PASSERS-BY
 
 They were a partie carre'e, dining out of doors in the courtyard of an 
 ancient but fashionable Parisian hotel. 
 
 [Frontispiece. Seep. 316
 
 PASSERS-BY 
 
 BY 
 
 ANTHONY PARTRIDGE 
 
 Author of" The Kingdom of Earth ," "Tht 
 Distributors" etc. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 WILL FOSTER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1910
 
 Copyright, 1908, 1909, 
 BY THE McCtuRE COMPANY. 
 
 Copyright, 1910, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published January, 1910 
 Sixth Printing 
 
 8. J. PARKHILL A Co., BOSTON, 0. 8. A.
 
 SRLF 
 URL 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 They were a partie carree, dining out of doors in 
 the courtyard of an ancient but fashionable 
 Parisian hotel Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into 
 
 the room 23 
 
 "Have you nothing to say to him?" he asked, 
 
 pointing to the carriage 76 
 
 " Look at the big man opposite, with the little girl 
 
 in red. How he stares!" 81 
 
 She advanced with slow, hesitating footsteps toward 
 
 the spot where the man was lying .... 121 
 
 " Marquis of Ellingham I " he cried. " Lord Elling- 
 
 ham, indeed!" 179 
 
 The weight of the girl was heavy upon his arm. 
 
 She had fainted 216 
 
 "I am not here to-night to pose as a person who 
 
 by chance has stumbled across a secret " . . 278
 
 PASSERS-BY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THERE was nothing particularly inviting about the 
 dark, stone-flagged passage, nothing which could 
 possibly suggest a happy hunting-ground for the itiner- 
 ant seeker after charity. Yet the couple passing 
 wearily along the Strand welcomed it as at least a tem- 
 porary refuge from the constant admonitions of a very 
 vigilant police. A word and a glance were all that passed 
 between the girl and the atom of deformity who wheeled 
 the small piano. They crossed the sidewalk, and made 
 their way down the inhospitable-looking passage. It led 
 by a somewhat devious route to the Embankment, but at 
 the present moment passers-by were few. On the left- 
 hand side were a couple of shops, dirty, ill-cared for, 
 improvident. On the right, a blank wall ; in front, a small 
 section of a great hotel. About halfway down was a gas- 
 lamp, burning with a dim, uncertain luster, feebly reflected 
 through the dirt-encrusted glass. The place had an un- 
 attractive and deserted air. Nevertheless the man who 
 
 i
 
 2 PASSERS-BY 
 
 had been wheeling the piano brought it to a standstill 
 there, with a little gasp of relief. The girl stood by his 
 side, and for a moment buried her face upon her folded 
 arms, leaning upon the top of the instrument. With a 
 prodigious yawn a small monkey, who had been asleep 
 in a basket, awoke and shook himself. He looked around 
 with an air of plaintive disgust, and would have settled 
 himself down to sleep again but for a pat from his master. 
 
 "Sit up, Chicot," the man ordered. "It 's a poor place, 
 but God knows where one may rest in this city. What do 
 you say, Christine? Is it worth while?" 
 
 The girl looked up and down the dark passage. Two 
 boys passed, whistling, without a glance at them. A 
 beggar woman selling matches was the only other person 
 in sight. Nevertheless she produced a roll of music and 
 glanced through it. 
 
 "I will sing," she said. "I must. Some fool may pass 
 this way. Who can tell?" 
 
 The man at the piano, deformed, with the long, worn 
 face of a man and the misshapen body of a youth, drew 
 in a little breath which sounded like a hiss, as his fingers 
 wandered over the keys. 
 
 "Who can tell ?" he muttered, in a voice which sounded 
 singularly deep for such a small creature. " Who can tell, 
 after all? It may be even here that the great adventure 
 should come."
 
 PASSERS-BY 3 
 
 She turned her back a little upon him, and as he struck 
 the notes she began to sing a familiar ballad. She sang to 
 the bare walls, to the deserted shops, to the rain-soaked 
 flagstones. Chance seemed suddenly to have diverted 
 into other thoroughfares even the insignificant stream of 
 people that sometimes filtered through the little passage. 
 Only the monkey listened, listened with his head a little 
 on one side, and an air of intense, plaintive interest. 
 When she had finished there was a dead silence. Not a 
 soul was in sight. 
 
 No remark passed between the two. The woman 
 pushed her hat a little farther back as she bent once more 
 over the music, and one saw something of her face by the 
 light of that ill-looking gas-lamp. She was dark, and 
 whatever good looks might have been hers under normal 
 conditions were temporarily, at any rate, unrecognizable, 
 owing to the ill-kept hair which came low over her fore- 
 head, and the bitter, sullen lines of her mouth. She drew 
 another song from the shabby portfolio, and once more 
 she sang. 
 
 A messenger boy, passing through, lingered for a mo- 
 ment. A woman with a basket of apples propped it up 
 against the wall, and gave herself a second's rest, hurrying 
 on, though, when she saw the monkey fingering the little 
 tray that hung from a cord round his neck. Once more 
 the girl finished her song, and as its echoes died away she
 
 4 PASSERS-BY 
 
 swept the passage from end to end with her sullen, angry 
 eyes. There was no one in sight. She leaned back against 
 the wall. 
 
 Up on the fifth floor of the great hotel, a narrow section 
 of which fronted the passage, a man suddenly pushed 
 open a window and looked down. He saw the rain- 
 soaked pavements, and turned back to the valet who was 
 putting out his clothes. 
 
 "It 's a wet night, Fred," he remarked. "I '11 have my 
 thicker patent shoes, and my opera-hat." 
 
 He was on the point of leaving the window when his 
 eyes chanced to fall upon the little group below. He eyed 
 them at first carelessly enough, and then, as he continued 
 to look, a startling change took place in his face. He 
 leaned forward out of the wide-opened window. His lips 
 were parted, his eyes almost distended. He was like a 
 man who looks upon some impossible vision, a man who 
 is driven to doubt even the evidence of his senses. In- 
 tensely, with a rapt air of complete obsession, he stood 
 there, perfectly rigid, gazing at that little group. He 
 looked at the man, sitting before the crazy instrument, 
 his head bowed, the rain beating upon his threadbare 
 coat. He looked at the girl, leaning back against the wall, 
 motionless as a statue, and yet with that touch of hope- 
 lessness about her face which was written large in the 
 features of her companion. He looked at the monkey,
 
 PASSERS-BY 5 
 
 who stood with a pitiful air of his own, shaking in his paw 
 the little tray, and gazing up and down the empty passage. 
 He looked at them all fiercely, incredulously, and then an 
 exclamation broke from his lips. 
 
 "The girl, the hunchback, and the monkey!" he ex- 
 claimed softly. " In London, of all places ! " 
 
 He turned abruptly back into the room, and without 
 a word of explanation to the valet hurried out into the 
 corridor and rang the bell for the elevator. In a moment 
 or two he was in the passage, and with a whispered breath 
 of relief he saw that the little company was still there. He 
 had caught up a hat as he left the room, and to give him- 
 self more the appearance of a casual passer-by he lit a 
 cigarette with trembling fingers, and strolled along the 
 passage. As he came, the monkey, the man, and the girl 
 turned their heads. The girl, with something like a de- 
 spairing shrug of the shoulders, began another song. The 
 man commenced to play. Even the monkey seemed to 
 eye this newcomer hungrily. He walked steadily on, but 
 as he was in the act of passing, he paused, as though aware 
 for the first time of the girl and her song. He went on a 
 few paces and paused again. Finally he took up a position 
 a few yards away, and established himself as an audience. 
 His coming seemed to bring better fortune to the little 
 group Several other passers-by formed a broken semi- 
 circle. The girl sang to them in a hard, unsympathetic
 
 6 PASSERS-BY 
 
 voice, flawless as to her notes, but with an indifferent in- 
 tonation as though the words were flung from her lips 
 against her will. When she had finished, the monkey was 
 on his hind legs before the little gathering of listeners. A 
 few pennies rattled in his tin tray. He paused in front of 
 the man who had descended so suddenly from his room. 
 Gilbert Hannaway thrust his hands into his trousers pock- 
 ets, only to withdraw them with a little exclamation of 
 annoyance. He drew a step nearer to the girl. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he said. "I wished to give you 
 something for your song, but I have left my money in my 
 room. It is only a short distance off. If you will wait 
 here for a few moments it will give me very great pleasure 
 to offer you something perhaps a little better worth having 
 than these." 
 
 He touched the pennies in the tin tray, and looked up at 
 the girl. Her dark eyes searched his face for a moment 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Thank you," she said; "it doesn't seem much use 
 stopping here. Perhaps you '11 give us something next 
 time." 
 
 "No," he said; "I wish to give you something now. 
 Meanwhile, will you sing one more song?" 
 
 A faint surprise, not unmingled with suspicion, gleamed in 
 the girl's dark eyes. " Why do you want to hear me sing ? " 
 she asked. "My voice is impossible. You know that"
 
 PASSERS-BY 7 
 
 "I do not think so," he answered gently. "If you will 
 sing one more song, I should like to listen. Then I will 
 go to my rooms, and I think that I can satisfy you both." 
 She looked at him steadfastly. " Where are your rooms ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "Close by here," he answered evasively. 
 
 She pointed up to the window out of which he had 
 leaned. 
 
 "Was it you," she asked, "who looked down at us from 
 there?" 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, but denial seemed scarcely 
 worth while. 
 
 "It was I," he admitted. "I was just going to change 
 my clothes. That is why I have no money in my 
 pocket." 
 
 "Why did you come down?" she asked. 
 
 "I wished to hear you sing," he answered. 
 
 The shadow of a new emotion was in her face. She was 
 afraid. All the time the man by her side was listening 
 with half-closed eyes. 
 
 "Was it that only?" she asked. "Had you no other 
 reason?" 
 
 The man was called upon to make a decision, and he 
 felt himself unequal to it. They were alone in the passage 
 now, for the other loiterers had passed on. The deformed 
 man, from his seat in front of the piano, the monkey, and
 
 8 PASSERS-BY 
 
 the girl were all looking at him. And Gilbert Hanna- 
 way, because he was honest, spoke the truth. 
 
 "No," he said. "I had another reason." 
 
 A word, or was it only a glance, flashed from the girl to 
 the man. He rose to his feet. His seat disappeared. 
 Chicot jumped into his basket. With a slight gesture of 
 stiffness the hunchback once more took hold of the handles 
 of the barrow on which his crazy instrument was placed. 
 The girl turned to join him. 
 
 "We do not want your money," she said. "Please go 
 away." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway planted himself obstinately before her. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "you must not send me away like 
 this. I have been searching for you for years." 
 
 " Absurd ! " she declared. " You do not even know who 
 we are." 
 
 "I do not know your names," he answered. "They 
 do not concern me. And yet I have searched in many 
 places for a hunchback who played the piano, a girl with 
 black hah* who sang, and a monkey. Send your thoughts 
 backward a little way. Do you remember the afternoon 
 when you sang in the Place Madeleine?" 
 
 Only the girl's eyes moved, but it was enough. Her 
 companion quietly relinquished the handles of his strange 
 little vehicle. He took a step backward. The newcomer 
 saw nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the girl.
 
 PASSERS-BY 9 
 
 "I have a question to ask you," he repeated, "and I 
 think you know what it is." 
 
 Then the world spun round with him. The little dark 
 passage began to wobble up and down. The thunder of 
 the sea was in his ears, the girl's face mocked him. Then 
 there was darkness. 
 
 When he came to he was sitting with his back against 
 the wall, the center of a little group of idlers. A policeman 
 stood by his side, and another, who had been performing 
 first-aid work, was on his knees. 
 
 "Feeling better, sir?" the policeman asked. 
 
 Hannaway raised his hand to his head. 
 
 "I would n't touch it, sir," the man said. "You have a 
 nasty scalp wound. How did it happen?" 
 
 Hannaway, still dazed, looked around him. There was 
 no sign of the hunchback or the monkey or the girl. He 
 drew a little breath and collected his thoughts. 
 
 "The pavement is slippery," he said. "I was hurrying, 
 and I fell. My name is Gilbert Hannaway, and I live in 
 the hotel there. If you will give me your arm, I think I 
 can get back to my rooms." 
 
 He staggered up. With a policeman on either side of 
 him, he made his way slowly back into the hotel from 
 which he had issued a few minutes before.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 OUT once more into the Strand, unnoticed, unsus- 
 pected, the little company wound its way. The 
 man, bent almost double, so that his deformity was even 
 exaggerated, pushed his barrow and forged ahead at a 
 speed which was almost incredible. The girl walked by 
 his side with swift, even footsteps, and with downcast 
 head. The monkey slept. 
 
 Once the man paused, but the girl shook her head. 
 
 "Not again to-night," she said. "We may as well 
 starve at home as in jail. You strike too hard." 
 
 "It was the wrong man?" he muttered. 
 
 "It was the wrong man," she assented, in dull, lifeless 
 tones. "You know that." 
 
 Down the Savoy hill, along the Embankment, and 
 across Waterloo Bridge they made their unhesitating way. 
 Near the farther end, the girl for the first time paused. 
 She turned around and looked across the river, inky black, 
 to the long sweep of lights which bordered the Embank- 
 ment. She looked beyond, to where the two great hotels 
 seemed to vie with each other in a blaze of light, reflected 
 far across the gloomy waters. Farther still, to where the
 
 PASSERS-BY 11 
 
 Houses of Parliament shone with a somewhat subdued 
 glory. Across the sky beyond hung the golden haze of a 
 million lights, the reflection from the great seething heart 
 of London caught up and mirrored in the clouds. She 
 looked at it steadfastly, with a scowl upon her sullen face. 
 
 "So this is London!" she muttered. "I wish oh! 
 I wish " 
 
 Her companion dropped the handles of the barrow with 
 a little gesture of weariness. He was glad of the moment's 
 rest. "You wish?" he murmured. "Goon!" 
 
 She raised her arms with an impulsive gesture. Her 
 face was suddenly illuminated with a bitter transfiguring 
 light. 
 
 "I wish I were a prophetess from behind the ages," she 
 cried. "I wish I could call down fire and brimstone upon 
 every street and house whose lights go flaring up to the 
 sky. They are not men and women any longer, these 
 people who walk the streets, who jostle us from the side- 
 walk. They are beasts 1 They have the mark of the 
 beast upon their foreheads. They throw their pennies 
 with a curse. They hunt for pleasure like wolves. Not 
 one smile, not one have I seen to-day ! " 
 
 The man, too, looked up at the reddened sky. "And 
 yet," he muttered, "somewhere underneath there lies 
 fortune fortune for you, Christine. Gold, rest, luxury," 
 he added, glancing at her stealthily.
 
 12 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "And for you, too, Ambrose," said the girl, with a faint 
 softening of her tone. 
 
 He picked up the handles of his barrow, avoiding her 
 gaze. "Perhaps," he muttered. "Perhaps." 
 
 They continued their pilgrimage; the end was not far 
 off. The man turned up a passage with the piano. The 
 girl entered a small shop and made some humble pur- 
 chases. They met, a few minutes later, in the stuffy hall 
 of a neglected, smoke-begrimed house, in the middle of a 
 row of similar buildings. Silently they made their way into 
 a back sitting-room. The floor was bare of any carpet, 
 the paper hung down in strips from the walls, the wooden 
 mantelpiece knew no ornaments. The table in the middle 
 of the room was covered with a sheet of hard oilskin, 
 stained in many places. The two cane chairs were of odd 
 design. One had only three legs ; the other had a hole in 
 the middle, where the cane had worn away. The only 
 sound article of furniture was a horsehair sofa, and of this 
 the springs were almost visible. The girl threw herself 
 upon it with a little sob. 
 
 The man watched her for several moments, apparently 
 unmoved. In the room his deformity seemed more ap- 
 parent. He was less than five feet high, and his head and 
 features were large for a full-grown man's. His face had 
 gone unshaven for so long that his expression was almost 
 unrecognizable. Yet his eyes seemed soft as he watched
 
 PASSERS-BY 13 
 
 the girl, shaking all over now with her sudden storm of 
 grief. Her hat, with its poor little cluster of flowers, had 
 fallen to the floor; her black hair was streaming over her 
 face, pressed hard into the round unsympathetic pillow. 
 Chicot jumped upon the man's shoulder as he stood and 
 watched; the man caressed him with gentle touch. The 
 girl he left alone. 
 
 Presently Ambrose abandoned his watch and commenced 
 to busy himself about the room. He lighted an oil-stove, 
 opened the parcel which the girl had been carrying, and 
 placed its contents in a small frying-pan. From a deal 
 cupboard he produced a tablecloth and some articles of 
 crockery, every one of which he carefully rubbed over with 
 a cloth. Then he slipped out of the room for a minute, 
 and returned with a small bottle of red wine and a bunch 
 of violets, which he arranged in the middle of the table. 
 When all was ready he touched the girl on the shoulder. 
 "Christine," he said softly, "there is supper ready." 
 
 "I will not eat," she answered sullenly. "It is a pigsty, 
 this place." 
 
 Nevertheless she sat up, and for a moment her face 
 softened when she saw the preparations which he had 
 made. She seated herself ungraciously at the table. 
 
 " Wine !" she protested. "It is ridiculous ! To-morrow 
 we shall starve for this. Give me some, please. I am 
 shivering."
 
 14 PASSERS-BY 
 
 He filled her glass. "You should take off your wet 
 jacket," he urged. 
 
 "I cannot," she answered bitterly. "I threw away my 
 last blouse yesterday. There is nothing on my arms un- 
 derneath, and they are cold." 
 
 A spasm crossed his face. " We cannot go on like this," 
 he muttered. "To-morrow I shall steal." 
 
 She shook her head. "It is not easy here," she said 
 gloomily. "The police are everywhere. Ambrose," she 
 added, looking across at him steadfastly, "do you think 
 that you hurt him very much this evening?" 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "He was only stunned," 
 he answered. " He will recover quickly. I saw his face 
 as I struck. I think, Christine, that there will be trouble. 
 He will search again for us." 
 
 She shivered a little. "I am afraid," she muttered. 
 "Give me some more wine, Ambrose. It warms my 
 blood." 
 
 Obediently he filled her glass. His own was as yet un- 
 touched. 
 
 "It is the other one we want," she continued, drop- 
 ping her voice a little. " Think what he owes us, Am- 
 brose. He is free and he is rich. I hate him I hated 
 him from the first; but he shall pay for it. All this time 
 he has hidden, and we have starved. Think of it, Am- 
 brose, think of it!"
 
 PASSERS-BY 15 
 
 The hunchback moved in his chair uneasily. "We shall 
 never find him," he muttered. "With four million francs, 
 a man can live like a prince anywhere even in the far 
 corners of the world. Think of the countries which we 
 can never visit, South America, the United States, 
 Brazil, Chile, Peru ! Our search is a mad thing." 
 
 "I do not believe," she said, "that he is in any of those 
 places. Ambrose, is London a very large city?" 
 
 "The largest in the world," he answered. "One man 
 in it is lost like a berry upon the hedges. One may seek 
 for a lifetime in vain and meantime one starves." 
 
 She shook her head. Her expression was sullen but de- 
 termined. "I will find him," she declared. "I will seek 
 and seek until the day comes when I see him standing 
 before me." 
 
