more than entitled, 
 for it is your bounden duty, to give the benefit of that 
 doubt, if that doubt does remain. But it must not 
 be a doubt which would not operate upon your minds 
 in the ordinary affairs of life, and it is not to be a 
 doubt which you may or must conjure up for the 
 sake of having a doubt. Give to the prisoner the 
 full benefit of any consideration to which she is, in 
 your honest belief, entitled. But — " and again 
 the Judge paused — "remember, after all, that we are 
 dealing with the case of a married woman who had 
 fallen into a perilous friendship with a man who was 
 not her husband, and who was in a pecuniary posi- 
 tion which had already enabled him, and would en- 
 able him in the future, to do for her a great deal more 
 than her husband could do. . . . 
 
 "I am not the jury; you are the jury. If you think 
 that anywhere or in any way I have erred on the side 
 of severity, and if that should incline you to the side 
 of mercy, the last thing that would occur to my mind 
 would be to feel any tinge of regret that you should 
 have done so. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my task is 
 done. I can add nothing, I think, to the observations 
 which I have felt it my duty to lay before you to assist 
 you in this matter. It is not by minute attention to 
 
286 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 every triviality that a question of this kind can be 
 decided. One must investigate this case, as one 
 should investigate every other case, that is, upon the 
 broad lines of the common play of human passions 
 and affections, and upon the broad lines of both 
 honest good sense and common-sense. 
 
 "I now dismiss you to your task. Will you please 
 retire and consider your verdict?" 
 
 II. — IN THE JURY ROOM 
 
 Slowly the jury filed out, and there were many 
 members of the public who tried to gather from a 
 glance at their faces some idea of what the verdict 
 would be. But, though the smaller and older of the 
 two women was very pale, and the other, younger, 
 woman had flushed a deep red, there was nothing in 
 any of the twelve faces which gave the slightest clue. 
 
 It may, however, be safely asserted that four fifths 
 of those present in court had no doubt that the ver- 
 dict returned would be that of "Guilty," while the 
 minority hoped against hope that Eva Raydon would 
 be declared innocent. Perhaps of that minority as 
 many as half honestly believed Eva Raydon, in face 
 of all the evidence brought against her, to be not 
 guilty, while the remainder took the cynical view that 
 her extraordinary beauty, singular charm, and air of 
 desperate sincerity while in the witness-box would 
 surely save her, however guilty, from the gallows. 
 
 The twelve members of the jury, ten men and two 
 women, who were called upon to decide the issues of 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 287 
 
 life and death in the Swanmere case, had appeared to 
 those who had occasionally glanced their way during 
 the last four days, an extraordinarily ordinary collec- 
 tion of human beings. It was, however, known that 
 one of the women was Miss Nora Norwich, a notable 
 figure in that world, at once so small and so large, 
 which actively concerns itself with various forms of 
 social service and local government. 
 
 In youth Miss Nora Norwich had been very good- 
 looking, of the straight up-and-down clean-cut fea- 
 tures type which has become almost standardized 
 among English women of the upper middle class. 
 
 At the time she had begun her social work, it had 
 been something of an eccentric adventure for a girl 
 belonging to a well-to-do, well-established family, to 
 take up any kind of public career. Though she was 
 still some years from fifty, and looked younger than 
 she was, how amazed her critics of long ago would 
 have been had an angel come and told them that 
 Nora Norwich would one day sit on a mixed jury of 
 men and women in a great murder trial! 
 
 As to the ten jurymen, the most important member 
 of the jury in his own estimation was a gentleman 
 named Leroy-Motspur, who, oddly enough, belonged 
 to much the same stratum of London life as did Nora 
 Norwich. 
 
 He was a bustling, energetic little man, a good 
 public speaker, and a zealous, hard-working member 
 of innumerable committees. It was almost a fore- 
 gone conclusion, from his point of view, that he 
 
288 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 should have been chosen foreman of the jury which 
 was to try Mrs. Raydon. He and Nora Norwich 
 were slightly acquainted, but it could not be said 
 that there was very much love lost between them. 
 
 Leroy-Motspur considered himself a thorough man 
 of the world. He always took the commonplace — 
 he would himself have said the common-sense — view 
 of any problem presented to his notice. He had, 
 however, a strong streak of kindliness in his nature, 
 and during the last four days he had often looked 
 with concern, and a feeling of real distress, at the 
 beautiful young woman in the dock. But of her 
 guilt he had no doubt at all. 
 
 Nora Norwich, on the other hand, had felt almost 
 from the first day of the trial in a maze of anxious 
 doubt and uncertainty. Her work and her way of 
 life had naturally brought her into intimate contact 
 with an enormous number of women of every class, 
 and foolish, frivolous, easy-going Eva Raydon ap- 
 peared to her the last type of young woman to com- 
 mit a cold, calculating, and cruel murder. 
 