 "And then?" Ambrose asked softly. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling 
 through half-closed eyes. " And then," she repeated, " the 
 great adventure ! It must come then ! It shall come ! " 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway spent his evening in bed, his head 
 bandaged and still painful. Toward midnight he awoke 
 from a long doze and rang for a drink. He was young and 
 strong, and already he was beginning to feel himseff again. 
 When the waiter had left the room he lifted the receiver 
 from the telephone which stood by the side of his bed.
 
 16 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "I want the residence of the Marquis of Ellingham," 
 he said. "It is in Cavendish Square, I believe." 
 
 In a moment the bell tinkled. He took the receiver 
 once more into his hand. 
 
 "This is Lord Ellingham's house," a quiet voice said. 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "I want to speak to Lord Ellingham," Gilbert Hanna- 
 way answered. 
 
 "Who are you?" was the reply. "I am Lord Elling- 
 ham's secretary. I can give him any message." 
 
 " I must speak to him personally," Hannaway answered. 
 "He would not understand if I told you my name. The 
 matter is an important one." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Hannaway heard the 
 sound of voices at the other end. Then some one else 
 spoke, briefly, imperatively. 
 
 "I am Lord Ellingham. What do you want?" 
 
 "To give your lordship some valuable information," 
 Hannaway said. "Listen!" 
 
 "Who are you ?" the voice at the other end asked. 
 
 "It does not matter," Hannaway answered. "Listen 
 while I tell you what I saw this evening, in London, 
 within a mile of Cavendish Square. I saw a dark-haired 
 girl singing in the streets a dark-haired girl, a hunch- 
 back, and a monkey!" 
 
 Hannaway heard the receiver at the other end go clat-
 
 PASSERS-BY 17 
 
 tering down. There was silence for some moments. 
 Then a voice again, the same voice, but it seemed to come 
 from a long way off. 
 
 "Who are you?" it demanded. "For God's sake, tell 
 me who you are!" 
 
 "An unknown friend, or enemy, whichever you like," 
 Hannaway answered. "I have no more to say." 
 
 " Stop ! " the voice insisted. " I must know " 
 
 Hannaway laid down the receiver, disconnecting it with 
 the instrument. Then he turned over on his side. "In 
 London!" he muttered softly to himself. "What will 
 come of it, I wonder ? Lord, how my head aches ! " 
 
 Nevertheless he closed his eyes and slept slept better 
 by far than the great statesman with whom he had been 
 talking.
 
 CHAPTER IH 
 
 IN what corner of that squalid lodging-house Ambrose 
 Drake slept no one save he and Chicot knew. At 
 seven o'clock the next morning he appeared from some- 
 where underground, and with a little package under his 
 arm turned breakfastless into the street. Half an hour 
 later he was selling matches under one of the arches of 
 London Bridge. For some time the stream of people was 
 constant, and the pennies he received were fairly frequent. 
 When the passers-by began to thin he left his place, and 
 crossing the street, bought a cup of coffee and a roll at the 
 stall upon which his hungry eyes had been fixed for some 
 time. Afterward he walked back to the lodging-house, 
 and turned into the little sitting-room where he and his 
 companion had sat the night before. With the ah* of one 
 used to such duties, he lighted the stove, made coffee in a 
 scrupulously clean pot, and arranged it, with the rolls and 
 butter which he had bought on his homeward way, on a 
 tray. Then he went to the door and called out, and pres- 
 ently a small child, ill-dressed and ragged, came into the 
 room. He pointed to the tray. 
 
 "Take it up carefully," he said. "See that you do not
 
 PASSERS-BY 19 
 
 spill the coffee. Tell the young lady that it is wet, and 
 that she had better rest. Say that I am gone out for an 
 hour perhaps longer." 
 
 The child took up the tray and carried it up the bare 
 stairs. Once more Drake left the house. This time he 
 turned northward, crossed the bridge, made an inquiry of 
 a policeman whom he approached with some hesitation, 
 and followed the directions given. In a few minutes he 
 found himself inside a large public library. The assistant 
 behind the desk handed him the book he asked for with a 
 smile. He took it to a table in the reference-room, and 
 began his search. In less than five minutes he had found 
 what he wanted. He drew a little breath between his 
 teeth. There it was, easy to read, easy to understand 
 "Francis William George Cuthbertson Ellingham, Sixth 
 Marquis." He passed rapidly over the titles and honors 
 set forth in nearly half a page of black type. He took no 
 interest in the country-seats or pursuits of the man whose 
 pedigree was here blazoned out. The town address, 11 
 Cavendish Square that was what he wanted. 
 
 He closed the book, returned it over the desk to the 
 young man, who looked at him once more with a faintly 
 curious smile, and walked out into the street. Presently 
 he found himself standing upon the doorstep of an im- 
 posing mansion, and enduring the surprised stare of a 
 very dignified person in plain black clothes.
 
 20 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "His lordship is at home," the man admitted, "but he 
 is not up. In any case, he sees no one without an 
 appointment." 
 
 The man would have closed the door, but Drake's foot 
 was in the way. "His lordship will see me," he said. 
 "Let me speak to his secretary, or some one by whom I 
 can send a message." 
 
 A young man, smooth shaven, well dressed, came stroll- 
 ing down the hall, evidently on his way into the street. He 
 looked with surprise at the queer little object who was 
 standing just inside the door. 
 
 "Who is this, Graves?" he asked. 
 
 "A person inquiring for his lordship, sir," the servant 
 answered. "I was just closing the door." 
 
 "You had better tell me what you want," said the young 
 man, addressing Drake. "I am the Marquis of filling- 
 ham's secretary." 
 
 "My business is with the marquis himself," Drake an- 
 swered, with something in his tone which was almost a 
 snarl. " Look at me. Look at me well. Now go and tell 
 your master that the person whom you can describe is here 
 to see him. Don't flatter me. Tell him what I am like." 
 
 The young man was on the point of making a curt reply. 
 Suddenly he paused. He remembered how, the night be- 
 fore, he had seen the telephone slip from the nerveless 
 fingers of the marquis, and his face suddenly grow white
 
 PASSERS-BY 21 
 
 as though with fear. He wondered for a moment if the 
 coming of this strange individual had anything to do with 
 that mysterious message. He turned on his heel. 
 
 "Keep this person here for a few minutes, Graves," he 
 said. "I will go up and see his lordship." 
 
 The marquis, who by reason of a long residence abroad 
 had acquired Continental habits, was sitting half dressed 
 in a sitting-room leading out from his sleeping apartments. 
 On the round table by his side was a light but daintily ar- 
 ranged breakfast tray, a bowl of flowers, and a pile of 
 letters. He looked up as the young man entered. 
 
 "Not gone yet, then, Penton?" he asked. 
 
 "I am just leaving, sir," the young man answered. 
 "There is a very strange person down in the hall, who 
 insists upon seeing you. He would not give a name, and 
 he wished me to describe him to you. I am afraid I ought 
 not to have troubled you, but he is such a queer little 
 object, and he seemed so much in earnest." 
 
 The marquis sat quite still in his chair, and his eyes 
 remained fixed on the young man, who stood, hat in hand, 
 upon the threshold. His face seemed suddenly to have 
 become almost rigid, expressionless, and yet there was 
 something in the set, helpless gaze which spoke of fear. 
 The young man noticed that the long white fingers which 
 held the newspaper were shaking. He came a step farther 
 into the room and closed the door.
 
 22 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Shall I see this person for you, sir?" he asked slowly. 
 "He is not exactly a pleasant-looking individual." 
 
 The marquis found his voice, and with it regained some 
 of his self-possession. "So I should imagine," he said, 
 "from your description. I think I know what he wants. 
 I will see him myself. You can bring him up here, and 
 then go on to the city." 
 
 The young man withdrew. As he descended the stairs 
 a frown darkened his good-humored features. He was 
 fond of the man whom he had served for the last three 
 years, and he recognized surely enough the coming of 
 tragedy in those pale, somewhat worn features. What it 
 meant he could not tell. He had no clue whatsoever, yet 
 he did his errand with marked unwillingness. 
 
 "The marquis will see you," he said to Drake. "You 
 can follow me upstairs to his room." 
 
 Drake showed no sign of exultation. Never once did he 
 look around him, although his surroundings must have 
 seemed in strange contrast to the wretched little lodging- 
 house from which he had come. He was heedless of the 
 rich carpet pressed by his muddy, gaping boots. He 
 passed without a glance the famous pictures which hung 
 upon the walls, the many evidences of wealth and luxury 
 by which he was surrounded. 
 
 They reached the door of the marquis's room. His 
 guide opened it and ushered him in.
 
 The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into the room. 
 
 [Page 23
 
 PASSERS-BY 23 
 
 "This is the person who wished to see you, sir," he said. 
 
 The marquis folded up his newspaper and nodded. 
 "You can go, Penton," he said. "Remember that I ex- 
 pect you back before eleven." 
 
 The door closed behind the young man. The visitor 
 came, unbidden, a little farther into the room. As though 
 his eyesight were at fault, he shaded his eyes for a moment 
 with his hand, and looked fixedly at the man whom he 
 had come to see. The marquis pointed to a chair. "Sit 
 down, if you like," he said. 
 
 " I prefer to stand," Drake answered. 
 
 "As you will," was the quiet reply. "Tell me, in as few 
 words as you can, exactly what you want of me."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RAY of winter sunshine came stealing through the 
 high windows of the room, glancing for a moment 
 upon the faces of the two men, faces as far removed from 
 any likeness to or kinship with one another as the poles 
 of life themselves. Drake was dressed in the shabbiest of 
 blue serge suits, a suit made for a boy, short in the arm, 
 high in the neck, mud-stained, and shiny with wear. His 
 boots had holes in them. His low collar and scrap of tie 
 were negligible things. His face was of a length out of 
 proportion to his size; the chin stubbly, the complexion 
 pallid, and bearing traces of his daily privations. Only 
 his eyes were soft, of a gray which deepened sometimes 
 almost into blue. At this moment, however, they were 
 overcast with a heavy frown, which seemed to gather in 
 intensity as the seconds of silence passed. 
 
 The man before whom he stood had presence enough 
 and had borne himself bravely on many great occasions, 
 but at that moment he seemed in some sense to have 
 collapsed. No sense of his stature remained. His limbs 
 were drawn closely together, his shoulders had acquired 
 a new stoop, his head was thrust a little forward, as
 
 PASSERS-BY 25 
 
 though he were forced against his will to return the 
 earnest gaze of his visitor. The marquis was forty-six 
 years old, and called himself a young man. He had 
 health enough, and courage, and good looks, but at this 
 moment all three seemed to have deserted him. The 
 cords of life had suddenly slackened. He was face to 
 face with horrible things, and the nerve which should 
 have set him with feet firmly planted upon the ground to 
 face the crisis was gone. 
 
 "It has been a long search," Drake said. 
 
 "Since it is at an end, then," the marquis answered, 
 "what would you have of me? Up to a certain point," 
 he added, in a low, uneasy tone, "I am in your hands. 
 Do you see, I attempt no evasions. I say that I am in 
 your hands. Go on." 
 
 Drake laughed a little bitterly. It was not a pleasant 
 sound, that laugh. It seemed to come from somewhere at 
 the back of his throat, and it left his features unmoved. 
 "Milord has lost his courage," he muttered. "Why don't 
 you have me thrown into the gutter?" 
 
 "Because," the marquis answered, "your snarl would 
 reach me from there. Is the I mean is she are you 
 alone?" he asked, with a sudden break in his voice. 
 
 Drake shook his head. "We are all here," he answered, 
 ''she and I and Chicot." 
 
 The marquis shivered a little. "Yes, I remember," he
 
 26 PASSERS-BY 
 
 said, half to himself. "You, with your tattered brown 
 overcoat, that cursed animal, and the girl. You have 
 been looking for me, I suppose?" 
 
 "Over half the world," Drake answered. "Up and 
 down the streets and along the byways of more cities than 
 I should care to count. We have watched the boulevards, 
 the restaurants, the clubs of Paris. We have watched the 
 crowds go by in all the great thoroughfares where one 
 might hope to find a man such as you. It is four years 
 since we started on the search." 
 
 "And now?" the marquis asked. 
 
 "And now," Drake answered, "I have come to warn 
 you. We shall be here in this city for months. Get 
 you gone out of it. You will be wiser." 
 
 The marquis looked startled for a moment. Then he 
 leaned forward, with the air of one who does not under- 
 stand. Suddenly his expression gave way to one of posi- 
 tive terror. "You don't mean," he faltered, "that you 
 have already, without coming to see me " 
 
 "No," Drake interrupted. "We have done nothing. 
 We have said nothing. It is for another reason that I 
 would have you go." 
 
 The marquis was once more puzzled. "You tell me," 
 he protested, " that for four years you have sought me, and 
 yet, now that you have succeeded in your search, you tell 
 me to go away. What do you mean?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 27 
 
 "It is not I who have sought you," Drake answered 
 bitterly. "It is she. She builds dreams, she has many 
 fancies. It is she who has driven us round the world, 
 from place to place, in this wild quest. Understand me. 
 It is I who have found you out She has not. She does 
 not know." 
 
 "But you will tell her!" the marquis exclaimed. 
 
 "I shall not," Drake answered. "I tell you that all 
 through these weary months, when her eyes have gone 
 through the throngs, seeking, always seeking, mine have 
 followed hers with a dread as great as her desire. For the 
 first time in my life, to-day I am faithless to her. I come 
 here alone. She does not know, and I would have you 
 hurry away and hide yourself before chance brings you 
 face to face with her." 
 
 "I do not understand," the marquis said weakly. 
 
 " Perhaps not," Drake replied. " Yet it is simple enough. 
 Look at me. See what I am a miserable fragment of a 
 man, a misshapen creature, the scoff of passers-by, an 
 outcast. Yet such as I am, I am all that she has. It is I 
 who stand by her, I on whom she relies from day to day 
 for bread and shelter. If she finds you, there will be an 
 end of this, there will be an end of me." 
 
 The marquis drew a long breath. There were some 
 signs of color in his cheeks. His tone had gained a little 
 strength. He was no longer absolutely a stricken thing.
 
 28 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "You mean," he said, "that she would have no more 
 need of you?" 
 
 "I mean that," Drake answered. "She would take your 
 gold. I would n't. She would be a great lady, while I 
 pushed my barrel, ground out my tunes, and pocketed 
 the pennies for which Chicot danced." 
 
 Once more the marquis drew a long breath. This time 
 he almost whistled. He remembered that he posed some- 
 times as a student of human character, that he was a 
 member of the Ethnological Society, and sometimes at- 
 tended its discussions. These were strange words to come 
 from such a person. "Tell me," he said, "why would 
 you not take my gold? You have only to speak, you 
 know that." 
 
 Drake raised his eyes, and he looked the marquis straight 
 in the face, until the eyes of the latter drooped and fell. 
 "You know," he answered. 
 
 The marquis laughed uneasily. He had looked away, 
 but the fire of that intent gaze seemed still to be burning 
 its way into his consciousness. "Well," he said, "you are 
 a strange mortal. You think, then, that if I leave London, 
 say to-morrow, I shall not see her?" 
 
 "You will go?" Drake asked. 
 
 "I will go," the marquis answered. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The marquis looked at 
 his visitor, and saw upon his person the signs of suffering.
 
 PASSERS-BY 29 
 
 " Do you think," he asked, " there is any real reason why 
 you should not take a trifle of money from me twenty 
 or fifty pounds, at any rate? You need new clothes. I 
 should imagine that you need many things." 
 
 "I will take no money," Drake answered. "Apart 
 from the reason which you know of, she would discover it. 
 She sees our takings. If I had money she would suspect. 
 She might even guess the truth. And if she knew that," 
 he added in a lower tone, " she would never forgive me." 
 
 The marquis looked at him curiously. "You are a 
 strange person," he said. "You prefer poverty, priva- 
 tions, and all the squalid discomforts of life, just for the 
 sake of having that girl walk by your side?" 
 
 "I do," Drake answered. "You look at me and you 
 wonder, I suppose. You think that a creature such as I 
 am has no right to the heart of a man. Perhaps you are 
 right. I do not know that it matters." 
 
 "Supposing," the marquis said, "that your health broke 
 down, and the girl was alone?" 
 
 Drake was unmoved. The shadow of a smile played 
 about his lips. "I have had that fear," he said, "and I 
 have provided against it." 
 
 "At the same time," the marquis said, "I cannot see 
 why you should not allow me, for the girl's sake, to help 
 you." 
 
 "I tell you that I will not touch your money," Ambrose
 
 30 PASSERS-BY 
 
 answered. "We take pennies every day from all alike, 
 from thieves and vagabonds, sinners of every class. But 
 to us they are strangers, they are just the flotsam and 
 jetsam of the world, paying their tribute as they pass by. 
 You are different. We know who you are." 
 
 The marquis rose to his feet with an uneasy little laugh. 
 He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his quilted 
 smoking-jacket, and he stood upright on his hearth-rug, 
 an attitude not by any means ungraceful. "You are the 
 strangest person I ever met in my life," he said to Drake. 
 "Tell me, where were you born? Of what nation are 
 you ? Surely you speak English too well to be a foreigner. 
 If such a thing were possible " 
 
 The frown upon Drake's face was like the frown of a 
 man rebuking an impertinence. "My family history," 
 he said, "would scarcely interest you. Such as it is, it 
 belongs to myself." 
 
 The marquis turned toward the bell. "There is noth- 
 ing more?" he asked. 
 
 "There is nothing more," Drake answered, as he turned 
 to leave the room.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IT was mid-November, and the afternoons were short. 
 Already the gas-lamps were lighted when Drake re- 
 entered the lodging-house, and after a moment's hesitation 
 made his way into the little sitting-room at the rear. The 
 girl was sitting there, with a pack of cards spread out on 
 the table before her. She looked up as he entered, and 
 the frown upon her dark sullen face grew deeper. 
 
 "Where have you been all day long, Ambrose?" she 
 asked. "Why have you left me here alone?" 
 
 "It was wet," he answered quickly, "too wet for you to 
 go out. I sold matches this morning. Since then I have 
 had the piano out, Chicot and I. We did not do so badly." 
 
 She looked disdainfully at the handful of coppers which 
 he laid upon the table. "Faugh!" she exclaimed. "It 
 disgusts me, this cheap dirty money." 
 
 "We live by it," he answered grimly. 
 
 "It has stopped raining," she said. "I shall go out now 
 for a little time. I have on my thick boots." 
 
 "As you will," he answered, a little wearily. "The 
 piano is still outside." 
 
 "And Chicot?" she asked.
 
 32 PASSERS-BY 
 
 He brought into evidence the canvas bag hung over his 
 shoulder. Chicot's little black head peered out. The 
 girl rose, and pinned on her hat before the cracked looking- 
 glass. Not even the careless indifference of her move- 
 ments, or her shabby clothes, could altogether conceal 
 the elegant lines of her slim young figure. 
 
 They descended to the street together. Drake lifted the 
 handles of the barrow a little wearily. For two hours he 
 had been grinding out his wretched music, and he was 
 weary. 
 
 "Which way?" he asked, turning eastward. "I think 
 this will be better." 
 
 The girl shook her head. She pointed across the river, 
 to where the lowering skies were already catching the re- 
 flections from the flaring signs and hotels ablaze with light. 
 