 During the course of the case, Nora Norwich had 
 taken an instinctive dislike to old Mrs. Raydon, and 
 an instinctive liking for Adelaide Strain. She had 
 strongly discounted all that the older woman had said 
 in the witness-box, and she had implicitly believed 
 every word that Mrs. Strain had uttered. Also, 
 though again quite unconsciously to herself, she had a 
 certain bias in favour of her own sex, and she had 
 become strongly prejudiced against Birtley Raydon, 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 289 
 
 as presented by practically all those — with the ex- 
 ception of his own mother — who had spoken of the 
 dead man's character, nature, and habits. 
 
 But Nora Norwich was a woman of scrupulous 
 honesty of purpose, and she earnestly desired and 
 intended, so help her God, to come to a right and true 
 decision as to the guilt or innocence of Eva Raydon. 
 
 The other woman juror was a Mrs. Howard, a 
 widow, older than Nora Norwich, a quiet, mouse-like 
 little lady with a peculiar horror of any form of crime 
 induced by a personal experience of which she had 
 not spoken now for over thirty years to any living 
 being. 
 
 Five of the nine other members of the jury were 
 responsible, respectable members of the trading 
 community. Then there was a photographer named 
 Lynton, and a Mr. Walberton, who had been, in some 
 way, vaguely associated with the law. 
 
 All of these gentlemen had tried to preserve what 
 they would probably have called an open mind during 
 the whole of the proceedings. Each one of them had 
 been profoundly impressed by the demeanour of 
 Mrs. Birtley Raydon during her examination, cross- 
 examination, and re-examination; and when she left 
 the witness-box each one of them had believed her to 
 be an innocent woman in danger of suffering death 
 through an awful miscarriage of justice. 
 
 But, as the trial had gone on, and especially after 
 they had listened to the calm, passionless address 
 made by the Solicitor-General, and the clear, deadly 
 
290 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 summing up of the Judge, the mind of each of the 
 seven had swung back, and inclined to think that Eva 
 Raydon was guilty, after all. 
 
 After the twelve members of the jury had estab- 
 lished themselves round the table which stood 
 in the middle of the bare jury-room, there was a 
 brief silence. 
 
 The two ladies, as if by common consent, had each 
 taken a seat at the bottom of the table, facing one 
 another. Mrs. Howard, who was dressed in black, 
 and who wore a miniature poke bonnet, was very 
 pale; Miss Nora Norwich, in a becoming blue coat 
 and skirt, and a small, severe, though fashionable, hat, 
 was flushed. 
 
 The foreman had taken the head of the table, and 
 after they had all sat down, he looked first to his 
 right and then to his left with what he thought was 
 a pleasant, though guiding, look. He would have 
 been not only discomfited, but very much surprised, 
 to learn the truth, which was that none of the nine 
 men there liked their foreman. 
 
 Two of the jurymen began coughing. Waiting 
 impatiently till they had done, Leroy-Motspur 
 opened, as he would have put it, the proceedings. 
 
 He began: "I think we are all agreed " and 
 
 Nora Norwich felt a thrill of satisfaction when the 
 juror next to her broke across sharply with the words: 
 "I think that most unlikely, Mr. Foreman." 
 
 There came the light of battle into the eyes of 
 Leroy-Motspur. But all he said, in a suave tone, 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 29I 
 
 was: "I was going to say that I think we are all 
 agreed that this case does not present as many diffi- 
 culties as has been the case with some of the great 
 murder trials of the last fifty years." 
 
 And then, carefully marshalling the facts, he began 
 going over what to some of those present seemed 
 hideously familiar ground; and every word he uttered 
 told with more and more pitiless cogency against the 
 woman whose fate they were there gathered together 
 to decide. 
 
 At last the manager of a small hardware store in 
 Kennington said thoughtfully: "You have not said 
 one word, Mr. Foreman, of what seems to me the 
 most important portion of the case " 
 
 "And what may that be?" enquired the foreman 
 of the jury, in what the man addressed felt to be a 
 slightly jeering tone of voice. 
 
 "That, sir, is the fact the Judge informed us we 
 were to consider carefully — I mean the appearance 
 in the hall, on the night of Mr. Raydon's death, of a 
 mysterious person who undoubtedly did come in 
 from the garden after the tray of drinks had been 
 brought in by Miss Powell, the parlourmaid." 
 
 "I attach no importance to that story at all," said 
 Leroy-Motspur testily. 
 