 "No," she said firmly. "It is there that we must go. 
 It is there that we go all the time. You forget, Ambrose, 
 that it is not for our miserable pennies that I walk these 
 wretched streets. It is for the search, still for the search ! " 
 
 He obeyed her, but with reluctance. "You forget last 
 night," he said. "We may be seen. He may have in- 
 formed the police." 
 
 She shook her head. "You did not hurt him," she 
 said. " What can he- do ? He cannot make us speak. I 
 can be dumb, and so can you. Come." 
 
 They crossed the bridge. The girl walked apart and
 
 PASSERS-BY 33 
 
 unseeing, her eyes fixed steadily upon the deepening glow 
 in the skies. Drake groaned a little to himself as he pushed 
 the barrow. He had eaten little, and his limbs were stiff 
 with cold and wet. Now and then he looked wistfully 
 toward the girl, but never once did she turn her head. 
 At the corner of the Embankment she paused. 
 
 "Here first," she said. 
 
 Silently he arranged the seat, sat down, and struck the 
 crazy notes of his little instrument. The girl folded her 
 hands and sang. The monkey, with outstretched tray, 
 collected the pennies. Then a policeman moved them on. 
 It was always like that. 
 
 They passed along the Embankment. The girl walked 
 close to the stone wall, looking down to the river. Drake, 
 whose breath was coming in little gasps, pushed his barrow 
 along close to the curbstone, to avoid the heavy mud. 
 They passed the side streets which led up into the Strand, 
 and turned into Northumberland Avenue. Once more 
 they paused and repeated their little program. There 
 were fewer people and fewer pennies this time. The 
 evening was raw, and every one was hurrying. When the 
 girl had finished singing there were very few for Chicot 
 to visit with his little tray. 
 
 "Let us go back," Drake said. "It is a bad night. 
 There are few people out of doors. We have enough for 
 dinner. I did well with the matches this morning."
 
 34 PASSERS-BY 
 
 The girl shook her head. "No," she said. "I am go- 
 ing on, on that way." She pointed across Trafalgar 
 Square, westward. "If you are tired, go back, you and 
 Chicot." 
 
 She walked on, as though heedless whether they fol- 
 lowed or not. Drake set his teeth, and commenced once 
 more his weary pilgrimage. The wheels of his barrow 
 were stiff, and the traffic around him grew thicker. Still, 
 somehow or other, he managed to keep his eyes upon the 
 girl ahead. Once or twice, when the crowd was thick, 
 he grew anxious. " We shall lose her, Chicot," he muttered. 
 " No, there she is ! Courage, little one. We must push on." 
 
 A hansom cab missed him by barely a few inches. A 
 motor-car, whizzing by, splashed him all over with mud. 
 Still he kept her in sight along Pall Mall, up Regent Street, 
 once more to the left, always westward. She paused for 
 a few moments to look into a shop. He caught up with 
 her there and called to her weakly. 
 
 "Christine," he said. 
 
 She turned away, and approached the edge of the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 "Christine," he gasped, "I am tired. The roads are 
 heavy, and I have not eaten much to-day. Let us rest for 
 a little time." 
 
 "Rest!" she answered bitterly, "there is no place here 
 to rest."
 
 PASSERS-BY 35 
 
 He sat upon the handle of his barrow. "Let us go 
 home," he said more slowly. "No one will stop to listen 
 to us to-night. If we sing here the police will only move 
 us on." 
 
 "Go home, if you like," she answered. "I am going 
 farther. Somehow, I feel that here in London we are 
 near the end of it." 
 
 "The end?" he gasped. 
 
 " The search," she answered. " You know what I mean. 
 There is something which seems to draw me across that 
 bridge up here. I tell you that it is not I who comes. It 
 is something which tells me that here, not far away, I shall 
 find him." 
 
 She paused. For the first time a shadow of something 
 which might have been sympathy crossed her face. "As 
 for you," she said, "you are not strong enough for this. 
 You are tired. I can see that you are very tired. Listen. 
 I will wait here and hold Chicot. You shall go over there 
 and take something to drink, something hot." 
 
 He hesitated. Even then he would not have gone but 
 for the feeling of faintness against which he had been 
 struggling for the last half hour. "You will not move 
 from here?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Then I think I will go," he said. "It is foolish, but 
 there is a pain."
 
 36 PASSERS-BY 
 
 He plunged into the traffic and crossed the street to the 
 bar opposite. They looked at him strangely as he drank 
 his hot spirits and water. On a corner of the counter was 
 a little basket of bread, left over from luncheon-time. He 
 took a piece and ate it ravenously. He remembered sud- 
 denly that he had not eaten since that early breakfast. 
 Then he turned once more into the street and crossed it. 
 His heart gave a sudden jump. The piano was there. 
 Chicot, indeed, had collected a small crowd, for he had 
 escaped from his bag, and was sitting on the top saluting 
 the passers-by with profuse wavings of his little hat. 
 The piano was there, and Chicot, but the girl was 
 gone! 
 
 Drake stood upon the curbstone, gazing wildly up and 
 down the great thoroughfare. He peered into the shops, 
 came back again, and walked backward and forward 
 along the crowded sidewalk. Christine was not there, 
 and his heart was filled with a sudden terrible apprehen- 
 sion. People stared at him, this queer little figure, with 
 tragedy written large in his face, who wandered hither 
 and thither, peering into their faces, looking everywhere, 
 looking for something which he could not find. At last 
 he came back to the piano 
 
 "We will wait, Chicot," he muttered. "We will wait 
 here. She has gone away to buy something, perhaps.
 
 PASSERS-BY 37 
 
 She will come back. We must wait here, Chicot, or she 
 will lose us." 
 
 The rain commenced to fall, at first softly, then more 
 steadily. Chicot crept into his bag. With trembling 
 fingers Drake drew the waterproof covering over the little 
 piano. Then he stood up beside it, facing the sidewalk, 
 looking up and down, across the street, up and down 
 again. Sometimes they moved him on. He went a few 
 yards and returned. 
 
 "She will come back," he muttered to himself. "She 
 must come back. We will wait, Chicot and I."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EXACTLY how it happened, Christine herself could 
 scarcely have told. She had been gazing without 
 any special interest into a shop-window, awaiting Drake's 
 return. Suddenly she was conscious of some one stand- 
 ing by her side, and a hand was laid upon her wrist. She 
 looked around, startled. It was the man who had rushed 
 the night before down from his rooms into the narrow 
 passage, the man whom they had left lying upon the pave- 
 ment with his face turned to the sky. She recognized him 
 at once with a little gasp. 
 
 "This time, young lady," he said quietly, "I am not 
 asking you any questions. I know quite well who you are, 
 and I want to talk to you. Are you alone?" 
 
 "I will not talk to you," she answered, snatching her 
 wrist away. " I do not know you. I am waiting for Am- 
 brose. When he comes you will be sorry." 
 
 The young man laughed softly. It was not at all an 
 unpleasant laugh, nor was he an unpleasant person to 
 look upon. "My dear young lady," he said, "why will 
 you persist in looking upon me as an enemy? I assure 
 you that I have no wish to be anything of the sort. It
 
 PASSERS-BY 39 
 
 may be very much to your interest to talk to me for a few 
 minutes. At any rate, I have found you, and I am not 
 going to let you go/ 
 
 Something in his face suddenly attracted her. She 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Come," he said persuasively, "do not be foolish. 
 Times are bad with you. Don't think me impertinent, 
 but I can see that. It is not fit for you, this life." 
 
 " It is the life I choose," she answered, a note of fierce- 
 ness in her tone. 
 
 "You have, perhaps, an object/' he said quietly. "But 
 never mind that now. You must come with me." 
 
 "Where to?" she asked. 
 
 "I am going to take you to a restaurant close by 
 here," he said, "and I am going to give you some dinner. 
 Afterward we will talk." 
 
 The idea appealed to her amazingly. A restaurant, 
 good food, wine, flowers, and lights ! She half closed her 
 eyes. When she opened them again she was quite deter- 
 mined. "I will go with you," she said. "Let us hurry. 
 We must be gone before Ambrose returns." 
 
 He needed no second bidding. In a moment they were 
 across the street, and he piloted her through the throngs 
 of people for a hundred yards or so. Then he stopped 
 before a great restaurant. The commissionnaire threw 
 open the door with a bow.
 
 40 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "We will go in here," Hannaway said, "into the grill 
 room. It is too early to find many people there, but we can 
 talk." 
 
 She followed him into the room. He led the way, pre- 
 ceded by a bowing maitre d'hotel, to a corner table. She 
 sank into a chair with a little sigh of relief. There was 
 everything here that she had hoped for clean linen, 
 sparkling silver, flowers upon the table, a delicate sense 
 of warmth, and from the larger restaurant, the faint 
 #>und of music. He took the carte and ordered the 
 dinner. The waiter placed by his side a gold-foiled 
 bottle and a pail of ice. Over their oysters he looked at 
 her, smiling. 
 
 "Come," he said, "this is better than hitting me on the 
 head because I ventured to show myself to you once 
 more." 
 
 For the first time she smiled. The parting of her lips 
 was transfiguring. One realized, almost breathlessly, 
 that this girl with the tired eyes and sullen face was, if she 
 chose to claim her heritage, beautiful. 
 
 "If Ambrose should find us," she said, "I think that he 
 would do more than strike you." 
 
 "I will take my chances," the young man answered 
 easily. "I do not think that he will find us here, but even 
 if he does he shall not take you away until I have said 
 something to you which has been in my mind since "
 
 PASSERS-BY 41 
 
 Her hand flashed out across the table. "Never mind 
 when," she said hurriedly. "You will say what you want 
 to, I suppose, and I must listen. But remember that even 
 here there are waiters, and people at the next table. There 
 are some things it were better not to speak of." 
 
 He remained silent for several moments. The girl 
 sipped her wine and with her elbows on the table leaned 
 her head on her hands and looked across at him thought- 
 fully. He was certainly good to look at, this young Eng- 
 lishman. It was a pity that he knew anything of those 
 days that lay behind. It was a pity, she thought, that she 
 had not met him now for the first time, that this ceaseless 
 duel between them must intervene, must keep her always 
 upon her guard. 
 
 Their table was admirably chosen for a tete-a-tete. 
 There were few people in the room, and the little party at 
 the nearest table were too thoroughly engrossed in them- 
 selves to be of any serious account. Gilbert Hannaway, 
 who for some time had maintained a deliberate silence, 
 turned in his chair and took careful stock of their 
 surroundings. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that we are not in very much dan- 
 ger from eavesdroppers here. Tell me this. Is this mis- 
 erable existence of yours, this tramping after a piano, a 
 necessity of your life ? Or is it merely a cloak for some- 
 thing else?"
 
 42 PASSERS-BY 
 
 " It is a necessity," she answered. 
 
 "You are really as poor as you seem ?" he asked. 
 
 "Poorer," she answered. "I have known what it is, 
 within the last few weeks, to depend upon the pennies 
 thrown to us in the streets for the food we ate." 
 
 "I do not understand it," the young man said. "There 
 should be one man, at any rate, upon whom you have a 
 sufficient claim." 
 
 Her eyes suddenly glittered. She leaned far across the 
 table. Her lips were parted. A flush of excitement was 
 in her face. "There is," she answered. "Do you know 
 where I can find him?" 
 
 The young man toyed with his wine-glass. "Perhaps," 
 he said. "That depends." 
 
 "Upon what?" she whispered, almost fiercely. 
 
 "Upon two things," he answered. "The first is, I 
 must know exactly what will be your attitude toward that 
 person when you have found him." 
 
 "The second?" she demanded. 
 
 "I think," he said quietly, "that you know. For four 
 years I have been looking for you. That is why, when I 
 looked down from my rooms last night and saw you sing- 
 ing in the passage underneath, saw you and the hunch- 
 back and the monkey, that I rushed down like a madman, 
 determined that this time, at any rate, you should not 
 escape me."
 
 PASSERS-BY 43 
 
 She drew away. "You were foolish," she said. "You 
 are foolish now." 
 
 "I do not deny it," he answered. "I have been a little 
 foolish ever since I used to see you, almost daily, singing 
 in the streets. You were never very gracious. Sometimes 
 when you saw me there among your scanty audience you 
 would even frown and look annoyed. You scarcely ever 
 spoke a kind word to me, and yet, when you disappeared 
 I commenced a search which has never ended until 
 now." 
 
 She looked at him a little curiously. Her face was no 
 longer sullen, and with the passing of the frown from her 
 dark, silky eyebrows her eyes seemed somehow to have 
 increased in size. They watched him steadily, soft, bril- 
 liant, inquisitive, anything but tender. Her mouth was 
 no longer hard. Her lips had parted in a faint mocking 
 smile. 
 
 "And now that you have found me," she asked, "what 
 do you want?" 
 
 "To help you, if I can," Hannaway said. "I believe," 
 he continued, "that this time, at any rate, you are really 
 what you seem. I believe that your poverty is not a dis- 
 guise. You really trudge these cruel streets for a hard 
 living. You were not born for it. It is not right that you 
 should live such a life." 
 
 "You wish to help me?" she asked.
 
 44 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "I do," he answered fervently. 
 
 "Then you can tell me," she said, leaning a little for- 
 ward, "something that will end my search tell me the 
 whereabouts of the man whom we seek." 
 
 "I could," he answered, "but I will be frank with you. 
 I have no information to give away. I will sell it at a 
 price." 
 
 "Sell!" she repeated scornfully. "Look at me. My 
 hat has been soaked through a dozen times, and it cost me 
 five shillings. My clothes were bought ready-made. My 
 boots well, the soles are thick, but they are what your 
 country girls wear who walk to market. Look at me. I 
 have no gloves. All my jewelry, the little I ever had, is 
 in the pawnbrokers' shops of Paris, Milan, Rome, and 
 those other places. What have I to offer you for your 
 information?" 
 
 "You can repay me," he answered, "in the like coin. 
 You are in search of " 
 
 Again her hand flashed across the table. She seemed 
 about to close his lips. She hung on his wrist, and her 
 terrified eyes flashed into his. 
 
 "Be quiet! Oh, be quiet!" she said. "You must not 
 mention him. It is not to be thought of." 
 
 He smiled. "This is England," he said. 
 
 "But it is London," she interrupted, almost fiercely. 
 "London is not England. London is as bad as any place
 
 PASSERS-BY 45 
 
 I know of. There are many who say too much here who 
 never speak again." 
 
 Hannaway drained his glass. "My dear young lady," 
 he said, "caution, up to a certain point, I approve of most 
 thoroughly. But now listen to me, and understand this. 
 I will give you, at this moment, the name and address of 
 the man whom you seek if you will tell me who it was you 
 helped to escape, you and the dwarf and the little black 
 monkey, when you " 
 
 "Stop !" she cried, with pallid lips. "You must not!" 
 
 He shook his head. "We are safer here than in the 
 streets," he said. "You know when I mean. I saw you 
 going down the hill ; I saw you pass into the Rue Pigalle. 
 I saw that strange little hunchback running, pushing the 
 little piano before him, and I saw a man walking by his 
 side. You were there, too. I saw you all turn into the 
 Boulevard. I saw your shadows. I even heard the sound 
 of those creaking wheels. You turned the corner, and you 
 vanished. The earth might have swallowed you up. No 
 one knew of you. Every corner of Paris was searched in 
 vain. What became of you ? No, I will not ask you that ! 
 I promised to ask one question, and one question only. 
 Who was it that you helped to escape that night?" 
 
 The girl's face seemed suddenly changed. She was 
 paler. Her features had lost all their sullen impassivity. 
 She was like a person looking out upon dreaded things.
 
 46 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She crumbled up her bread with trembling fingers. The 
 hand which raised her wine-glass to her lips shook. 
 Waiters were at their table, but she made no attempt at 
 lighter conversation. She sat still, looking around the 
 room, looking everywhere but into the fixed, steadfast 
 face of the man who sat opposite to her. Presently they 
 were alone again. 
 
 She leaned a little over the table. "There was no one 
 there," she said. "We were alone. We hurried away 
 because we were afraid. It was a passer-by that you saw." 
 
 He smiled. "It is not true," he answered. "There are 
 some things about which it is not worth while to lie, and 
 this is one of them. Will you tell me who it was? I am 
 not a policeman or a detective. No harm will come to 
 anybody through me." 
 
 "Not if a knife were at my throat !" she answered, with 
 sudden passion. "Why should I? What are you to me? 
 I owe you what ? A dinner, perhaps. Bah ! You asked 
 me here, not because I was hungry, not because you really 
 wanted to see me again, but just to gratify your curiosity. 
 bu say that you have searched for me for four years. 
 You want me to believe that you have thought of me, 
 that it was for my sake. You looked everywhere for a 
 singing girl and a hunchback and a monkey! Bah! I 
 do not believe you. I am not even sure that you are not 
 a policeman."
 
 PASSERS-BY 47 
 
 "That is not kind of you," he answered quietly. "It 
 may seem strange to you, perhaps, that I should be so 
 curious. Since you misunderstand me, I will ask you 
 that question no more. Only, unless you will tell me 
 exactly what you want of this person of whom you are in 
 search " 
 
 "I am in search of no one," she interrupted, with a little 
 nervous gesture. "It is a mistake. We are here because 
 there is money in London, always money. And one must 
 live. We have been in so many other places, and every 
 one has told us that it is here that one finds that people 
 give the easiest." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and filled her glass. "You 
 will not trust me," he said. "Very well, I will not spoil 
 your dinner any more. I will ask no more questions. 
 Presently we shall part. Only, before you go, there is one 
 privilege at least which you must allow me." 
 
 "I will not take your money," she said hastily. "I will 
 not take anything at all from you." 
 
 "Then you are a very foolish person," he answered. 
 "I do not know much about you, but I do know that it is 
 a shameful thing that you should be singing in the streets 
 day after day, with only that poor little hunchback for a 
 companion. I do not ask for any return from you of any 
 sort. I simply ask to be allowed to help you for the sake 
 of a sentiment."
 
 48 PASSERS-BY 
 
 " It is finished," she said coldly. " I can starve very well, 
 but I would not take money from you." 
 
 He sighed. "You are worse than foolish," he declared. 
 " You take pennies from the passers-by in the street, and 
 yet you refuse the help of one who is anxious only to be 
 your friend." 
 
 " We take the pennies of people whom we do not know," 
 she answered coldly. "We sing and play to them, or we 
 would ask for nothing. The greatest artist who sings in 
 opera does that. For you it is different. We live our own . 
 lives. After all, we ourselves are the best judges of what 
 seems right to us." 
 
 Hannaway shrugged his shoulders. It was only too 
 obvious that the girl was in earnest. "It must be as you 
 will," he said quietly. "The chicken at last! You take 
 salad, of course ? For the rest of the evening we speak of 
 cookery, or shall it be the weather ?" 
 
 She looked at him not unkindly. "You may talk of 
 what you like," she answered, "except 
 
 He smiled as he filled her glass. "That," he answered, 
 "is finished."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MR. GILBERT HANNAWAY was on the point of 
 cutting in for a rubber of bridge at his favorite 
 club when a paragraph in the evening paper through 
 which he had been glancing attracted his attention. He 
 read it through carefully. 
 
 We regret to state that, owing to sudden indisposition, 
 the Marquis of Ellingham has been ordered by his medical 
 adviser to proceed at once to the south of France. The 
 announcement will be received with very great regret 
 throughout all classes of the community, especially as just 
 at the present time his lordship's work in the cabinet is of 
 great importance. We understand that his duties will be 
 temporarily filled by the Right Honorable Meredith Jones. 
 