 He was telling himself what a pity it is that juries 
 cannot always be selected from, well, the public 
 schoolboy class, the sort of people to whom you could 
 point out, sure of not being misunderstood, that all 
 young maid-servants outstay their evening leave if 
 
292 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 they get the chance, and that this of course had 
 happened on that eventful night. Also that no 
 servants ever give one another away; thus, therefore, 
 the denial, even though on oath, of the cook that 
 the housemaid had not come in late from her evening 
 out on September the fourth last, was worth nothing. 
 Unfortunately one couldn't say all that to this pug- 
 nacious little shop-keeper. No doubt he had a " Miss 
 Powell" in his family. 
 
 So all the foreman said dryly was: "You heard 
 what the Solicitor-General had to say about that." 
 
 And then the photographer piped up in a thin voice: 
 "It was his job to make light of that curious occur- 
 rence, Mr. Foreman. But the Judge, who held the 
 balance true, so to speak, did not make light of it. 
 And if you quote the Solicitor-General, Mr. Foreman, 
 then I should like to recall to my fellow-jurors a 
 passage in the speech for the defence." He stopped 
 to take breath. 
 
 "Now that little tale about the girl in the French 
 village who poisoned the harmless old padre simply 
 because he scolded her, at her mother's wish, for her 
 giddy ways — well, that story made a great impression 
 on me. And I have been asking myself, ever since I 
 heard it, whether that poor boy, Amos Purcell, who 
 has now gone to his account, may not have been the 
 one to have poisoned Mr. Birtley Raydon after all? 
 We know that Miss Jameson left that cupboard 
 containing the arsenic jar open on that day Mrs. 
 Eva Raydon went to the Cottage Hospital. If Miss 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 293 
 
 Jameson did it on that day, she may have done it on 
 another day. She admitted as much in the witness- 
 box. Supposing she did leave the cupboard open 
 another day, and supposing that this youth, Amos 
 Purcell, fresh from his row with that man Raydon— 
 for it seems to have been a terrible quarrel, Mr. Fore- 
 man — went in there, blind with passion and justified 
 anger, if I may say so, for he had been accused of 
 being a thief! There was the stoppered jar we have 
 all seen, with the word 'Arsenic' printed plain on it. 
 What more natural than that the lad should take two 
 or three pinches of the deadly stuff, and then just 
 watch for the opportunity of satisfying his revenge ?" 
 
 While he was waiting to take breath, Mrs. Howard 
 cleared her throat, and in a small, nervous voice she 
 was heard to murmur, "May I say something, Mr. 
 Foreman ?" 
 
 They all turned and looked at her. She was such a 
 very quiet, meek little body; the men there all liked 
 her far better than they did Miss Nora Norwich. 
 
 "Pray do, Mrs. Howard. We shall value your 
 opinion/' said Leroy-Motspur, in an encouraging 
 tone. 
 
 " If it is not out of order," she began in a quavering 
 voice, "I should like to tell you something within my 
 own knowledge which would seem to support what 
 the gentleman who has just spoken has said. A long 
 time ago, nearer forty than thirty years ago, a terrible 
 thing happened in my family, gentlemen. I had a 
 young married sister who had a dear little baby. She 
 
294 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 and my brother-in-law, unfortunately for them, were 
 well-to-do people, and so they had a head nurse, and 
 a nursemaid as well, a girl of fifteen. The head nurse, 
 as it came out afterwards, was a woman of violent 
 temper. She had a terrible quarrel one day with the 
 nursemaid, and that girl, Mr. Foreman, in order to 
 spite the head nurse — for she had no quarrel either 
 with the dear little baby boy or with my sister — 
 strangled that child." 
 
 Mr. Leroy-Motspur answered quickly and courte- 
 ously — he always made a point of being courteous to 
 women, even when their unreasonable ways annoyed 
 him extremely — "A sad, even a terrible story, Mrs. 
 Howard; but I confess I cannot see its relevancy to 
 the question we are now discussing.'' 
 
 With surprise he heard several protesting murmurs. 
 "Well, then, I will say that I think the sad story you 
 have told us is not very relevant. Not an iota of 
 evidence has been given in the last four days connect- 
 ing even remotely this lad, Amos Purcell, with the 
 death of Birtley Raydon. Indeed, as far as we have 
 been able to ascertain, Purcell was almost certainly at 
 home with his parents on the evening which preceded 
 Mr. Raydon's death." 
 
 And then, for the first time, Miss Nora Norwich 
 intervened. She said decidedly, "I think you are in 
 error, Mr. Foreman. Not an iota of evidence was 
 offered" — she slightly mimicked his somewhat pom- 
 pous tone — "to show that young Purcell was at home 
 during the evening of the fourth. On the contrary, 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 295 
 
 Purceirs father stated that, though the boy very 
 often stayed in, he just as often went out, after his 
 supper. His parents' cottage is a very little way from 
 The Mill House. I have ascertained that it would 
 not have taken Amos Purcell five minutes to slip out 
 of the cottage door; nip through the iron gate; walk 
 down the path on which footsteps were certainly 
 heard on that night; step into the hall of The Mill 
 House; drop a pinch of arsenic into the shandy-gaff 
 which had been got ready for Mr. Raydon; slip 
 through into the garden-room; and make his way over 
 the lawn back to the gate, and so home. For my 
 part, I regard that possibility so seriously that noth- 
 ing would induce me to declare the prisoner as, in 
 my opinion, undoubtedly guilty." 
 
 There came a stir round the table. The bold words 
 of Miss Nora Norwich had definitely made up the 
 minds of four members of that jury, including Mrs. 
 Howard's. As for the other eight, four of them, 
 including the foreman, were quite convinced of Eva 
 Raydon's guilt. 
 
 On and on went the weary discussion, swaying this 
 way and that, backwards and forwards. Two or 
 three of the men present, in addition to the foreman, 
 did practically all the talking, and there were three 
 members of the jury who said never a word. One of 
 them was Mr. Walberton, the gentleman who had 
 been at some time connected with the law, though 
 not sufficiently so as to make him among the happy 
 few who are exempted from jury service. 
 
296 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 Even so, the fact that he had in his past life had 
 some connection with the administration of justice 
 made several of those present in the jury-room feel 
 that his opinion ought to be of special value. This 
 being so, it seemed strange that he was one of the 
 three men who had, as yet, remained silent. 
 
 At last Mr. Leroy-Motspur enquired genially: 
 "May we ask for the opinion of Mr. Walberton?" 
 
 That gentleman nodded his head three times, 
 then in a high, reedy voice, he delivered himself 
 as follows: 
 
 "I regret to say, sir, that in my opinion Mrs. Eva 
 Raydon did poison her husband. He seems to have 
 been, if I may say so, a most unpleasantly natured 
 gentleman. To the majority of ladies, especially 
 ladies like Mrs. Raydon, young, pretty, spoilt ladies, 
 the vice of avarice is abhorrent. Now it is clear that 
 Mr. Raydon was a very mean man, and that he 
 grudged his wife the various little fal-lals which 
 woman, lovely woman, thinks her due. Though Mrs. 
 Raydon was undisputed owner of an annuity of 
 fifteen hundred a year, Mr. Raydon only allowed her 
 to have five hundred a year of that money to spend, 
 and that though himself exceedingly well-to-do. 
 The man who was, I fear, undoubtedly her para- 
 mour " 
 
 Here Mrs. Howard coughed, and moved uncom- 
 fortably in her chair. She had only once, and on this 
 very day, heard that horrid word uttered aloud be- 
 fore. 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 297 
 
 " — I mean Colonel Mintlaw was not only a very 
 rich, but a very generous, person. You will recall 
 how we heard him admit in the witness-box, ladies 
 and gentlemen, that even now he has no greater wish 
 than to make Mrs. Eva Raydon his wife. No one 
 who has ever known anything about women can 
 doubt that this extravagant, if attractive, young lady 
 knew well enough how he felt, and how certain she 
 was of the fact that, once her husband was out of the 
 way, she could become Mrs. Mintlaw, with as much 
 money as she liked to spend every day of her life." 
 
 Mr. Walberton stopped speaking for a moment, 
 and at once the foreman of the- jury exclaimed: 
 "Thank you for your clear and valuable speech; it 
 has cleared up my " 
 
 Mr. Walberton raised his hand. 
 
 "I haven't finished yet," he said firmly. "In 
 fact, I was just going on to say that I attach far more 
 importance than you seem to do, sir, to the evidence 
 about what I must call 'the mysterious footsteps' 
 which came out somewhat late in the case, as also to 
 the violent quarrel which took place between Mr. 
 Raydon and the gardener's boy, Amos Purcell. To 
 my mind, these two facts, taken together as they 
 must be, introduce an element of doubt which, ac- 
 cepting the Judge's direction, I think we are bound 
 to consider very seriously when in the balance hangs 
 the life of a fellow human being. Were there time I 
 could cap the melancholy tale told by one of our 
 fellow jurors with more than one story equally terri- 
 
298 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 ble and apposite, for youth is a lawless time of 
 life " 
 
 Several of the men who were listening nodded in- 
 stinctive assent, and Mr. Walberton went on: 
 
 "I regard it as a most unfortunate thing that young 
 Purcell is no longer here to give an account of himself 
 and of his doings on the evening of the fourth of last 
 September. Were we in Scotland I should strongly 
 urge that we return the wise verdict of 'Not proven/ 
 As it is, I cannot say that I, personally, should feel 
 justified in returning a verdict of ' Guilty* against 
 Mrs. Eva Raydon. While believing on what I may 
 style the balance of probability, that she committed 
 this foul murder, I feel, even so, in view of the fact 
 that some unknown person undoubtedly did come 
 along that gravel path and step into the hall after 
 the tray had been placed there and the shandy-gaff 
 prepared, that Mrs. Raydon is entitled to 'the benefit 
 of the doubt.'" 
 