 Hannaway excused himself from the projected game. 
 He remained a few minutes longer, chatting to his ac- 
 quaintances, and then left the club. In less than a 
 quarter of an hour a hansom deposited him at the door of 
 Number 11 Cavendish Square. 
 
 7"he butler was at first obdurate. His lordship would 
 see no one. He was leaving for abroad early in the morn- 
 ing, and his instructions were absolute. Hannaway, how- 
 ever, was possessed of an impressive manner, and he
 
 50 PASSERS-BY 
 
 succeeded so far as to be shown into a small room to 
 await the coming of the marquis's secretary. The latter, 
 who was in a very bad temper, however, was not in the 
 least inclined to afford opportunities for any more strangers 
 to interview his master. 
 
 "I do not know you, Mr. Hannaway," he said, "and 
 my chief has been ordered to take absolute and com- 
 plete rest. He cannot give personal attention to any 
 matter of business, and social calls just now are out of the 
 question. I am sorry, therefore, that I cannot help you." 
 
 "You can help me so far as this," Hannaway answered, 
 "and incidentally you can also help the marquis, of whose 
 indisposition I was very sorry to hear. Tell him that the 
 person who telephoned him last night from the Altona 
 Hotel is anxious to have a few minutes' conversation with 
 him." 
 
 The secretary's manner changed. With obvious reluc- 
 tance, he turned to leave the room. " I will give him your 
 message," he said curtly. "You may wait here." 
 
 The marquis had dined tete-a-tete with his wife. She 
 was a very beautiful woman, and very much in demand in 
 the social world, of which she was one of the principal 
 adornments. To-night, however, she had canceled all her 
 engagements. In face of the statement which was appear- 
 ing in all the evening papers her presence at any social
 
 PASSERS-BY 51 
 
 function was scarcely to be expected. Apart from this, 
 she had an immense curiosity as to the cause of her hus- 
 band's sudden departure from England. They had fin- 
 ished dinner, and were taking their coffee in the smaller 
 library, where the marquis was accustomed to receive 
 private visitors. The marchioness, who had had a fatigu- 
 ing afternoon, was curled up on the sofa, watching her 
 husband through half-closed eyes. 
 
 "You certainly, my dear Francis," she remarked, "do 
 look a little pale and drawn. At the same time, I should 
 scarcely have thought that there was anything in your 
 health which made this sudden departure necessary." 
 
 Her husband shrugged his shoulders. "My dear Mar- 
 garet," he said, "appearances are sometimes deceptive. 
 I have been feeling absolutely run down for some time. 
 To tell you the truth, I am in a very delicate position po- 
 litically just now. I am absolutely opposed to our chief 
 on several important matters. I have no following, and I 
 am not disposed to give in altogether." 
 
 "So it is a political trouble, is it?" she asked. 
 
 "I do not wish you to understand that," he answered, 
 taking a cigarette from a cedar-wood box upon the table, 
 and carefully lighting it. "At the same time, if matters 
 in the cabinet were different I might perhaps have made 
 a more energetic struggle against my indisposition. 
 Frankly, I think that I shall do myself no harm whatever
 
 52 PASSERS-BY 
 
 if I am away during the next few months. It will obviate 
 my acquiescence in a certain policy which I feel sure, 
 sooner or later, will turn out to be disastrous." 
 
 The marchioness was distinctly interested. "Yet," she 
 said, "you leave the conduct of affairs in the hands of a 
 man whose policy is, I believe, very different from yours. 
 Is n't Meredith Jones one of those who go through life 
 shivering through fear of the Germans?" 
 
 "Meredith Jones, at any rate," he answered, "repre- 
 sents the popular feeling in the cabinet. I am almost alone 
 in my views, except, as you perhaps know, for some very 
 powerful influence outside the cabinet. Single-handed, I 
 could do nothing. If I remained, I should have to carry 
 out another man's views. No! I am well content to be 
 away for a short time. Apart from which," he added, 
 with a little sigh, "I am really feeling shockingly seedy." 
 
 "You won't expect me out until after Christmas, 
 I suppose?" she asked. 
 
 "Certainly not," he answered. "You can come just 
 when it is convenient. In fact, although I have wired to 
 have the villa got ready, I shall probably wander about 
 for some time and try to find a quiet spot along the Italian 
 Riviera. I shall have plenty to occupy my thoughts. 
 There are some papers I have been wanting to write for 
 the reviews." 
 
 The marchioness looked for a moment or two thought-
 
 PASSERS-BY 53 
 
 fully into the fire. She was not in the least satisfied with 
 her husband's explanation. 
 
 "My dear Francis," she said presently, "but for the 
 fact that I interviewed Sir Frederick myself, and know 
 that he dare not tell me a downright lie, I should come 
 to the conclusion that you are keeping something back 
 from me with regard to your health. Frankly, I do not 
 believe this explanation of yours. You are not at all the 
 sort of man to run away from trouble." 
 
 The marquis stood still for several moments. His thin, 
 drawn face was in a sense expressionless, yet his wife was 
 perfectly well aware that there was some change there. 
 Something had happened which reminded her of a ter- 
 rible week of restlessness soon after their marriage. 
 
 " There is some trouble," he said, " from which flight 
 alone is possible." 
 
 The marchioness raised herself a little on the sofa. 
 " I do not like to hear you say that, Francis," she 
 remarked. "I hope that you have not been foolish 
 enough to allow yourself to 'be frightened by any of these 
 bands of blackmailers. They tell me that half the public 
 men in London, at some time or another, have to face 
 trouble of this sort." 
 
 "Blackmailers!" he repeated softly. "No, it is not 
 exactly that." 
 
 "There is something?" she persisted.
 
 54 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "There is something," he admitted, unconsciously 
 lowering his voice. "There is something, I must admit 
 that." 
 
 "Why not tell me about it?" she asked. "I think that 
 on the whole you and I have been much more than fairly 
 good husband and wife to each other. I do not wish to 
 say anything which might sound bourgeois, but if there is 
 any real trouble or danger to be faced I do not need to 
 hear the other side. I believe hi you, and I would help 
 you if it were possible." 
 
 The marquis threw away his cigarette. He stooped 
 down and raised his wife's fingers to his lips. Then, after 
 a moment's hesitation, he stooped lower still and kissed 
 her lips. 
 
 "Dear Margaret," he said, "I thank you very much. 
 If it were possible for me to give it to any one in the world, 
 you should have my whole confidence. Unfortunately, it 
 is not possible. If you were my guardian angel, the 
 materialized conscience of my life, I should still be dumb." 
 
 "There were times," she remarked thoughtfully, "when 
 you were a young man, before there was any thought of 
 your coming into the title, when you were unheard of. 
 There were years of your life during which you seem to 
 have had no friends, when no one seemed to know any- 
 thing about you, where you were, or what you were doing. 
 You came back when your cousin died, a stranger to
 
 PASSERS-BY 55 
 
 nearly everybody. I have been curious sometimes, 
 Francis, about those years." 
 
 His lips parted slowly into a smile which seemed to 
 make a stranger of him to the woman who was watching 
 his face. Certainly it was some other man who, with 
 fixed eyes, looked back into the shadows of another's 
 past. 
 
 "You must remember," he said, "that in those days I 
 was nobody. I was a well-born, penniless young man, 
 with no career, practically no expectations. I was treated 
 very badly by people from whom I had some right to 
 expect countenance. I was a little wild, perhaps, but I 
 was no worse than dozens of others. I mention this be- 
 cause I want you to understand that in those days I felt 
 no shadow of obligation toward either my country or my 
 family. That is all I can tell you, Margaret." 
 
 Then the marchioness made what was for her a most 
 astounding suggestion, a suggestion which even a few 
 days afterward she reflected upon with amazement. "I 
 wonder," she said, "whether you would care for me to go 
 with you abroad? I could manage it, of course. The 
 servants could follow us in a few days with the 
 luggage." 
 
 He looked at her. He was astonished, and showed it 
 " My dear Margaret," he said, " it is most unnecessary. 
 For what you have said I am very grateful, but it is better
 
 56 PASSERS-BY 
 
 for me to go alone just now. Now who the mischief can 
 
 that be?" 
 
 There was a low tapping at the door. His secretary 
 entered, with a brief apology. 
 
 "I am most sorry, sir," he said, "to interrupt you. 
 There is a man here of whom I cannot get rid. His name 
 is Gilbert Hannaway." 
 
 The marquis shook his head. "I never heard of him," 
 he said. "Are you sure that he is not from a news- 
 paper?" 
 
 "I am quite sure," the secretary answered. "He is very 
 urgent in his desire to see you, and he will give me no 
 further explanation of his coming than this. He says that 
 he is the man who rang you up last night from the Altona 
 Hotel." 
 
 The marquis set down his empty coffee-cup. It was 
 impossible for either of the other two persons in the room 
 to avoid noticing that his hand was trembling. Again 
 there was something in his eyes which, to those two who 
 knew him so well, seemed to suggest another man living 
 in another world. 
 
 "I will see this gentleman," the marquis said. "You 
 may show him in here," he added, with a little glance 
 toward his wife. 
 
 She rose at once and shook out her gown. "I will go 
 to my room," she said, "and read for a little time. Per-
 
 PASSERS-BY 57 
 
 haps if you are not detained too long you will come in 
 and see me." 
 
 The secretary held open the door with a low bow. Her 
 husband, as she passed, once more raised her fingers to 
 his lips. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "I shall certainly come."
 
 CHAPTER Vin 
 
 THE marquis glanced from the card which he held 
 toward the man whom his secretary had just 
 ushered in. 
 
 "This is Mr. Hannaway, sir," the latter remarked. 
 
 The marquis inclined his head very slightly. "I do not 
 understand the purpose of your visit, sir," he said, "and 
 I am exceedingly occupied just now. If you will kindly 
 explain in a few words what I can do for you, I shall be 
 glad." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway bowed, and glanced toward the 
 secretary. 
 
 "Do you wish me to stay, sir?" the latter asked. 
 
 The marquis hesitated for a moment. Then he shook 
 his head. "No," he said. "You had better type those 
 letters I gave you before dinner. Bring them to me in a 
 few minutes, and I will sign them." 
 
 The secretary bowed and withdrew, closing the door 
 carefully behind him. The marquis, who was still re- 
 garding his visitor with a slight frown, motioned him to 
 take a seat. 
 
 "Sit down, if you will, sir," he said. "I can spare you
 
 PASSERS-BY 59 
 
 only a very few minutes. First of all, let me ask you what 
 is the meaning of that extraordinary message which I 
 understand came from you last night?" 
 
 Hannaway accepted a chair, and laid his hat and stick 
 upon the table. He drew up one knee and clasped his 
 hands around it. "A hunchback, a singing girl, and a 
 monkey ! " he murmured. " You see, I had been search- 
 ing for them, and they appeared unexpectedly. It oc- 
 curred to me that you, too, might be interested to know 
 that they were in London." 
 
 "But why?" the marquis asked. "What has such a 
 company as this to do with me?" 
 
 Hannaway was silent for a moment. "Your lordship," 
 he said, "are we to talk as men who feel for the point of 
 the other's rapier in the dark ? Or are we to lay our cards 
 upon the table? We may, perhaps, each be able to help 
 the other." 
 
 The marquis glanced toward the door. "Mr. Hanna- 
 way," he said, "you comport yourself like a sane man, 
 but I frankly admit that your words seem to me to qualify 
 you for a lunatic asylum. Frankly, I have no idea what 
 you mean." 
 
 Hannaway nodded thoughtfully. " Ah !" he said, "you 
 prefer that way. Well, it is your choice of weapons, for 
 it is I who have sounded the tocsin. I understand that 
 your lordship is leaving England to-morrow."
 
 60 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "If I am," the marquis answered, "I do not conceive it 
 to be any concern of yours." 
 
 "One cannot tell," Hannaway answered. "Sometimes 
 the little webs of fate which connect our lives are almost 
 invisible. There may be something which brings us into 
 closer touch than you are willing to admit. Five years ago, 
 for instance, my lord, things were different with both 
 of us." 
 
 The marquis looked at his visitor long and steadily. 
 " Listen," he said. " Five years ago I was a penniless man. 
 I was leading an adventurous life, and I was to be found 
 in strange places. It is possible that I may have seen 
 you in some of them. It is possible that I have met 
 you under circumstances which seem to you scarcely in 
 keeping with my present position. What of it ? What 
 concern is it of yours? Are you here to ask for black- 
 mail?" 
 
 "You do me an injustice," Hannaway answered, with- 
 out any sign of anger. "I, too, only five years ago, was a 
 wanderer, something of an adventurer, perhaps. It was 
 about that time that I began to find life more than ordi- 
 narily interesting. I was in Paris five years ago." 
 
 The marquis bowed. "It is possible," he said indiffer- 
 ently, "that I may even have had the pleasure of seeing 
 you there. If so, I do not remember it You must permit 
 me to remind you, Mr. Hannaway, that you have not as
 
 PASSERS-BY 61 
 
 yet given me any excuse, call it reason if you will, for 
 your visit." 
 
 "There was a girl," Hannaway murmured, "a singing 
 girl, a hunchback, and a monkey. To-night I had dinner 
 with the singing girl. We talked of many things." 
 
 The marquis did not at once reply. He turned his back 
 a little upon his visitor, and moved toward a chair. "You 
 have read in the papers, perhaps," he-said, a little hoarsely, 
 " that I am ill. I am not fit to be about. You say that you 
 dined with a singing girl, and you tell me that as though it 
 were likely to interest me. What do you mean?" 
 
 "Your lordship," Hannaway said, "I dined with the 
 girl whose life is a search. You know whom she seeks. 
 You know why she seeks him. You know more than I do 
 of these matters, but I know enough to make me sure that 
 you are leaving England to-morrow to avoid an unpleasant 
 encounter." 
 
 "Mr. Hannaway " the marquis began. 
 
 "We are alone," Hannaway said. "There is no need 
 to waste our words. There is a man in France sighing 
 out his life behind the walls of a prison. This girl seeks, 
 perhaps, for some one to take his place." 
 
 "Really," the marquis declared, "you are becoming 
 quite interesting." 
 
 "I am thankful for so much of your lordship's consid- 
 eration," Hannaway answered.
 
 62 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "She is looking, do I understand, for a substitute?" 
 the marquis asked. 
 
 "She is looking for a criminal," Hannaway answered. 
 " She is looking for the man who should be in the place of 
 a certain Vicomte de Neuilly." 
 
 " You have come here to tell me these things, Mr. Hanna- 
 way," the marquis said. "Why?" 
 
 "Because," Hannaway answered, "I expect for my in- 
 formation a quid pro quo." 
 
 "Naturally," the marquis answered. "In the shape 
 of a check, may I ask?" 
 
 "I am no blackmailer," Hannaway said sternly, "but 
 I was in the house at the corner of the Place Noire on the 
 night when twenty gendarmes were foiled by one man. 
 I set myself to find out who that man was. I have even 
 visited the prison. I know that the man who lies there 
 is not the man they think." 
 
 "Indeed?" the marquis answered. 
 
 "The police themselves know it," Hannaway continued, 
 "but they are vain, and they will not admit that they 
 failed to secure the man with whose name all France was 
 ringing during those few months. Only a few people 
 know that the man who lies in the jail at Enselle is not 
 the terrible Jean. I am one of the few who know how 
 he made his escape that night. I was lying with a bullet 
 in my thigh, or I should have followed even then. Some
 
 PASSERS-BY 63 
 
 of you others must have known. Tell me who that man 
 was, Lord Ellingham. Tell me where I can lay my hands 
 upon him. You owe me that much for the warning I have 
 given you to-night." 
 
 The marquis had settled down in his easy chair. He 
 lighted a cigarette, and looked across at his companion 
 with a curious smile. "My dear Mr. Hannaway," he said, 
 "I am delighted that I decided to see you. No one has 
 amused me so much for a very long time. Pray go on. 
 Tell me more about this Jean the Terrible, I think you 
 called him. Who was he, and why was he terrible ? And 
 above all, why do you come to me for information about 
 him?" 
 
 "Because you knew him," Hannaway answered. "Be- 
 cause you were one of that band of ruffians. There, you 
 see, I am not over-jealous of my secret. I have no grudge 
 against you. I understand that things have changed 
 with you, so that you would prefer to look upon the past 
 as though it had not been. But my silence is worth some- 
 thing. The man may be dead, or he may be alive. Any- 
 how, his whereabouts interest me. Tell me, even, what 
 his haunts were, what he was like to look at, anything that 
 can help me in my search." 
 
 The marquis shook his head. "Mr. Hannaway," he 
 said, "you have amused me exceedingly, and I am very 
 much obliged for your call, and also for the warning con-
 
 64 PASSERS-BY 
 
 cerning the young lady and the dwarf and the monkey. 
 I fancy that you have been taking an overdose of Heine. 
 Let me recommend you to go back to that young lady, 
 and get rid of your illusions. She will probably be able to 
 help you to do so." 
 
 Hannaway nodded, as he stretched out his hand re- 
 luctantly for his hat and stick. "Ah, well," he said, "I 
 am not disappointed. The old fear still remains, I sup- 
 pose. The old bonds are still tightly drawn. There are 
 ways, though, without your lordship's help." 
 
 The marquis touched the bell. "I have enjoyed your 
 call immensely, Mr. Hannaway," he said. "Pray come 
 again some day, when I have returned from abroad." 
 
 "I shall certainly do myself the honor," Hannaway 
 answered, as he followed the footman out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE girl paused at the threshold of the sitting-room, 
 and opening the door softly, looked in. Drake 
 was lying huddled up on the sofa, his face buried in his 
 arms. Chicot sat a few feet away, regarding him dole- 
 fully. At the sound of her coming, both turned toward 
 the door. Drake sprang to his feet. A little cry broke 
 from his lips. 
 
 " Christine ! " he exclaimed. " You are back again ! 
 What has happened? Why did you leave me?" 
 
 She looked at him for a moment steadily. Certainly he 
 was a strange-looking figure. His hair was tangled and 
 disarranged. There were patches of red upon his face. 
 His clothes were splashed with mud. She held out her 
 hands with a little gesture, almost of aversion. Then she 
 slowly began to remove the pins from her hat. 
 
 "Ambrose," she said, "you have been drinking." 
 
 "God knows I needed to drink!" he cried. "I was 
 away three, perhaps five, minutes. When I came back 
 you were gone. I waited, we waited, Chicot and I. When 
 they made us move on, we came back again. We walked 
 on the pavement, we stood in the street, the hours went,
 
 66 PASSERS-BY 
 
 and you did not come. Yes, it is true, Christine. Then I 
 drank. What was I to do? I could not eat, and I was 
 faint, faint with fear. But you have come back," he added, 
 with a little break in his voice. 
 
 "Of course I have come back," she interposed wearily. 
 "What was there else to do?" 
 
 " You want something to eat ! " he exclaimed eagerly. 
 
 "Not a thing," she answered. "I have had dinner at 
 a restaurant. I have dined, actually dined, Ambrose. 
 Think of it ! I have seen clean linen, flowers, and silver. 
 I have eaten warm, well-cooked food. I have even tasted 
 champagne." 
 
 The joy died out of his face. Once more he was haggard. 
 "With whom?" he demanded. "With whom have you 
 been?" 
 
 " With no one of my own choice," she answered. " I met 
 him face to face, and you were not there. I was obliged 
 to listen to him. It was the Englishman. You remember ? 
 The one from whom we escaped only last night." 
 
 "I know," the dwarf said. "Hannaway, his name was. 
 God knows where he came from I He is well again, then. 
 He was not badly hurt." 
 
 "No," she answered, "he is quite recovered." 
 
 "You went to dinner with him?" he exclaimed, his 
 voice trembling. "Why did you do that? Where did you 
 go? Why did you not keep him talking until I came?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 67 
 
 " It was no use," she answered. " We could not have 
 escaped from him. It was best to let him talk." 
 
 " You told him anything ? " Drake asked. 
 
 " Nothing ! " she answered. 
 
 " How much does he know ? " 
 
 She shook her head thoughtfully. " He is one of those 
 silent persons," she said, " who say little, who ask ques- 
 tions, and whose face never changes. How much he 
 knows I could not tell." 
 
 " Did he come home with you ? " Drake demanded. 
 " Does he know where we live ? " 
 
 " He knows nothing," she answered. 
 
 "Tell me," Drake asked, "what if we fail also in 
 London?" 
 
 " We cannot fail," she answered. " We must find 
 him. He is here somewhere. I know it. We are in 
 the same city. In time we must come face to face. 
 Then he shall know what it is to hear words of truth. 
 He shall hear what a woman, even though she be only 
 a girl, thinks of a traitor." 
 
 "It is a great city, this," he said thoughtfully. " We may 
 search day by day, month by month, even year by year, 
 and the one person for whom we look may escape us." 
 
 " We must take our chance," the girl answered dog- 
 gedly. " He must be found. In time we shall find him. 
 I am sure of it."
 
 68 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "And meantime we starve," Drake muttered, "you 
 and Chicot and I. The pennies come hardly all the time, 
 and the piano is wearing badly. The man told me to-day 
 that I should have to pay for two fresh notes. It is the 
 damp and the rain that do it. What a country it is, 
 Christine!" 
 
 She saw the gleam in his eyes, and she answered him 
 almost roughly. "Oh, I know!" she said. "You are 
 longing for the sunshine, for the smell of flowers, the warm 
 south winds. Don't you think that I, too, miss them ? It 
 is a hideous country, this, but we have not ourselves to 
 think of. Remember the man whose life is worse even 
 than ours, who waits, who has nothing else to do but wait 
 and hope." 
 
 "It shall be as you say," Drake answered. "We will 
 stay, if you will have it so." 
 
 "Stay we must," the girl answered passionately. "It is 
 not of my choice, it is not a matter of will. We are here. 
 W T e must remain here." 
 
 There was a tap at the door. The child who carried up 
 Christine's breakfast entered. She held in her hand a 
 twisted scrap of paper. 
 
 "A gent left this 'ere for you," she explained. 
 
 Christine unfolded the note with curious fingers. "For 
 me?" she repeated. "A gentleman left it for me?" 
 
 Drake came softly nearer, with darkening face. The
 
 PASSERS-BY 69 
 
 child, who saw prospects of trouble, lingered. Christine 
 read the few lines, scrawled across a half-sheet of paper, 
 and her eyes flashed. 
 
 "Look, Ambrose!" she cried. "See! It is a message 
 from the skies, this. Read ! " 
 
 "I cannot read," he muttered. "My eyes are dim." 
 
 She read it to him : 
 
 Be at Victoria Station when the eleven o'clock train leaves 
 for the Continent to-morrow. Watch the passengers. 
 
 There was no signature, nothing on the paper by which 
 they could tell from whom it had come. Christine's eyes 
 were on fire with excitement. 
 
 "To-morrow!" she cried. "The eleven o'clock train 
 at Victoria!" 
 
 "Who sent you that note?" Drake demanded. 
 
 She laughed. Her fingers went to her lips, and she 
 threw an imaginary kiss. "I cannot tell," she answered, 
 " but this is for him, and more, wherever he may be."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 AT seven o'clock in the morning there were few people 
 stirring in the miserable lodging-house where the 
 hunchback and the girl had their quarters. From his 
 secret hiding-place Drake came stealing with soft footsteps 
 into their little sitting-room. He struck a match and 
 lighted the stove, slipped out through the front door, and 
 at a neighboring shop bought rolls and butter and fresh 
 milk. These he put carefully on one side. For himself he 
 produced from the cupboard two small pieces of stale 
 bread, some rancid butter, and a coffee-pot, and pre- 
 pared some unnameable compound. Then he arranged 
 the girl's breakfast upon the tray, set the kettle once 
 more upon the stove, and commenced his meal. 
 
 Up and down the little room he walked, listening intently 
 for any sound in the sleeping house. His face was drawn 
 and tense with emotion. Sometimes as he walked he 
 cracked the joints of his long fingers. Sometimes he paused 
 to wipe the damp fear from his forehead. Would she 
 come? Was he going to lose her? Would she oversleep, 
 perhaps, or change her mind ? In his heart he knew that 
 none of these things was probable. He knew that the
 
 PASSERS-BY 71 
 
 great sickening fear which had taken possession of him 
 would soon be realized. How he cursed the anonymous 
 sender of those few lines ! She would go, he was sure of it. 
 Soon he would hear her footsteps upon the stairs, and see 
 her hurry into the room, with this new animation in her 
 face which had never left her since she had received the 
 letter. She would wish him good-by carelessly as usual, 
 and she would go out of the door never to return. He was 
 sure of it, sure of it, he told himself, with a little sob of 
 agony. What was there to keep her in this bondage of 
 misery when once the way of escape was made manifest ? 
 Eight o'clock struck, and then half-past. Nine, and 
 there was no sound of her coming. A faint impossible 
 hope commenced to quicken his pulses. Sometimes she 
 slept late. If she should do so to-day, if she should fail to 
 reach the station in time, the man might go. There would 
 be nothing left for her but to stay with him. She would 
 hate him more than ever for not having called her. What 
 did it matter? There was little he had from her save 
 ungracious words. She would be with him still. She 
 would walk by his side. She would accept day by day 
 his constant service. He prayed that she might be late. 
 In vain! Nine o'clock had scarcely struck before he 
 heard her step upon the stairs. He raised his hands high 
 above his head in a little gesture of despair. Then, with 
 a queer little sob, which somehow or other he contrived
 
 72 PASSERS-BY 
 
 to suppress, he took the coffee-pot in his hand and poured 
 in the hot water. 
 
 "Your breakfast is ready, Christine," he said. "I 
 thought that you would take it downstairs this morning." 
 
 Christine nodded carelessly. In that first furtive glance 
 he had noticed, with sinking heart, that she was wearing 
 her best hat, and that her clothes, shabby though they 
 were, had been carefully brushed. She carried gloves, too, 
 and a little piece of lace was at her throat. There could 
 no longer be any doubt about it. She was going to the 
 station. She was going to obey the summons sent her 
 from this unknown source. She sat down at the table, 
 and drank her coffee slowly. She was a little pale. There 
 were dark rims under her eyes, which spoke of a sleepless 
 night. 
 
 "You are not coming with me, then?" she asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 "I shall come back," she said, "anyhow. I shall come 
 back for a little time, whatever happens." 
 
 He turned away that she might not see his face. "I 
 wonder," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 In his heart he did not wonder at all. He felt that the 
 end had come. It was there like a dead weight over his 
 heart. After she had finished her coffee she began to 
 draw on her gloves.
 
 PASSERS-BY 73 
 
 "They tell me," she said, "that it takes an hour to walk 
 to Victoria from here. I think I will start." 
 
 "There is a railway that goes underground," he said. 
 "I have seven pence here." 
 
 He held out the coins, and laid them with shaking fingers 
 upon the table. She took them up, and put them into her 
 pocket. 
 
 "I will take the money," she said, "in case it comes on 
 to rain. If not, I would rather walk." 
 
 She rose to her feet, and then, with a sudden impulse, 
 she turned round toward him. Her eyes, for a moment, 
 lost their far-away look. The lines of her face seemed to 
 soften. 
 
 "Good-by, Ambrose," she said. "Won't you wish me 
 fortune? Remember, it is for your sake as well as 
 mine." 
 
 He threw himself suddenly on his knees before her. 
 His long fingers caught at her skirts. His eyes were full 
 of passionate tears. "Don't go," he cried. "There is 
 danger, and I am afraid. I am afraid that you will not 
 come back. I can earn more money. I will get up earlier. 
 I will go out in the evenings, Chicot and I. There are 
 many who do well on the streets when people are going 
 and coming from the theaters. You shall have more 
 clothes, I swear that you shall. Don't go away, Christine. 
 I am afraid."
 
 74 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She looked at him with the tolerant amazement of one 
 who sees an unexpected passion seize hold of a child. 
 "My dear Ambrose," she said, drawing her skirts away 
 from his clinging fingers, "don't be absurd. Sit up, and 
 remember that you are a man. Remember that thb is 
 what we came here for, what we have been looking for 
 ever since we started the quest. A few shillings a day 
 more what do you think that could mean to me ? I am 
 tired of this wretched poverty. I want another life from 
 beginning to end. If I do not find it soon I think that I 
 shall go mad." 
 
 Already he was conscious of the futility of his effort. 
 He dragged himself to his feet. He was feeling very weak 
 and very old. "Another life," he muttered. "Yes, I 
 understand !" 
 
 She threw him a farewell nod. "You have been very 
 kind, Ambrose," she said. "Do not be afraid that I shall 
 forget it." 
 
 She left the room, and from the window he watched her 
 cross the road and set her face westward. He recognized a 
 new blitheness in her step, a new grace in the way she 
 held her skirts and carried her head. The hope which 
 had been almost crushed in her was alive once more. 
 The signs of it were all there, a torment to him. He 
 turned back into the room as she disappeared, finding it 
 strangely empty. She was gone, and in his very misery
 
 PASSERS-BY 75 
 
 he was hopeless. Something vital had been torn from his 
 life. He sat on the edge of the sofa, and Chicot leaped 
 onto his shoulder. 
 
 At twenty minutes to eleven there was all the pleasant 
 bustle on the platform at Victoria which precedes the 
 departure of the Continental train. Piles of registered 
 luggage were being checked and looked over by their 
 owners. The people who had arrived early were walking 
 up and down the platform, saying good-by to their friends. 
 Busy inspectors were scrutinizing the labels to find the 
 engaged carriages. The boy who sold seats in the French 
 train was doing a thriving business. Gilbert Hannaway 
 was sauntering by the book-stall, turning over magazines, 
 and glancing frequently toward the main entrance, where 
 Christine was standing, pale and expectant. 
 
 A few minutes before the hour, Lord Ellingham, lean- 
 ing a little upon the arm of his secretary, and preceded by 
 a tall footman, came through onto the platform. He 
 looked neither to the right nor to the left, but walked 
 straight through the press of people to take his place in 
 the train. Hannaway, whose emotions were not easily 
 aroused, felt himself suddenly thrilled as he watched the 
 girl. He saw a new thing in her face. He saw an expres- 
 sion which never before had he seen in the eyes of any 
 living person. She had staggered a little back, and was
 
 76 PASSERS-BY 
 
 leaning slightly against the wall. Her hands were stretched 
 out, as though to hide from her the sight of some terrible 
 thing. Her lips were a little parted. Her eyes had grown 
 larger, distended, terrified. As though against her will, 
 they followed the movements of the man who passed so close 
 to her. They followed him across the platform, followed 
 him, the central figure of an obsequious-looking group, to 
 the reserved carriage awaiting him. Her hands clutched at 
 the air. She seemed almost as though she would fall. 
 
 Hannaway crossed the platform to her. "Have you 
 nothing to say to him?" he asked, pointing to the car- 
 riage, the door of which was now closed. 
 
 The girl looked at him with unseeing eyes. She started 
 to cross the platform, and at that moment Lord Ellingham 
 came to the window to give some parting instructions to 
 the footman. His eyes met the girl's, and for the second 
 time Gilbert Hannaway was thrilled. He saw the man at 
 the carriage window break off in the middle of a sentence, 
 saw him clutch the sides of the door for support, saw in 
 his face something of that same look which had shone a 
 moment before in the eyes of the girl who was now going 
 toward him. 
 
 Hannaway stood rooted to the spot. It was one of the 
 great tragedies of life being played before his eyes, between 
 these two, the man and the girl, both torn by some strange, 
 incomprehensible emotion.
 
 " Have you nothing to say to him ? " he asked, pointing 
 
 to the carriage. \fage 76
 
 PASSERS-BY 77 
 
 The whistle of the train blew. Lord Ellingham threw 
 open the door of his carriage. 
 
 " Let her in," he said hoarsely, to the inspector. 
 
 The people who stood around looked from the girl to 
 him in amazement. Penton, his secretary, was too amazed 
 to say a word. The footman could not think of one to 
 utter. Only the inspector, with his mind upon his duties, 
 was able to make any remark at all. 
 
 "The young lady won't be going on, sir?" he asked. 
 "We are off now. There 's no time " 
 
 Lord Ellingham stretched out his hands and drew her 
 into the carriage. The train was already moving. There 
 was no opportunity for any other protest. Those who 
 were left upon the platform, and had witnessed the little 
 scene, gazed after the train in amazement. Only Gilbert 
 Hannaway understood, and he very dimly, something of 
 the meaning of what had happened.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THREE nights later Gilbert Hannaway sat at dinner 
 in one of the most famous restaurants of Paris. 
 His companion he had many friends on that side of 
 the channel touched him on the arm. 
 
 "My dear Gilbert," she said, "you asked me to point 
 out to you what I should recognize as the real Parisian 
 type, the absolutely smart woman. Look! I show her 
 to you. There ! The girl in the black dress, and the hat 
 with white feathers. Believe me, that is the last thing 
 which Paris can show you. Her shoes, her jewels, her furs, 
 the cut of that long jacket, the little dog with the gold 
 collar she has under her arm, they are all of the mo- 
 ment, the latest thing. There is your type for you." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway was used to surprises, but this one 
 left him staring, open-eyed and for a moment speechless, 
 at the girl and her escort, who, preceded by a couple of 
 maitres d'hotel, and leaving in their wake a little train of 
 attendants, a page boy, a cloak-room attendant, and the 
 hurrying manager of the restaurant himself were pass- 
 ing toward a table in the middle of the room which had
 
 PASSERS-BY 79 
 
 evidently been reserved for them. Marvelous transfor- 
 mation though it was, Hannaway had not a second's 
 doubt as to the personality of the woman his companion 
 had pointed out. It was the girl whom, three days before, 
 he had seen drawn into the train at Victoria shabby, 
 bewildered, dressed in the same clothes in which she had 
 tramped the streets, singing to the miserable music thumped 
 out by the hunchback. Hannaway drew a little breath. 
 He looked across the restaurant, but he saw a dark alley 
 leading from the Strand, saw the raindrops glittering about 
 the dingy gas-lamps and falling softly upon the soaked 
 pavement. He saw the little group gathered around the 
 piano, with its cracked notes and wheezy chords. He saw 
 the figure of the hunchback bent over his task, the girl, 
 with white, still face, singing as though in sullen defiance 
 of the emptiness around her. He saw the monkey sitting 
 on the barrow, with something of the hopelessness of the 
 other two reflected in his own changeless face. Even the 
 sound of the girl's voice seemed to reach him as he sat 
 there. Then it all faded away. He heard her laugh as she 
 turned softly to her companion. Already it seemed to him 
 that the beauty which had lain dormant beneath her white, 
 strained features was subtly reasserting itself. Hannaway 
 called for the bill. 
 
 "Let us go," he said to his companion. "We have only 
 five minutes to get to the Capucines."
 
 80 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Christine toyed with her caviar, and tested the tempera- 
 ture of the champagne with the air of one to whom these 
 things were part of the routine of life. She nodded her ap- 
 proval to the anxious waiter and turned to her companion. 
 
 "There are no English people here," she said. "You 
 need not look so worried." 
 
 The marquis shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot 
 tell," he answered. "The English are everywhere. There 
 was a young man who has just left. I could not see his 
 face, but his figure was English. I think it is imprudent, 
 this dining in public, for many reasons." 
 
 Christine laughed softly. Her voice seemed to have 
 lost its ill-natured ring. "If you had dined," she said, 
 "as I have dined for the last few years, I think that you 
 would not mind a little risk." 
 
 "Incidentally," he remarked politely, "the risk is mine, 
 not yours." 
 
 "We share it," she answered carelessly. "Come, let 
 us not spoil our dinner by imagining things." 
 
 Her companion had not the air of a man to whom the 
 enjoyment of anything was possible just at that moment. 
 He was looking paler and thinner even than when he had 
 left England. There were deep lines about his mouth. 
 His eyes seemed set farther back. He had the uneasy, 
 self-conscious look of the man who is wondering whether 
 he is observed.
 
 " Look at the big man opposite, with the little girl in red. 
 
 How he stares ! " {Page 81
 
 PASSERS-BY 81 
 
 "One should cultivate the art of forgetfulness," she re- 
 marked. "What delicious truffles!" 
 
 "For you," he muttered, "it is easy enough. You are 
 young, and you come from hard times. For me it is dif- 
 ferent. I think that after to-night I shall hire a chaperon 
 for you, and send you out alone." 
 
 "As you will," she answered carelessly, "although," 
 she added, smiling at him, "I prefer the present condi- 
 tions. Look at the big man opposite, with the little girl 
 in red. How he stares! I think the little girl will soon 
 call him to account. She is pouting already." 
 
 The marquis put his hand to his forehead, and found 
 it damp. He pushed his plate away untasted. "I will not 
 do this again," he declared. "I will not show myself at 
 these places with you, or even alone. Look at the man 
 again, Christine. Does he remind you of no one?" 
 
 She shook her head. "He reminds me more than any- 
 thing," she said, smiling, "of a hippopotamus." 
 
 "I seem to see him," the marquis muttered, "with a 
 beard, and in different clothes." 
 
 Christine laid her hand upon his arm. " You are nervous 
 to-night," she said. " Drink some wine. It will give you 
 courage. Of course, if you are going to feel like this all 
 the time, we must give up the restaurants. It is very fool- 
 ish of you, though. There is so little to be feared." 
 
 "I have been afraid all my life," he said softly, "of the
 
 82 PASSERS-BY 
 
 hundredth chance. It sent me down from college once, 
 gave me my first kick along the road to failure. Then it 
 swung round, killed my relatives like flies, and made me 
 the head of the family. You say that we are safe. We 
 may be, but the hundredth chance bothers me." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "You seek misery open- 
 handed," she remarked. 
 
 He raised his glass to his lips, and set it down empty. 
 "You are right," he said. "I will be more reasonable. 
 At the same time, I shall leave Paris to-morrow. I loathe 
 the place. It reminds me of everything that I have struggled 
 to forget. You are your own mistress. You shall do as 
 you choose. Remember that every newspaper in England 
 has announced my departure for Bordighera. I was to 
 have stayed here for the night only. To-morrow I shall 
 leave." 
 
 "And I?" the girl asked. 
 
 " You can do as you choose/' he answered. " I cannot 
 take you with me, of course. You know that. You can 
 engage an apartment here, or you can go back to London." 
 
 Christine was plainly dissatisfied. She met once more 
 the stare of the bulbous-faced man opposite, and routed 
 him completely. Then she proceeded with her dinner for 
 a few minutes in silence. 
 