 There was a pause. And then, with a funny little 
 bow towards the foreman, Mr. Walberton added in 
 what some of those who listened to him felt to be a 
 tone of misplaced levity, "but I am so far open to 
 conviction that I am quite ready to listen to anything 
 in contravention of my view that may be said by the 
 devil's advocate." 
 
 Now Leroy-Motspur did not at all like being called 
 the devil's advocate. He was surprised, rather than 
 chagrined, by the curious turn the discussion was 
 taking. He had come into the jury-room, not only 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 299 
 
 convinced of Eva Raydon's guilt, but convinced also 
 that his fellow jurors of both sexes certainly agreed 
 with him. He now realized that he had been quite 
 mistaken in this view. And as both his care for what 
 he called his career, and his personal inclination as 
 well, made him always ready to follow, rather than 
 to lead, those with whom he was brought into contact, 
 he began to trim his sails. 
 
 So, "Perhaps I have not considered sufficiently 
 the one element of uncertainty in the case," he said 
 frankly. "God forbid that I should not be ready to 
 give any fellow creature of mine the benefit of the 
 doubt !" And when he uttered these words he was 
 absolutely sincere. 
 
 He was longing for Nora Norwich to speak again. 
 If she did so he thought it probable that she would 
 deliver herself into his hands, and that he would be 
 able to do what he delighted in doing, that is, score 
 a point. 
 
 But since she had spoken, quite early in the dis- 
 cussion, Miss Norwich had remained silent, her face 
 drawn and grave, so — 
 
 "Unlike Mr. Walberton," went on the foreman, 
 "I regard a 'non-proven' verdict as most unsatisfac- 
 tory. Mrs. Birtley Raydon is either guilty or she is 
 not guilty. If she is guilty, I consider we should 
 return a verdict of 'guilty/ If she is innocent, even 
 if there be as strong an element of doubt in the case 
 as the majority of you evidently consider there is, 
 then she is entitled to a verdict of 'not guilty. ,,, 
 
300 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 And then there came a disagreeable surprise. 
 
 The elder of the two jurors present who had not 
 yet revealed what was in their minds suddenly ob- 
 served: "Whatever may be the opinion of the 
 majority, I do not consider Mrs. Raydon entitled to a 
 verdict of 'not guilty/ I have listened most care- 
 fully to the whole of the evidence given during the 
 trial and also to all that has been said in this room 
 in favour of the prisoner. And as far as I am con- 
 cerned, Mr. Foreman, the verdict must be 'guilty.'" 
 
 The other juryman, whose opinion had still been in 
 doubt, exclaimed in a jerky tone, "I agree with the 
 gentleman who has just spoken. " 
 
 Mr. Leroy-Motspur looked from one to the other 
 of the obstinate and, as he secretly characterized 
 them, stupid faces, with a feeling of angry disgust. 
 If these two dissentients remained in their present 
 mind, then it was obvious that a unanimous decision 
 was out of the question. This, he told himself, 
 would not only lead to a second trial, and a conse- 
 quent enormous waste of both public and private 
 money, but would also be a personal mortification to 
 him, as the foreman of this jury, to be shown to have 
 so conducted matters that such a thing as a disagree- 
 ment could come to pass. 
 
 Gathering together not only all his wits, but all his 
 powers of persuasion as well, he settled down to the 
 difficult, some would have said the impossible, task 
 of "getting round " the two jurors, and while he was 
 so engaged, Miss Nora Norwich, for the first time, felt 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 30I 
 
 a sensation of, at once unwilling and yet sincere, acU 
 miration for the man whom she had already stig- 
 matized in her own secret mind as Mr. Facing Both 
 Ways. 
 
 He flattered, he cajoled, he implored, he argued, 
 and finally he made a strong appeal, the terms of 
 which caused Mrs. Howard to sob quietly into her 
 handkerchief, to something which was non-existent — 
 that was, to the two obstinate jurymen's feelings of 
 generous and manly pity. He quoted with great 
 effect on all the other jurors the words which he 
 reminded them were those of "our immortal Shake- 
 speare": 
 
 "The quality of mercy is not strained; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, 
 Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes; 
 *Tis mightiest in the mightiest." 
 
 But these moving words had no effect at all on the 
 two recalcitrant jurymen. It was then that the fore- 
 man made what he described later to the admiring 
 and affectionate Mrs. Leroy-Motspur as his great 
 "coup." In a thoughtful, meaning voice he observed, 
 as if by an afterthought, that Mr. Justice Lenison 
 was strongly averse from an inconclusive verdict, and 
 would certainly compel them to return and consider 
 the question again, and perhaps yet again. In fact, 
 there w>uld probably be hours more of discussion 
 in this somewhat gloomy and now airless room. 
 