 "I think," she said at last, "that I should like to go 
 with you."
 
 PASSERS-BY 83 
 
 Lord Ellingham shook his head irritably. "That is 
 precisely what you cannot do," he answered. " I am going 
 to a very small place, where every one is known, and his 
 comings and goings are commented upon in the papers. 
 I could not take you, of course. You must know that. And 
 my appearance with you in public, except on one or two 
 very rare occasions, would be impossible." 
 
 "Am I so very outree?" she asked, with upraised eye- 
 brows. 
 
 "You are nothing of the sort, and you know it very well," 
 he answered. "At the same time, young ladies of your 
 age and attractions do not travel about the country alone, 
 and when they do, they would be impossible companions 
 for a middle-aged and respectable politician such as myself." 
 
 "You will have to get me a chaperon," she declared. 
 
 "In England," he answered, "that would be possible. 
 Here in Paris one cannot be hired at a moment's notice. 
 You are in too much of a hurry, my dear Christine. Live 
 somewhere quietly for a few months. After all that you 
 have been through, I should think that that alone would 
 be change enough." 
 
 She turned and looked at him for a moment thought- 
 fully. "Have you never considered," she asked, "that I 
 might perhaps be lonely?" 
 
 He reflected upon the matter for a moment, as though 
 it were some altogether new idea which had been pre-
 
 84 PASSERS-BY 
 
 sented to him. "I have never looked upon you," he said 
 frankly, "as being like other girls. I have no doubt, when 
 one comes to think of it, that you must have found your 
 recent companionship a little trying." 
 
 She shuddered. " Don't ! " she begged. 
 
 "Still," he added, "I cannot perform miracles. There 
 are some ways in which you must work out your own 
 salvation. That will come in time. Confound that fel- 
 low opposite ! He never takes his eyes off us. See, he 's 
 writing a note now. Maitre d' hotel!" 
 
 The man, who was passing, stopped with a low bow. 
 The marquis indicated the table opposite with a slight 
 movement of his head. 
 
 "That man," he said, "has annoyed us ever since we 
 came in. He does nothing but stare at madame and 
 myself. Who is he? Do you know his name?" 
 
 The man shook his head. He was distressed that 
 milord should have been annoyed. The man opposite, 
 he was unknown. He had been seen but once or twice 
 before in the restaurant. He was probably some bourgeois 
 person, unused to the presence of people of breeding. 
 Would milord care to change his table?" 
 
 The marquis shook his head. " It is not worth while," 
 he said. "We have nearly finished dinner. At the same 
 time, I must confess that I am a little curious concerning 
 that person. You do not know his name?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 85 
 
 " Unfortunately no, milord," the man answered. 
 
 The marquis meditatively laid a hundred-franc note 
 upon the table before him. He lowered his voice almost 
 to a whisper. "He has sent for the chasseur" he said. 
 " He is handing him a note. If you will let me know, be- 
 fore I leave the restaurant, to whom that note was ad- 
 dressed, this will be yours." 
 
 The maitre d'hotel departed with an understanding 
 bow. Christine glanced at her companion with a smile, 
 half amused, half scornful. "Even the shadows terrify 
 you," she said. 
 
 The marquis dropped his eye-glass. Once more he had 
 repelled, with glacial contempt, the scrutiny of his neigh- 
 bor. "I am not so sure," he said, "whether it is a shadow. 
 I seem to remember that man's face with a brown beard, 
 but it was thinner." 
 
 Christine laughed softly. "If this is to be our last 
 evening," she said, laying her hand for a moment upon 
 his, "you must not be so foolish. See, they are going now. 
 They will not annoy you any longer." 
 
 The man rose. He was a great, coarse-looking creature, 
 with heavy-lidded eyes, and close-cut hair a Frenchman, 
 but of a larger and grosser type than is commonly met 
 with. By his side his companion seemed almost like a doll. 
 She, too, glanced often and enviously at Christine, as she 
 buttoned up her jacket and turned to leave the restaurant
 
 86 PASSERS-BY 
 
 They passed through the swing door, and disappeared 
 into the street, and a moment or two later the maitre 
 d'hotel came hurrying up the room. He laid a small 
 folded piece of paper before the marquis. 
 
 "The name and address milord desired," he said, with 
 a bow. 
 
 The marquis pushed the note across the table, and 
 waited till he had disappeared. Then he softly unfolded 
 it, and spreading it out on the table before him, adjusted 
 his eye-glass, and leaned down. Christine felt the sudden 
 start, which seemed to shake every nerve in his body. 
 She felt the hand on which hers was resting turn cold. 
 When she looked into his face she was alarmed. 
 
 "Be careful!" she said. "They are looking at you 
 from the door." 
 
 The marquis recovered himself, poured out a glass of 
 wine, and drank it off. "Come," he said, rising a little 
 unsteadily to his feet, "we must go." 
 
 "Let me see the name," she whispered. 
 
 His fingers released the crumpled piece of paper. It 
 stared up at her, scrawled in thick black-lead characters 
 
 MONSIEUR PIERRE, 
 7 Place Noire, 
 
 Montmartre.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 GILBERT HANNAWAY smiled to himself as he 
 leaned over the rail of the steamer, and watched 
 the great French light go flashing across the dark, foam- 
 flecked water. He thought of the time he had seen 
 Christine singing in the rainy street for pennies. He 
 turned his head a little to look at her now, stretched upon 
 a deck-chair, covered with expensive furs, a jewel-case 
 on her knees, a little Pomeranian under her arm, her maid 
 busy a few feet away in the little private cabin from 
 which she had just issued. Then his face darkened. After 
 all, she had become more unapproachable. He felt that 
 as she was at present it would need all his courage to 
 venture even to address her. 
 
 However, his opportunity came before they were half- 
 way across. His chair was next to hers, and while she 
 apparently dozed, her jewel-case slipped from her knees 
 and fell onto the deck. She opened her eyes, to see him 
 restoring it to its place. 
 
 "Allow me," he said. "It is not injured in the least. 
 It fell upon the rug." 
 
 She looked at him steadfastly. There was not an atom
 
 88 PASSERS-BY 
 
 of fear in her face. Her eyes met his frankly. She knew 
 that she was recognized, and she accepted the inevitable. 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you," she said coolly. 
 ;' Marie 1" 
 
 Her maid came out from the cabin. Christine handed 
 her the jewel-case. 
 
 "Take care of this," she said. "I find it in my way 
 here." 
 
 Then she closed her eyes again, as though to sleep, and 
 it seemed to Hannaway that his opportunity had gone by. 
 As a matter of fact, she was only thinking. In a moment 
 or two she opened them again. Glancing toward her 
 furtively, he found that she was watching him. 
 
 "It was you," she asked calmly, "in Henry's restaurant 
 last night?" 
 
 "I was there," he answered. 
 
 She nodded. "I saw only your back," she remarked, 
 "but I thought it was you. I trust," she added, with a 
 faint smile, and ignoring altogether their more recent 
 meeting, " that you have recovered from your little accident 
 the other night?" 
 
 He smiled. "I have recovered," he answered, "but I 
 hope that you do not always travel with such energetic 
 protectors." 
 
 She smiled again. "You need have no fear," she said. 
 "I am alone, except for my maid, whom I engaged only
 
 PASSERS-BY 89 
 
 this morning, and who certainly does not seem strong 
 enough to hurt a person like you. Now Ambrose," she 
 continued, "is small, but he is very strong and very 
 fierce." 
 
 "Is one permitted to hope," he asked, "that an ac- 
 quaintance with Ambrose is not a necessity to those who 
 wish to become " He hesitated. Her eyes were fixed 
 steadily upon his. He felt that his speech might savor 
 almost of impertinence. And yet, under the circumstances, 
 there was surely no necessity for him to consider trifles. 
 "To become your friend?" he finished boldly. 
 
 She was silent for a moment. "Ambrose," she said, 
 "belongs to a part of my life which I imagine is over, for 
 the present at any rate. You have perhaps surmised 
 that." 
 
 He bowed. "I am glad to hear it," he answered. "I 
 am afraid that my sudden appearance the other night," 
 he went on, "terrified you a little. I was associated, 
 perhaps, with the times which you preferred to forget, but 
 I should like to assure you," he added, leaning toward 
 her, "that my coming was not only the result of my in- 
 terest in those times, but it was also because I was anxious 
 to see you again." 
 
 She turned her head and looked at him steadily. An 
 electric light burned near them, and his face was clearly 
 visible. It was an honest enough face, fair, with straight
 
 90 PASSERS-BY 
 
 features and gray eyes. Hannaway was seldom called 
 handsome, but always nice looking. Women, as a rule, 
 trusted him, and women are generally right. 
 
 "I think that I like to hear you say that," she said 
 quietly. "I wish," she added, "that you could forget 
 altogether those other times. Remember that you were 
 not concerned in them. What you know you learned by 
 accident. They have nothing to do with you. Can't you 
 forget that you know anything of them ? I wish that you 
 could." 
 
 "I think I might," he answered, a little doubtfully. 
 
 "You are not sure?" she continued. "Why should 
 you be ? You remember our dinner together a few nights 
 
 He nodded. "Yes, I remember it," he answered. "I 
 fear that I did not entertain you with such success as your 
 host last night." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "It is a different thing," 
 she said. " When you gave me that dinner I was starving. 
 Those days are over. You asked me many questions. 
 You spoke only of the past, and you spoke as one anxious 
 to discover things that it were better for you to know 
 nothing of. When I think of you as that person, I am 
 afraid. I do not wish to know you or to speak to you." 
 
 He was thoughtful for a moment. He looked across 
 the sea to where the great light flashed and disappeared,
 
 PASSERS-BY 91 
 
 flashed and disappeared. It was odd that the lingering 
 impression which for years he had carried about with 
 him of this girl, a child when he had first seen her, a 
 woman now, should have been such a lasting thing, 
 should be so easily stirred into vivid recollection by this 
 brief contact with her. 
 
 " If I forget," he said slowly, " that chance ever brought 
 me near a little group of people about whose doings there 
 were certainly mysterious things if I forget this " 
 
 Her hand flashed across the arm of his chair. "Forget 
 it," she whispered, "and remember that you have found 
 again the little girl to whom you were once rather 
 kind." 
 
 He held the hand for a moment, and smiled into her 
 face. "Very well," he said. "For the present, let it be 
 so. If I relapse again into the curious person, I will 
 give you warning." 
 
 "You shall not relapse," she said, smiling at him. "I 
 shall not let you go. I have been lonely for so long, and I 
 think that I have fewer friends even to-day than I had in 
 the days when you first knew me." 
 
 "To-night, then," he said, "you have added to their 
 number by one." 
 
 It was rather like a dream to him afterward, to find 
 himself established as her escort, walking by her side 
 from the steamer, seeing her small luggage through the
 
 92 PASSERS-BY 
 
 customs, bringing her coffee to the carriage, which a care- 
 fully bestowed tip had secured for the three of them. Her 
 maid, who spoke not a word of English, was useless, and 
 evidently viewed Hannaway's coming as heaven-sent. 
 She sat with closed eyes in a corner after the train had 
 started, and Hannaway and Christine talked together in 
 English. 
 
 "You must wonder many things about me," she said 
 softly. "We begin, of course, on the night when you 
 heard me sing in that little alley. Our memories go no 
 farther back." 
 
 "Mine," he assured her, "is already a blank." 
 "I was not playing any part then," she went on. "I 
 can assure you that I was singing for my living, and grate- 
 ful for the pennies that Chicot picked up. You must 
 have seen how hungry I was when you took me to the 
 restaurant." 
 
 "Things," he remarked, "are changed now." 
 "They are changed," she answered. "I was in search 
 of some one all the time. It was for that we were in 
 England, Ambrose and Chicot and I. I had almost 
 given up hope when I found not the person I expected 
 to find," she continued, in a rather lower tone, "but 
 some one else. It came to the same thing. It was some 
 one from whom I had a right to demand a release from 
 my hateful life."
 
 PASSERS-BY 93 
 
 "You mean the Marquis of Ellingham, of course," 
 Hannaway said softly. 
 
 She nodded. "Yes," she answered. "You saw me 
 with him last night." 
 
 "I will tell you something else," he continued. "I saw 
 you at Victoria. I saw you recognize him. I saw you 
 drawn into the carriage and spirited away." 
 
 She looked at him with parted lips, a little pale at the 
 recollection of that wonderful moment. "You were 
 there?" she whispered. "To me it was a great shock. 
 I saw him come, and all the platform seemed spinning 
 round. My heart almost stopped beating. I saw no one 
 but him. You do not understand that it was wonderful." 
 
 " No, I do not understand altogether," he said. " Never 
 mind, I ask no questions. It is he, of course, who has 
 altered things for you." 
 
 "It is he," she answered. "I have an income. I have 
 a letter to his solicitors. They are to find me a house. I 
 am going to have the things I have longed for all the time 
 I have tramped those muddy streets in torn clothes and 
 thick, patched boots." 
 
 "It is a great change," he murmured. 
 
 "It is a great change," she assented. "There is only 
 one thing which I fear. I shall have no friends. I am 
 afraid of being lonely." 
 
 He nodded. He felt that silence was best. He could
 
 94 PASSERS-BY 
 
 ask no questions concerning Lord Ellingham which might 
 
 not offend her. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear that," he said. "Life without 
 friends is very much like a dinner without salt. But it 
 will not be for long," he added, looking at her. 
 
 "I am not sure," she answered. 
 
 "You are sure of one, at any rate," he declared. 
 
 She looked at him steadily. There were many things 
 in her face which he could not understand. There was a 
 sort of fear, and there was a sort of wistfulness. There 
 was also an almost passionate intensity. What was it she 
 was begging him, he wondered. What was it she feared 
 from his friendship, or hoped for? 
 
 "I hope that you mean it," she said. "Oh, I do hope 
 that you mean it ! Only I have known so few men, and 
 they have not been the sort that make good friends." 
 
 "At any rate," he said quietly, "when friendship be- 
 comes impossible I will tell you so." 
 
 She seemed puzzled. She even repeated his words to 
 herself. Then a possible meaning of them seemed to 
 occur to her. She looked away with a little uneasy gesture, 
 slightly, charmingly confused. Was she really still so 
 much of a child, he wondered, or was she a supreme 
 actress? 
 
 "We will not think of any evil days," she said. "Re- 
 member that to be my friend will be no sinecure. There
 
 PASSERS-BY 95 
 
 will be so many things that I shall want to know, so much 
 advice, so much help, that I shall need." 
 
 "I am an idle man," he answered. "I shall be always 
 at your service." 
 
 "Then begin, please," she said, looking out of the win- 
 dow to where the great semicircle of lights showed that 
 they were approaching London, "begin, please, by telling 
 me a hotel to which I can go with Marie here something 
 very good, but very quiet, where people will not look at 
 me because I am alone." 
 
 He wrote the name and address and gave it to her. 
 "You had better mention my sister's name, Lady Harting- 
 ton," he said. "She always stays there. You see I have 
 written her name upon this little slip of paper." 
 
 The train glided up to the platform. She seemed un- 
 accountably nervous. 
 
 "You will not leave me," she begged, "until our baggage 
 has passed through the customs? I am not used to 
 traveling alone. I think that I am a little nervous." 
 
 "I had no idea of leaving you," he assured her. "We 
 will put your small things in a cab, and then go back to 
 find your trunks. It will be a matter of only a few minutes." 
 
 Her eyes swept the platform immediately they descended. 
 She walked close to Hannaway's side as they moved about. 
 When at last they drove off she waved her hand out of the 
 window of the cab, and smiled at him delightfully.
 
 96 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Au revoirl" she murmured. "To-morrow, re- 
 member." 
 
 Hannaway followed her a few minutes later,- in a han- 
 som, on his way to his rooms. The people in the streets 
 seemed all unreal. Never a romantic person, he was sud- 
 denly conscious of a vein of something which assuredly 
 had little to do with the practical side of life. 
 
 "It is that cursed Heine," he muttered to himself. " But 
 she is wonderful I"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THEY were sitting side by side in a hansom, Gilbert 
 Hannaway and Christine, making their way with 
 some difficulty along one of the crowded side streets close 
 to Piccadilly. They had lunched together, and she was 
 dropping him at his club, on the way to her dressmaker's. 
 Suddenly he felt her fingers grasp his arm. She shrank 
 back into the farther corner of the cab. 
 
 "Sit as you are," she said quickly. "Don't look. It is 
 Ambrose. He must not see me." 
 
 Despite her entreaty, his eyes wandered up the narrow 
 turning, guided thereto by the jingle of the cracked piano. 
 It was indeed Ambrose who sat there playing, Chicot with 
 him, but no one else. There were no listeners, nor was 
 there sign of any. Ambrose played with bent head, look- 
 ing neither to the left nor to the right. Chicot looked 
 everywhere, waving his little hat in his hand, but there was 
 no one to whom to offer it. 
 
 "Did he see us, do you think?" she gasped, when the 
 cab was safely by. 
 
 "I should imagine not," he answered. "He seemed to 
 be looking down at his instrument all the time."
 
 gg PASSERS-BY 
 
 She drew a little breath of relief. His face, however, 
 remained grave. 
 
 "Your late partner," he remarked, "seems to have 
 fallen upon evil times. He looks half starved." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. " He earns enough for him- 
 self," she answered. " He eats nothing. He only smokes." 
 
 "I suppose," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "it 
 does n't occur to you to send him money ? He was your 
 partner once, was n't he ? " 
 
 "If he knew where it was from," she answered care- 
 lessly, "he would not take it. He can look after himself 
 quite well." 
 
 Hannaway was suddenly serious. It was not the first 
 time that he had noticed in her this marvelous selfishness, 
 which seemed to take no account whatever of the feelings 
 or sufferings of others. 
 
 "He looks older," he remarked. "I suspect he misses 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "He would miss me very much, 
 I am sure of that." 
 
 "Have you written him at all," Hannaway asked, "since 
 you disappeared?" 
 
 She shook her head. "What would be the use? It 
 would only unsettle him. He would not approve of what 
 I have done, and whatever he said would make no differ- 
 ence. Tell me, do you think he saw me?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 99 
 
 Hannaway shook his head. "No," he answered. "I 
 was watching him all the time. He did not even look up. 
 I don't think you need be afraid." 
 
 She was unconscious of the slight note of sarcasm which 
 quivered underneath his words. She was apparently too 
 much wrapped up in her own thoughts and fears. The 
 cab pulled up suddenly at the door of his club. 
 
 " Don't go in," she said pleadingly. " Drive home with 
 me. I will give you some tea presently. I don't want to 
 go to my dressmaker. I am tired of clothes." 
 
 He shook his head, treating her words lightly. "What 
 a heresy!" he declared. "I am sorry, but, although you 
 may not believe it, I really have some business to attend 
 to this afternoon. You are dining with me to-morrow 
 evening, you know." 
 
 She hesitated. "I am not sure that I can," she said 
 slowly. 
 
 He looked at her quickly. It was the first time she had 
 hesitated to accept an invitation from him. 
 
 "To-morrow night," she said, "I believe that I am 
 engaged." 
 
 He waited for a moment, believing rightly that she would 
 tell him more. 
 
 "I think that I am dining with Lord Ellingham," she 
 said. "He comes home to-night from abroad." 
 
 Hannaway lifted his hat gravely. "I had forgotten,"
 
 100 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he said. " Good-by ! I shall see you again soon, of course. 
 