 And while the foreman was using this last most 
 cogent argument, Nora Norwich told herself, with a 
 
302 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 sense of surprise, that during that long and probing 
 discussion, the only name which had never been 
 actually mentioned, though naturally many oblique 
 references had been made to her evidence, was that 
 of the woman who, alone of all those concerned in the 
 story, had seemed to her worthy of respect and in- 
 terest — that is, Adelaide Strain. 
 
 During that long discussion in the jury-room the 
 woman whose name had not been once mentioned by 
 any member of the jury was going through an even 
 more awful ordeal than that of the prisoner who was 
 waiting to be brought up to hear the verdict. 
 
 Adelaide Strain and Jack Mintlaw were the only 
 two people in the world who were deeply concerned 
 with her fate, for Eva Raydon had been an only child, 
 and her few distant relations had only shown one 
 wish in the last few weeks, and that was to disclaim 
 any connection with her. 
 
 Small wonder that Mrs. Strain and Colonel Mint- 
 law had become so near to one another — the one, 
 the prisoner's faithful woman friend, the other, Jack 
 Mintlaw, the man who loved Eva Raydon and who 
 had boldly, perhaps unwisely, revealed his intention of 
 marrying her in the event of her acquittal, should she 
 be willing to do him the honour of becoming his wife. 
 
 Even now, in the midst of his own anguished sus- 
 pense, there was room in the Canadian's generous 
 heart for the deepest sympathy and concern for Eva's 
 oldest woman friend, and he had watched her during 
 the course of the trial with great anxiety. 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 303 
 
 On the morning of the day when she had given 
 that momentous piece of new evidence concerning the 
 curious episode of what had come to be known, 
 among the public at least, as "the mysterious foot- 
 steps" he had thought that she was far too ill to go 
 into the box. 
 
 Fervently had he admired the triumph of mind 
 over body of which she had given such heroic proof, 
 and which had made it possible for her, not only 
 to tender the evidence which he knew many clever 
 lawyers, including the Solicitor-General, believed 
 would save Eva Raydon's life, but also to be calm, 
 collected, apparently even quite impartial, during the 
 sharp cross-examination which had followed her dis- 
 closure of the new evidence. 
 
 After Mrs. Strain had been released from the wit- 
 ness-box, Mintlaw had tried to persuade her to leave 
 the court, but she had refused to do so. She had, 
 however, made one curious stipulation. This was 
 that her son, little Gilly Strain, accompanied by one 
 of the young assistant masters of his preparatory 
 school, should spend that last morning in the great 
 hall of the Old Bailey. To Mintlaw's notion it had 
 been not only an extraordinary, but a very improper, 
 suggestion. He had, however, felt deeply moved 
 when she had told him that a sight of her child 
 would give her courage to hear the verdict, whatever 
 that verdict might be. 
 
 And in the last two hours, that is, since the jury 
 had retired, when he had brought Adelaide Strain out 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 into the hall and they had begun walking up and 
 down, she not only in a state of acute mental but 
 evident physical distress, he welcomed the instinct 
 that had made her send for her child. Now and 
 again she and Mintlaw would go over to the place 
 where the little boy and the kindly friend who was 
 hardly more than a boy himself, were sitting together, 
 and Mrs. Strain's pallid face would look more nat- 
 ural; once she even smiled at Gilly. 
 
 But when they two, she and Jack Mintlaw, were 
 pacing up and down among the indifferent crowd, her 
 hand would sometimes wander up to her breast and to 
 her throat, as though the oppression there was more 
 than she could bear. 
 
 With a thrill of pride Mintlaw recalled the bearing, 
 during yesterday and to-day, of Eva Raydon. All 
 through her terrible ordeal she had never blenched. 
 Even when leaving the dock to await the result of 
 the verdict, she had turned and thrown him a most 
 moving look of gratitude, while a half-smile had 
 formed itself over her pale firm lips. 
 
 It was to him a most consoling fact that almost all 
 those who had been brought into close contact with 
 the prisoner during the awful weeks which had 
 elapsed from the day on which she was arrested on the 
 charge of having murdered her husband, to the open- 
 ing day of her trial, had come to believe her innocent. 
 
 To Mintlaw, the facts connected with Birtley 
 Raydon's mysterious death presented no difficulty, 
 no mystery. He regarded it as absolutely certain, 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 305 
 
 now that the gardener's boy, Amos Purcell, actuated 
 by the kind of secret lust for revenge which some- 
 times possesses young men and women of his class, 
 had killed the man who had sought to destroy what, 
 to such a lad as himself, was his one valuable posses- 
 sion — that is, his character. 
 
 The matron of the Cottage Hospital, Miss Jameson, 
 had admitted in the witness-box with piteous eager- 
 ness that it was very probable that she had left 
 the cupboard door in the dispensary unlocked on 
 some occasion, or even occasions, other than on that 
 fatal day. 
 
 As a matter of fact, this had been her one con- 
 cession to her firm belief in Eva Raydon's innocence, 
 for, in her own mind, she had no doubt at all that the 
 only time that she had done that criminally careless 
 thing was on that day. But she had persuaded her- 
 self that Amos Purcell, by a strange coincidence, had 
 been in the dispensary on that same morning, too. 
 
 During that long time of waiting for the verdict, 
 Mintlaw's mind was also working backward over the 
 four days of the trial. He vaguely understood the 
 mental attitude of the Solicitor-General, and he 
 admitted to himself that that great lawyer's speech 
 had been studiously moderate. But he could not 
 forgive the Judge for what he considered his strong 
 bias, nay, violent prejudice, against Eva Raydon. 
 
 Last evening he had even consulted Mr. Buck as to 
 whether, in the event of a verdict of "guilty," an 
 
306 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 appeal would not lie on the ground of certain state- 
 ments made by the Judge in the concluding passages 
 of his charge to the jury. But the lawyer had sadly 
 shaken his head; the Court of Criminal Appeal 
 required something much stronger than Mr. Justice 
 Lenison's summing up, which could not even be 
 described as a misdirection of the jury, before it 
 would set aside a verdict of "Wilful Murder." 
 
 True, Mr. Buck himself had been surprised that the 
 Judge had so entirely disregarded Colonel Mintlaw's 
 solemn affirmation in the witness-box as to the abso- 
 lute innocence of his friendship with Mrs. Raydon. 
 Then reluctantly he had recalled the fact that the 
 immense majority of people always do believe the 
 worst with regard to the relations between a married 
 woman and a man who, for any reason whatsoever, 
 has been found to have supplied her with money. 
 
 III. — THE VERDICT 
 
 Suddenly there came just a slight stir. Mintlaw 
 grasped Adelaide Strain's arm with a convulsive 
 movement. "The jury are coming back," he mur- 
 mured, and quickly he edged her towards the door of 
 the court. 
 
 They passed through the door, the mass of eager 
 people indeed making way for them. Already it 
 looked as if there was not a single vacant space in the 
 court. 
 
 Adelaide Strain, with a smothered cry, shielded 
 her eyes from the sight of Eva, who had suddenly 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 307 
 
 appeared from the hidden stairs leading up from the 
 cells, and now stood in the dock, looking with a kind 
 of pathetic eagerness rather than fear at the door 
 through which the jury would reenter the court. 
 
 At last they appeared, and Mintlaw threw back 
 his head and stared fixedly at each serious-looking 
 countenance, as the ten jurymen and the two jury- 
 women filed slowly in. If only he could read on 
 their faces the verdict for which he was hoping almost 
 against hope! But every face kept its momentous 
 secret. He wondered whether it was a good or a bad 
 sign that the older woman of the two had evidently 
 been crying bitterly. 
 
 " Silence!" 
 
 Everyone in court rose to their feet as the Judge 
 came in looking stern and preoccupied. 
 
 The man who loved Eva Raydon told himself that 
 Mr. Justice Lenison, at any rate, had no doubt of 
 what the verdict would be. Almost could Mintlaw 
 see him in imagination putting on the black cap. 
 
 The Judge settled himself down in his majestic 
 seat, and then everyone else in court also sat down, 
 even the jury. 
 
 "Stand up, Foreman !" 
 
 Leroy-Motspur stood up. 
 
 The Clerk of the Court asked in what seemed to be 
 almost a conversational tone: "Ladies and gentlemen 
 of the Jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?" 
 
 And the Foreman answered emphatically, "We 
 have." 
 
3 o8 
 
 WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 "Do you find the prisoner, Eva Raydon, Guilty or 
 Not Guilty?" 
 
 Leroy-Motspur hesitated a moment. He knew 
 that what he was going to say would surprise every 
 one of the people there, and he rather enjoyed the 
 sensation he was going to create. 
 
 "We have well considered the evidence, and, 
 although we think grave suspicion is attached to the 
 prisoner, we do not think there is sufficient evidence to 
 show how or by whom the arsenic was administered/' 
 
 There was a stir of amazement through the court. 
 The more ignorant people there wondered whether 
 this meant that there would have to be another trial. 
 But their doubts were soon solved by the Clerk of the 
 Court. 
 
 "Then you say that the prisoner is Not Guilty?" 
 This time Leroy-Motspur only waited a fraction of a 
 moment before he answered in a ringing voice: 
 
 "Not Guilty." 
 