 Where shall I tell the cabman?" 
 
 "Sixteen Hanover Street," she answered, without look- 
 ing at him. 
 
 Hannaway watched the cab drive off, but he did not at 
 once enter his club. Instead, he turned slowly round, and 
 went back along the way by which they had driven. Soon 
 he came to the corner where Ambrose had been playing. 
 He was still there, still alone. He had closed the piano, as 
 though in the act of moving off. Hannaway slowly ap- 
 proached him. 
 
 "You see," he remarked, "my skull was too thick to 
 crack." 
 
 Ambrose looked at him quickly. His face darkened, 
 his eyes narrowed with anger. "I am sorry," he answered. 
 "I wish that you had never moved again from the place 
 where you fell." 
 
 Hannaway laughed softly. "What have I done?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Ambrose's fingers suddenly caught the arm of his coat. 
 "It was you," he said, "who sent her that note. Tell me 
 the truth. It was you who sent her to Victoria Station 
 that morning?" 
 
 "What of it?" Hannaway answered. "You must re- 
 member that I am not altogether a stranger. It was not 
 difficult for me to guess whom you were seeking, when I
 
 PASSERS-BY 101 
 
 saw you in London. How could I tell that I was not doing 
 you both a good turn?" 
 
 "If my curses can repay you for it/' Ambrose said, "you 
 have them, never fear, morning and night." 
 
 "She went, then?" Hannaway asked. 
 
 "She went," Ambrose answered, "and I have not seen 
 her since. Tell me," he begged suddenly, with another 
 change of voice. "Perhaps you have seen her. Perhaps 
 you know where she is. Tell me/' he persisted. "Do 
 you know?" 
 
 "If I did," Hannaway answered, "why should I tell 
 you? What do you want with her?" 
 
 "What do I want with her?" the dwarf repeated, look- 
 ing away. " My God ! What do I want with her ? Yes, 
 I suppose that is how it must seem to you. I want to see 
 her. If she is happy, I want to see that she is happy. If 
 she is well cared for, I want to see her well cared for." 
 
 "What you really want, I suppose," Hannaway re- 
 marked, a little brutally, "is to share in her good fortune, 
 if she has found it." 
 
 If a look could have killed him, Hannaway would have 
 been struck dead on the spot. The eyes which shone be- 
 neath those bushy eyebrows were red with fire. Ambrose 
 took up the handles of his barrow, and turned away without 
 a word. Hannaway felt not altogether satisfied with 
 himself.
 
 102 PASSERS-BY 
 
 " Listen," he said. " I did n't mean to say anything 
 offensive. It certainly was a wretched life for her, tramp- 
 ing the streets with you. You can't be sorry if she has 
 found something better." 
 
 "Has she found anything better?" Ambrose demanded. 
 "Tell me. Tell me where she is. If I believed you knew," 
 he muttered, "I would drag the words out of your throat." 
 
 Hannaway shook his head. "If she had wished you 
 to know," he said, "she could have found you out, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 Ambrose shook his head sadly. "She was always," he 
 said, "a little thoughtless about others. She was only 
 young, and she was not used to such hardships as we had 
 to face. And yet I did my best for her. She never really 
 knew what it was to be hungry. I managed that somehow. 
 I did my best. She had the little things she liked, whenever 
 I could get them for her. Chicot and I starved often, but 
 we were strong, we could bear it." 
 
 "Tell me," Hannaway asked, "how do things go with 
 you now?" 
 
 "Worse," Ambrose answered slowly. "People would 
 not want to hear even a Liszt try to drag melodies from a 
 thing like this," touching the instrument contemptuously. 
 "They hurry on. It is only because of Chicot that they 
 sometimes throw us a penny. And Chicot," he added, 
 passing his arm a little anxiously around the animal's
 
 PASSERS-BY 103 
 
 neck, "has not been very well lately. It is the climate. 
 It is cold and damp for him here." 
 
 "Why not go back where you came from?" Hannaway 
 asked. "Listen! I will pay your fare back as far as the 
 south of France, if you like." 
 
 Ambrose turned his head slowly. He looked into Hanna- 
 way's face. "Has she sent you?" he asked. "Does she 
 know that we are still here? Is she in London?" 
 
 "She did not send me," Hannaway answered. "I make 
 you the offer because I have money, and because both you 
 and Chicot look out of place here. Take it if you will 
 You are welcome." 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "I dare say," he said, "that 
 you mean to be kind, but we cannot leave London. Some- 
 how, I believe that she is here. Some day she will send for 
 us, or try to find us. She will remember that she has been 
 a little unkind. If we were not here she would be 
 disappointed." 
 
 Hannaway was silent for a moment. He understood 
 what it was that had brought him back. He understood 
 the pathos which lay underneath the poor, miserable ex- 
 istence of this half-starved creature. When he spoke again, 
 his tone was different. 
 
 "Tefl me where I can find you," he said. "Perhaps I 
 may come across her. If so, I could let you know." 
 
 "Not unless she wishes it," Ambrose answered.
 
 104 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Remember that We will not go near her unless she 
 
 wishes it" 
 
 "I will remember," Hannaway answered. 
 
 "We are in the same rooms as when she went away," 
 Ambrose continued. "I did not like to leave, for fear that 
 she might come back there. Number 17 Pickett Street, 
 over Waterloo Bridge." 
 
 Hannaway nodded. "I shall remember," he said. 
 "You will at least let me give Chicot something for his 
 supper?" 
 
 He dropped a sovereign in the hat which Chicot, seeing 
 the hand traveling toward his pocket, promptly handed to 
 him. Ambrose said nothing. He was busy fastening the 
 straps of his barrow upon his shoulders. As Hannaway 
 turned the corner of the street, he saw the weary little 
 procession start on its way along the gutter.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE right Honorable the Marquis of Ellingham re- 
 turned to England, as the daily papers were all 
 happy to state, immensely improved in health. His 
 nerves were certainly in a sounder condition, for they 
 stood the test of various little shocks on his homeward 
 journey without once failing him. 
 
 The first occasion was at the hotel in Paris, where he 
 and the marchioness, who had come out to join him, and 
 their somewhat numerous suite spent the night. They 
 had dined at the embassy the previous evening, and to- 
 night had themselves entertained a brilliant little party at 
 the Hotel Ritz. Lord Ellingham had just said farewell to 
 the last of his guests, and was standing on the pavement 
 outside the hotel, looking across the Place Vendome. 
 Suddenly he felt a touch upon his arm. A large man, 
 with a red face and thick neck, and wearing a fur-lined 
 overcoat, was standing by his side. Again Lord Elling- 
 ham permitted his fancy to invest that smooth-shaven 
 face with a long brown beard. 
 
 "May I be permitted a few minutes' conversation with 
 you, Lord Ellingham?" the man said, in a low tone.
 
 106 PASSERS-BY 
 
 The marquis looked at him blandly, holding his cigarette 
 in his hand. " I do not understand," he answered. "I do 
 not speak French," he added, lying promptly and without 
 hesitation. 
 
 The man was puzzled. He continued, speaking rapidly, 
 and still in a half whisper. "We are not mistaken," he 
 said. "I myself saw you at Henry's some months ago. 
 Since then we have made sure. It is not wise to avoid us. 
 Let me assure you, my Lord Ellingham, that it would be 
 very unwise indeed." 
 
 The marquis, with a turn of his head, summoned the 
 burly commissionnaire, who had been watching the little 
 scene suspiciously. "I think," he said, "that you had 
 better send this person away. I do not understand what 
 he wants, but I fancy that he is rather a bad lot." 
 
 Lord Ellingham turned away and strolled inside the 
 hotel. The man would have followed him, but the com- 
 missionnaire's hand lay heavily upon his shoulder. There 
 was a brief explanation between the two, during which the 
 commissionnaire said several things which were very much 
 to the point. Then the man walked away. 
 
 "My dear," the marquis remarked to his wife, as he 
 bade her good night, a few minutes later, "if it would not 
 interfere with your plans very much, I should like to 
 leave for England to-morrow. I have had very pressing 
 despatches.'" 1
 
 PASSERS-BY 107 
 
 The marchioness made a little wry face, for, of course, 
 she loved Paris. Incidentally, however, she was also quite 
 attached to her husband. 
 
 "If you could make it the four o'clock train," she 
 suggested. 
 
 "The four o'clock train it shall be," he answered, rais- 
 ing her hand to his lips. 
 
 They reached the Gare du Nord the next day with very 
 little time to spare. One of the secretaries from the em- 
 bassy, who was Lord Ellingham's nephew, came to see 
 them off. Several of the officials from the railway, too, 
 were on the platform, so that the marquis, as he passed up 
 to his place, was the center of a little group. His friend of 
 the fur-lined overcoat, attended by a smaller man who had 
 a dark, wizened face, was walking up and down the plat- 
 form. The two turned and followed the little procession. 
 Obviously they were doing their best to attract the atten- 
 tion of the marquis. He surveyed them, through his 
 eye-glass, with bland unconsciousness, however, and, bid- 
 ding farewell to his friends some few minutes before the 
 train was due to leave, took his place in the reserved com- 
 partment, with his back to the window, talking earnestly 
 to his nephew, who had accompanied him. The two men 
 stood a few feet away upon the platform. Once Lord 
 Ellingham heard a soft tapping on the window-pane, but 
 he did not turn his head. He only glanced out of the
 
 108 PASSERS-BY 
 
 window as the train was finally leaving the platform. The 
 tall man was still standing there, with his hands thrust 
 deep into his overcoat pockets. His companion had 
 disappeared. 
 
 It was a fine crossing, and Lord Ellingham walked alone 
 upon the upper deck. About halfway across, he recog- 
 nized the smaller of the two men who had been at the 
 station. The latter, choosing his opportunity, accosted 
 him. 
 
 "Lord Ellingham, I believe," he said in English. 
 
 The marquis looked down upon him a little impatiently. 
 "What do you want?" he asked curtly. 
 
 " I want a few words with your lordship concerning one 
 Philip Champion," the little man said. "Your lordship 
 may perhaps remember the name." 
 
 Lord Ellingham shook his head and passed on. "I 
 never heard it in my life," he said. "You will excuse me." 
 
 "It will be better for you to talk to me," the little man 
 began. "Evasions will not answer for very long." 
 
 The marquis threw away the match with which he had 
 just lit a cigarette. He stared hard at the person who had 
 accosted him. "I am afraid," he said, "that you cannot 
 be well. I simply do not know what you are talking about, 
 and I do not choose to converse with strangers." 
 
 He walked away, and descended the steps to the lower 
 deck, where he joined his wife in her private cabin. His
 
 PASSERS-BY 109 
 
 nerves were certainly very much better! He sat and 
 chatted with her until they reached the harbor, and him- 
 self escorted her to the reserved carriage which was 
 attached to the train. At Charing Cross, the brougham 
 was waiting almost opposite the spot where the carriage 
 stopped. From the window, as they drove out, Lord 
 Ellingham caught a glimpse of the little man hurrying 
 along the platform. He leaned back in the carriage and 
 smiled. The marchioness suppressed a yawn. 
 
 "You are in great spirits, Francis," she said. 
 
 He smiled. "I am feeling better," he said. "A little 
 more fight in me." 
 
 "The change has certainly done wonders for you," she 
 remarked. "You look quite fresh. I feel a perfect rag 
 myself. It was such a hateful journey." 
 
 The marquis smiled. " It is a dull journey," he admitted. 
 "Suffers, as a rule, from lack of incident, doesn't it? 
 Well, we are back again, and London looks about the 
 same." 
 
 "You are glad to be back, of course," she remarked. 
 
 "It is always a little interesting," he answered, "to take 
 up the threads." 
 
 The marquis sat up late that night, going through letters 
 with his secretary. When they had nearly reached the 
 end Penton produced three envelopes from his coat 
 pocket.
 
 110 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Your lordship," he remarked, "was particular to give 
 me instructions to open everything, even letters that were 
 marked strictly private. There are three communications 
 with which I have been unable to do anything, and which 
 I imagine must have been sent to your lordship in 
 error." 
 
 He spread them out upon the table. There were three 
 sheets of foreign notepaper, addressed to the Marquis of 
 Ellingham in typewritten characters. Their contents were 
 the same. There was a single sentence, which occupied 
 only a small space in the middle of the sheet of paper 
 
 Philip Champion is requested to communicate with his 
 friends. 
 
 The marquis read the sentence over slowly, and knitted 
 his brows a little, as one confronted with a problem. His 
 nerves were certainly stronger, for neither did he change 
 color nor did the fingers which held the thin sheets of 
 foreign notepaper tremble. 
 
 "What the devil is this, Penton?" he asked. 
 
 "I have no idea, sir," the young man answered. "There 
 are the letters, just as they arrived, addressed to you and 
 marked private. And look here." 
 
 He turned to the reading-table and picked up the 
 Daily Mail and the St. James* Gazette. He pointed to 
 the agony column of each. The same announcement 
 appeared
 
 PASSERS-BY 111 
 
 Philip Champion is requested to communicate with his 
 friends. 
 
 "Is it an advertisement, do you suppose ?" the marquis 
 asked. 
 
 "If so," the secretary answered, "the explanation would 
 have to come separately, for there is none yet that I can 
 see." 
 
 "No new patent food or medicine?" the marquis 
 suggested. 
 
 The secretary shook his head. " I have never heard the 
 name of Philip Champion before," he answered, "nor 
 have I seen it connected with any commodity of that 
 sort." 
 
 The marquis replaced the letters in the envelopes. 
 "Keep them," he said carelessly. "Some explanation 
 may come to us later on. We have done enough for to- 
 night, I think, Pen ton. You may go." 
 
 The young man took his leave. The marquis sat alone 
 in his easy chair, watching the dying fire. He could hear 
 the steady footsteps of the policeman pacing the stone 
 flags outside. The roar of the city had died away. It was 
 the one hour of quietness which comes, even to London, 
 before the dawn. He looked into the fire, and thought 
 steadily of what might lie before him. He wasted no time 
 in regrets. He had done once and forever with all nervous 
 fears. He had made up his mind as to his course. It
 
 112 PASSERS-BY 
 
 was to be war to the end, war to the hilt of the knife. If 
 he went down, he would go down fighting. He had a great 
 name, the honor of a great family to guard. Something 
 of the spirit of his fighting forefathers stirred in his blood, 
 as he sat there through the silent hours and planned the 
 days to come.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 CHRISTINE was in one of her worst tempers. Gil- 
 bert Hannaway had not been near her since they 
 had parted the afternoon before, and Lord Ellingham was 
 already nearly half an hour late. She sat in her easy chair, 
 her opera-cloak about her shoulders, her gloves ready 
 buttoned, and the minutes seemed to pass like hours. At 
 last she heard the elevator stop, and the ring of her front 
 door-bell. A moment later the parlormaid admitted Lord 
 Ellingham. 
 
 "A gentleman to see you, madam," she announced. 
 
 Christine rose to her feet. The marquis came in with a 
 little gesture of apology. 
 
 "I am so sorry," he said, "but you must have a little 
 consideration for an unfortunate servant of his country 
 who has had too long a holiday. I simply could not get 
 away." 
 
 She nodded. "Why did you not give your name to the 
 servant?" she asked. 
 
 He took her hands, raised one of them for a moment to 
 his lips, and then turned away with a little laugh. "My 
 dear child," he said, "you will find that this city is like a
 
 114 PASSERS-BY 
 
 great nursery, where people can whisper one to the other 
 all the time. To the world, you are Miss Christine de 
 Lanson, and I am the Marquis of Ellingham. The partic- 
 ular reasons which brought me to dine tete-a-tete with you 
 would not be a profitable subject for conjecture." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "Why should I care?" 
 she said, a little hardly. " I have no friends. There is no 
 one whose opinion is anything to me." 
 
 " That we may some day be able to remedy," the marquis 
 said. "In the meantime, where are we to dine?" 
 
 "Wherever you like to take me," she answered. 
 
 Lord Ellingham hesitated. "You have a restaurant 
 attached to the apartments, have you not?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded. "I have dined there," she said, "for the 
 last two months, a great many times too often. You will 
 have to take me somewhere else to-night." 
 
 He looked grave for a moment, but he made no objec- 
 tions. Her maid came in to adjust her cloak, and they 
 went down in the elevator together. 
 
 "If you do not mind," Lord Ellingham said, "I shall 
 take you to one of the smaller restaurants. Until we have 
 decided what is really best to be done with you it is not 
 wise that we should be seen together too much.' 
 
 "Anywhere you please," she answered. 
 
 He looked at her curiously as they glided along the 
 streets in his electric brougham. It was not until they
 
 PASSERS-BY 115 
 
 were seated at dinner, however, that he spoke to her 
 seriously. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you have some of the things, at any 
 rate, which you craved. You have a home, you have 
 carte blanche at your dressmaker's, you have jewelry, a 
 carriage, a motor-brougham. These, I believe, were the 
 things on which you laid most stress. I see that you are 
 no longer thin, that there is nothing now to conceal the 
 fact that you are a remarkably handsome young woman. 
 Tell me, how does it feel ? Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 "No," she answered. 
 
 He nodded. "This," he remarked, "is interesting. I 
 think that if I had not turned to politics I should have 
 tried to write a novel. There is much in the study of 
 human beings which interests me. You have all that you 
 asked for, and you have them in sharp contrast with the 
 life which you were living when I found you." 
 
 "Excuse me," she interrupted. "When I found you." 
 
 "I am corrected," he admitted, "but the facts remain 
 the same. But tell me what there is still lacking." 
 
 "I am lonely," she answered. "I want friends. No- 
 body knows who I am. Nobody cares. My servants do 
 their duty; I am their mistress, nothing else. They serve 
 me at the shops; I am a customer, nothing else. The 
 beggars to whom I throw money thank me; I am a source 
 of income, nothing else."
 
 116 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "You want friends," he repeated thoughtfully. 
 
 "I do," she answered. "I have one," she went on. "I 
 dare say that you would call him a dangerous one. Do 
 you remember an Englishman " 
 
 "Gilbert Hannaway?" he interrupted quickly. 
 
 She nodded. "Our meeting," she remarked, "was 
 scarcely encouraging. Months ago, before I had found 
 you, he saw us and spoke to us in a little court off the 
 Strand, where I had been singing. I did not want to have 
 anything to do with him. You can guess why. And 
 Ambrose, when he persisted in following us, struck him. 
 We left him lying in the court, and escaped. Afterward 
 I met him in the street. We talked together. I came to 
 the conclusion that he knew less than I had feared. He 
 was on the boat when I crossed from Paris. Since then 
 he has been to see me often." 
 
 "He came to see me once," the marquis said thought- 
 fully. " I suspected him then. I had an idea that he was 
 one of those busybodies who go about the world imagin- 
 ing themselves heaven-sent solvers of mysteries. I thought 
 that he had learned a little, and was trying to discover 
 everything." 
 
 "I don't think so," she answered. "He never talks 
 about the past to me." 
 
 "Then it is possible that you may find him a useful 
 friend," the marquis said, "for I want to warn you that
 
 PASSERS-BY 117 
 
 they are thick upon the trail, upon my trail, at any rate. 
 They came to me in Paris, they tried to speak to me upon 
 the steamer, they have written me private letters, they 
 have advertised in the papers. You can see it in the agony 
 column of the Mail any day 'Philip Champion is re- 
 quested to communicate with his friends.'" 
 