 The woman in the dock flung up her now ringless 
 hands — hands the beauty of which had been noted 
 by many a connoisseur during the course of her trial. 
 
 She covered her face with a piteous, artlessly 
 shrinking gesture. The feeling which filled her heart 
 to the exclusion of everything else was relief at being 
 no longer obliged to appear what, poor soul, she had 
 not been, brave; no longer compelled to adopt what 
 she had supposed should be the pose of an innocent 
 woman on trial for her life. 
 
 Strange to say, Mintlaw felt himself suddenly 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 309 
 
 concerned, not for the woman in the dock, but for the 
 woman by his side. 
 
 He had taken hold of Adelaide Strain's arm, and 
 had held her up strongly, prepared to feel her sway 
 and fall in a faint. But she remained quite still, as if 
 dazed. 
 
 At last he saw her lips move, and he bent his head. 
 
 "Then — then it's all right?" he heard her ask in 
 a strangled whisper. 
 
 "All right!" he shouted triumphantly. 
 
 He had to shout, for there had risen a storm of 
 cheering, not only inside but outside the court. 
 
 The Judge put up his hand. "This conduct is an 
 outrage," he exclaimed. "A Court of Justice is not 
 to be turned into a theatre by such indecent exhibi- 
 tions, a disgrace to those who take part in them and 
 who apparently forget that the public duty which 
 we have just discharged is the most solemn that we 
 as citizens can be called upon to perform." 
 
 A few moments later Eva Raydon was alone with 
 the three men and the one woman who now con- 
 stituted, not only all her world, but also her only 
 links with free humanity. 
 
 Little Gilly Strain was there, too, but no one 
 noticed his quiet, mute presence. 
 
 They were all standing in a huddled group in the 
 rather dark room into which the heroine of the Swan- 
 mere mystery had been hurried to save her from the 
 curious eyes of the crowded court. 
 
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 
 
 The tears, easy, happy tears, were running down 
 Eva Raydon's face, and her hand was grasping that 
 of the famous advocate to whose impassioned elo- 
 quence she felt she owed her life. 
 
 But Sir Joseph Molloy had a generous heart, and 
 after listening with true emotion to his client's broken 
 words of gratitude he exclaimed huskily, "You owe 
 your liberty, under God, Mrs. Raydon, not only to 
 me and to your steadfast friends, Colonel Mintlaw 
 here, and Mr. Buck, but, even more, I do verily be- 
 lieve to this lady " 
 
 He put his big left hand on Adelaide Strain's thin 
 shoulder and pushed her forward; for, after she and 
 Eva had exchanged a long, convulsive kiss, she had 
 moved apart with her little boy, leaving her friend 
 surrounded by the three men who had rendered her> 
 each in his own way, such splendid service. 
 
 Sir Joseph felt her shrinking back, but he held her 
 firmly as he went on, his deep, organ-like voice now 
 clear as a bell: 
 
 "The way Mrs. Strain gave her evidence as to 
 your loving, harmonious relations with your poor 
 husband made a deep impression on the jury, Mrs. 
 Raydon. But what, to my mind, made a conviction 
 impossible, was this lady's plain, straightforward, 
 and not-to-be-shaken account, of what we all here 
 believe to have been the unseen, though clearly 
 heard, apparition of the lad, Amos Purcell, on that 
 fatal night. It must have required a great deal of 
 moral courage on the part of Mrs. Strain to come for- 
 
THE END OF THE TRIAL 
 
 3" 
 
 ward with that new story, after she had made an 
 apparently final statement, and after the trial had 
 actually begun! And I, for my part, shall never 
 forget the firmness and the dignity with which you" 
 — he now directly addressed Adelaide Strain — 
 "endured the Solicitor-General's very searching 
 cross-examination/' 
 
 And then, all at once, as he said the word "cross- 
 examination," Sir Joseph felt the thin shoulder on 
 which he had been resting his hand, a thought heavily 
 maybe, slip away into nothingness, as Mrs. Strain 
 sank down in a confused heap on to the floor. 
 
 Eva Raydon flung herself on to her knees. 
 "Addie!" she screamed. 
 
 And then, looking up, she exclaimed hysterically: 
 "She's dead! This awful time has killed her!" 
 
 But Adelaide Strain had only turned suddenly sick 
 and faint; and what brought her round again was her 
 boy's frightened cry of "Mummy! Mummy!" 
 
 Seeing her open her sunken eyes in response to 
 that cry, Sir Joseph Molloy recalled an old Scotch 
 expression which he had quoted with most excellent 
 effect when defending a young woman who had killed 
 her child rather than leave it to the mercy of this cold 
 world. That old Scotch expression is "Thae muving 
 things ca'ed weans." 
 
 THE END