 "And what," she asked, "is Philip Champion going to 
 do?" 
 
 "Philip Champion is dead," the marquis answered. 
 "The Marquis of Ellingham knows nothing of him. I am 
 not the nervous creature I was a few months ago. If these 
 men press me hard I am going to fight. But I wanted to 
 warn you. If they have not found you out already, it can 
 only be a question of hours. You will have to choose with 
 whom you take sides, and choose quickly. If you side 
 with me, you will have dangers to confront, as I shall. 
 If you side with them, I imagine that it will shorten the 
 struggle." 
 
 She counted rapidly upon her fingers. "There are only 
 three left," she said, "three only to be feared, and the 
 worst of these is Anatoile Devache." 
 
 " He is in London, I believe," the marquis said. 
 
 She looked at him with a sudden horror in her face. 
 "And yet you go about and you do not seem afraid!" 
 she said. 
 
 "I am not afraid," he answered. "Look at my hand,"
 
 118 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he continued, raising his glass to his lips. "It does not 
 shake. I go about my daily life without a thought of fear. 
 I tell myself always that Philip Champion is dead. He 
 died in prison, I believe ; but as for that, it does not matter. 
 He is dead, and the Marquis of Ellingham has nothing 
 whatever to do with any one of his friends." 
 
 "Don't you think it would be better," she asked, "to 
 make terms?" 
 
 "No!" he replied. " Think of the men ! What would 
 satisfy them ? What would they ask for a life ? I am not 
 a rich man. My estates are already mortgaged to raise 
 large sums of money. I should practically embarrass 
 them for generations. Even then I should not win my 
 way free. I will not do it. If I am found some night with 
 a dagger in my heart, at least I shall die saying that I am 
 not Philip Champion, that I never knew him." 
 
 She shivered. "These are terrible enemies to have," 
 she whispered. 
 
 He nodded. "That is why," he said, "I would not 
 have you declare yourself upon my side. You, at any rate, 
 had better temporize with them. Let them make what 
 use of you they can." 
 
 "It is Anatoile that I fear," she muttered. "I wish 
 you had not told me that he is in England." 
 
 Their relative positions had become reversed. In Paris 
 he had been nervous and afraid, while she had been
 
 PASSERS-BY 119 
 
 bold. Now he was calm and collected, and she was 
 afraid. 
 
 "Nothing will happen to you," he said reassuringly. 
 "Only you must be prepared. It will certainly not be 
 long before they find you out." 
 
 She looked around a little nervously, and he smiled. 
 
 "One can understand," he said, "meeting Anatoile in 
 the strangest corners of the world, but I can assure you 
 that, many-sided though he is, he would never dare to 
 penetrate into this little restaurant. He is somewhere 
 down in Soho at the present moment, I expect, dining and 
 trying to satisfy that tremendous thirst. Come, we have 
 finished with that subject. The thing which is upon my 
 mind is exactly what further I can do for you." 
 
 A rare moment of tenderness came over Christine. Her 
 fingers stole under the table and pressed his. She looked 
 at him with softened expression. 
 
 "You have courage," she said. "It doesn't matter 
 about me just now. I suppose I shall get on somehow. 
 You do not mind my knowing Mr. Hannaway?" 
 
 "Not in the least," the marquis answered. "Only I 
 think that I must write Philipson's about providing a 
 chaperon for you. I must either do that or you must make 
 up your mind to live always as a Bohemian." 
 
 "I hate restraint," she answered, "but I should love to 
 have some friends. Life is so cold, and one becomes so
 
 120 PASSERS-BY 
 
 selfish when one is altogether alone. Sometimes I am 
 afraid. If it were not for the novelty of being rich I should 
 be miserable." 
 
 They left the restaurant a few minutes later. 
 
 "I must take you straight home," Lord Ellingham said, 
 as he handed her into the brougham. " I have two recep- 
 tions to attend to-night. Perhaps you will give me some 
 tea to-morrow afternoon, and we will talk seriously." 
 
 "I should like to," she answered. 
 
 He left her at the door of the house where she lived. 
 She ascended in the elevator, and let herself in with the 
 latch-key. The room was in darkness, and from the mo- 
 ment she entered she had a curious feeling that something 
 had happened. She sprang to the lights, and turned them 
 on with trembling fingers. Then she opened her lips to 
 cry out, but she was suddenly dumb, dumb with horror. 
 She staggered back against the wall, and felt with her 
 fingers for the electric bell. When at last she found it, 
 and heard its shrill summons go echoing outside, she was 
 able to close her eyes.
 
 She advanced with slow, hesitating footsteps toward the spot 
 
 where the man was tying. [Page 121
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT was only for a moment that Christine lost control of 
 herself. Her persistent ringing of the bell brought 
 into the room her parlormaid, followed by another do- 
 mestic. Amidst a chorus of exclamations, she rapidly 
 became the coolest of the trio. 
 
 "One of you ring for the elevator man," she directed. 
 "We must have a man here of some sort. You, Alice, 
 ring up the exchange. Ask to be put on to the police 
 station. Tell them to send some one round here at once." 
 
 The girl shivered and burst into hysterical sobs. "I 
 can't, I can't!" she shrieked, and ran out of the room. 
 
 Christine went to the telephone herself. "I must have 
 an inspector here at once," she said, as soon as she was 
 connected. "I have just returned home and found a man 
 here in my rooms. I think he is dead. Number 42 Vic- 
 toria Flats. Please send some one quickly. There are 
 no men here, and we are frightened." 
 
 Then, for the first time, she advanced with slow, hesitat- 
 ing footsteps toward the spot where the man was lying. 
 There were signs of a struggle in the room. A vase which 
 had stood upon a small table was smashed into a thousand
 
 122 PASSERS-BY 
 
 pieces. The table itself lay on its side. Books were strewn 
 everywhere, a chair was overturned, the hearth-rug was 
 doubled up. She looked for a moment at the object that 
 lay half hidden by the round table a strong man, with 
 big eyes and thick neck. She recognized him at once. 
 She had seen him in the restaurant in Paris. Dimly she 
 remembered him even before that. He lay there now, a 
 ghastly object, with all the high color gone from his cheeks, 
 his eyes closed, the knife with which he had been stabbed 
 still in his side. She turned away, feeling a little sick, and 
 clutched at the elevator man, who had just hurried in. 
 
 " Don't go away," she begged. " Wait till the inspector 
 comes. We are all terrified. Something has happened 
 in my rooms while I have been out." 
 
 The man was staring at the prostrate form. " My God ! " 
 he exclaimed. " He 's stabbed ! I brought him up not 
 an hour ago." 
 
 "Was he alone?" she asked. 
 
 The man nodded. " He was alone when I brought him," 
 he answered. "He was alone when he rang your bell. 
 I'll answer for that." 
 
 "How long have you been on duty?" a quiet voice 
 asked from behind. 
 
 They turned round. The police inspector had arrived. 
 
 "Keep back, all of you," he said. "Nothing in the 
 room must be disturbed. Who knows anything of this ?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 123 
 
 There was little enough to be told. The man had arrived 
 about nine o'clock, had rung the bell and asked for Miss 
 de Lanson. The parlormaid had answered the bell, and 
 had explained that Miss de Lanson was out. She had 
 recovered now from her hysterics sufficiently to explain 
 that the man seemed to have come from a journey, and 
 spoke very civilly, but begged for permission to wait until 
 Miss de Lanson returned. With some misgivings, she 
 had allowed him to sit down in the dining-room, while she 
 returned to the kitchen. She heard no struggle, no sound 
 of any sort. The bell did not ring again, nor did she 
 admit any one. She heard the elevator ascend with her 
 mistress, heard her mistress open the door, heard the 
 shriek and the clanging of the electric bell. 
 
 The police inspector asked few questions, but he re- 
 mained in the room a long time, taking notes. The doctor, 
 whom he had summoned immediately on his arrival, 
 made but the briefest of examinations. The man had 
 been dead, he declared, at least an hour, stabbed right 
 through the heart by some one who knew the exact spot 
 to drive a knive home. 
 
 Christine left them there. The inspector had decided 
 to stay all night. She went to her room and sat down. 
 It was Anatoile, one of the three she had feared, in her 
 room, and dead ! After all she had been told, it was not 
 surprising that he should have been there, but who had
 
 124 PASSERS-BY 
 
 killed him ? How had he met with his death ? She felt 
 herself trembling all over. The shock of the thing seemed 
 to grow more intense. She glanced at the clock. It was 
 not yet midnight. She looked through the telephone book 
 hastily and rang up Gilbert Hannaway's club. Yes, he 
 was there. The man went away to find him. There were 
 a few minutes of suspense. Then she heard a familiar 
 voice, and her heart gave a sudden beat of relief. 
 
 "Is that you?" she asked. 
 
 "It is Gilbert Hannaway," he answered. "Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "I am Christine de Lanson," she answered. "Some- 
 thing terrible has happened here. I want you, if you will, 
 to come to me. Do come, please." 
 
 "I shall be around in five minutes," was the quiet 
 answer. 
 
 She laid down the receiver with a little breath of relief. 
 It was something, this, to know that some one was coming 
 on whom she could rely, some one, too, who knew a little 
 of the truth. She went out into the passage, walking up 
 and down waiting for him. As soon as she heard the 
 elevator stop, she threw open the front door. It was 
 obvious that he had already heard the news, for he came 
 in pale and with a scared look in his face. She took him 
 into the little drawing-room. 
 
 "It is Anatoile," she said. "Listen. To-night I went
 
 PASSERS-BY 125 
 
 out to dinner with Lord Ellingham. There was no one 
 here when we left. They say he arrived about nine. I 
 returned at five minutes past ten. I let myself in as usual, 
 walked into the dining-room, turned on the lights, and 
 there he was, lying in the room, stabbed to the heart. 
 The doctor said he had been dead more than an hour. 
 There had been a struggle, too, for the furniture was all 
 overturned." 
 
 "Who else had called to see you?" Hannaway asked 
 softly. 
 
 "The elevator man declares no one," she answered. 
 "My servants say they admitted no one." 
 
 "Lord Ellingham " he began. 
 
 "Lord Ellingham dined with me. He left me below. 
 He did not come up," she said quickly. " Listen. I want 
 you to go to him. I want you to tell him what has hap- 
 pened. Ask his advice. Come back and see me. Am I 
 to say that I dined with him to-night when they ask me 
 where I was? How much am I to tell them? Go and 
 see him, please, and bring me back word." 
 
 Hannaway took up his hat. " I will go at once," he said. 
 "Why not come with me? You are scarcely fit to be left 
 here alone." 
 
 She shook her head. "I am not a child," she said. "I 
 am a little shaken, that is all. Go to Lord Ellingham's 
 and come back here. I shall be up."
 
 126 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She went back to her room. Soon her maid, who had 
 recovered a little from her terror, came in to undress her. 
 
 "I am not going to bed yet, Marie," she said. "I have 
 sent to ask for some one to advise me. How can one sleep 
 knowing that there is a dead man a few yards away ? " 
 
 Marie held out her hands. It was terrible that such 
 things should happen in England. For her part, she 
 wished that she had never come to so barbarous a country. 
 And monsieur the inspector he was sitting there all night 
 with the corpse! They had had a glimpse of him just 
 now. He was on the floor on his hands and knees making 
 notes. 
 
 Christine let her talk. All the time, one thought was 
 working in her brain. Who could have killed him ? Who 
 in the world could have intervened at such a moment? 
 What would they think, the others? What would they 
 believe ? It had taken place in her rooms would they 
 visit it upon her? 
 
 Again there was the rattle of the elevator gates. It 
 was Hannaway returning. She went out to him. They 
 sat together in the little drawing-room. The fire had 
 gone out, and she was shivering with cold and fear. 
 
 "I have seen Lord Ellingham," he announced. "He is 
 terribly shocked, and most anxious on your account. He 
 begs you to send for Mr. Lawson early in the morning, 
 but thinks there is no need for you to mention with whom
 
 PASSERS-BY 127 
 
 you dined, as your evidence in the case, so far as regards 
 the murder itself, cannot be important. He will come to 
 sec you himself the first thing in the morning." 
 
 She drew a little breath. Somehow or other she seemed 
 relieved at his message. 
 
 "Is there anything more I can do?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "Not now," she said. "There 
 is nothing to sit up for. I shall go to bed." 
 
 He was amazed at her sudden coolness. "You are not 
 frightened?" he asked. 
 
 "Why should I be?" she answered. "The man was a 
 stranger to me. He came, I suppose, as a thief. For the 
 rest, I cannot form even the slightest idea as to what 
 happened to him in my room." 
 
 She looked him in the eyes, and he nodded slowly. 
 
 "That is true," he said. "I will come to you to-morrow 
 morning if I may." 
 
 He took her hand and held it for a moment. 
 
 "I wonder," she said, "if this had not happened, if I 
 had not sent for you, whether you meant to stay away?" 
 
 "I meant to," he answered. "Whether I should have 
 succeeded or not I cannot say."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE Marquis of Ellingham sat in the almost deserted 
 smoking-room of his club, reclining in a reflective 
 attitude in one of the most comfortable easy chairs. The 
 evening paper, which he had been studying, had just 
 fallen from his knee. His eyes were fixed upon the ceiling. 
 He seemed to be lost in thought. A man came in and 
 looked around, a man to whom Ellingham nodded at once 
 with some interest. 
 
 "How are you, Sir James?" he said. 
 
 The great lawyer returned his friend's greeting, and 
 drew an easy chair up to his side. "I am tired," he ad- 
 mitted. "I have been down to the adjourned inquest on 
 this extraordinary murder case. You read about it, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "I have just glanced it through," Lord Ellingham ad- 
 mitted. "So far as I can see, the police seem to have 
 come to an impasse." 
 
 "Absolutely," the lawyer answered. "They returned 
 the only verdict they could have returned wilful mur- 
 der by some person or persons unknown. A very ex- 
 traordinary case," he continued, pressing the tips of his
 
 PASSERS-BY 129 
 
 fingers together. "Here is a perfectly respectable young 
 lady, vouched for by solicitors of the highest standing, 
 occupying an apartment in a very reputable neighborhood. 
 She dines out, and in her absence the servants admit a 
 visitor whom they have never seen before. The mistress 
 returns at ten o'clock. Within five seconds of her turning 
 up the lights in the room her shrieks are heard. The 
 servants rush in, her visitor is discovered there dead, and 
 according to the evidence he must have been dead for at 
 least an hour. The man came alone, the servants ad- 
 mitted no one else to the house, the elevator man brought 
 no one else up. Yet he was killed in that room an hour 
 before the return of its mistress. Find me a puzzle more 
 complete than that, if you can." 
 
 "I cannot," the marquis admitted. "It is incompre- 
 hensible." 
 
 "The police," the lawyer continued, "seem to have been 
 afforded every opportunity. The young lady herself be- 
 haved with the utmost discretion. To add to the mystery, 
 she appears to have known nothing of the man, nor was 
 there anything in his pockets which afforded the slightest 
 clue to his identity. He was probably a thief, but even 
 that does not give us a clue. Will you take a drink with 
 me, Lord Ellingham?" 
 
 "With pleasure," the marquis answered. "I was about 
 to order one for myself."
 
 130 PASSERS-BY 
 
 The servant brought them whiskey and sodas. The 
 lawyer tossed his off. Lord Ellingham held his glass for a 
 moment before him. 
 
 "I am going to drink a little toast to myself," he said, 
 smiling. "I am going to drink to an unknown friend." 
 
 He raised the glass to his lips with a smile, and drank 
 its contents. The lawyer rose and bade him good night. 
 
 "So you don't think," Lord Ellingham asked, "that 
 the police have any idea at all how to go on with this 
 affair?" 
 
 "Not the slightest," Sir James answered. "You can 
 take it from me that they have n't a shadow of a clue." 
 
 Lord Ellingham left the club a few minutes later. He 
 walked up St. James's Street with his coat open, enjoying 
 the fresh night breeze. As he passed the corner of Park 
 Place a sound a little way along the opening arrested his 
 attention. He stopped for a moment, and then walked 
 slowly toward it. A man, a little huddled-up creature, 
 was thumping weary music from the worn keys of a little 
 piano. Lord Ellingham came to a pause before the in- 
 strument and looked down. He was right; it was Am- 
 brose who sat there playing. The tune came to a sudden 
 end. Ambrose looked up at him from underneath his 
 closely drawn eyebrows. "Well," he asked sharply, 
 "what do you want?" 
 
 Ix>rd Ellingham smiled good-humoredly. "You are
 
 PASSERS-BY 131 
 
 not overpolite, my friend," he said, " to a possible patron. 
 Supposing I say that I stayed to listen to your music ?" 
 
 "Then you would lie," the dwarf answered, "and you 
 know it. There is no music to be heard here. Again I 
 ask you, what do you want?" 
 
 "Only the pleasure of a moment's conversation with 
 you," Lord Ellingham answered. 
 
 "Go on, then," Ambrose said. "I cannot escape. You 
 know that. Say what you want to. At least I am not 
 bound to answer." 
 
 "I have known people in your position," the marquis 
 said tolerantly, "who were more disposed to make them- 
 selves agreeable. However, we will let that go. You have 
 lost your companion?" 
 
 "I have lost her," Ambrose snarled, "thanks to you." 
 
 "Come," Lord Ellingham said, "you should remember 
 that she is better off in every way where she is. I can 
 assure you that I did not seek her out. She came to me, 
 and after she had found me it was impossible for her to go 
 on living this hand-to-mouth existence. You took good 
 care of her, I believe. If you, too, wish to accept my help, 
 you can have it." 
 
 Ambrose closed the lid of his piano with a little bang. 
 "Is that what you stopped to say?" he asked. 
 
 "Something like it," Lord Ellingham admitted. "You 
 have not given me much opportunity to choose my words."
 
 132 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Then you can be off," the dwarf declared, his voice 
 hoarse with either anger or excitement. "I want no help 
 from you. I want no help from any one." 
 
 "But consider," Lord Ellingham continued. "You 
 are, I believe, honestly attached to the young woman who 
 for some time shared your fate. In altered circumstances 
 you might still see something of her, might still be useful 
 to her perhaps." 
 
 Ambrose laughed harshly. "Yes," he said, "I might 
 be useful to her ! Perhaps even now I may be that You 
 think it is a long way from the gutter to the palace, yet I 
 think sometimes that we who crawl about the face of the 
 earth see and hear things. We can be useful sometimes. 
 You yourself, my Lord Ellingham, may need help at any 
 moment. You fancy you are safe, because of your name 
 and your wealth. One cannot tell. There are strange 
 things that happen sometimes. And listen, milord. There 
 are some strange people in London, even now." 
 
 "You seem," Lord Ellingham remarked, "to pick up a 
 good deal of information in your comings and goings." 
 
 "Why not?" the dwarf answered. "Why not?" He 
 grasped the handles of his barrow. Chicot sprang up and 
 held out his hat. 
 
 "Give him a shilling," Ambrose said surlily. "We 
 have had a bad day, and I would not have him go hungry 
 because I do not care for your alms. Now go your way,
 
 PASSERS-BY 133 
 
 and let me go mine. We do no good talking together. I 
 am not on your side." 
 
 Lord Ellingham threw a sovereign into the monkey's 
 hat and turned away with a little laugh. " You are hard on 
 me," he said. " I only meant to do you a service if I could. 
 If you change your mind you know where to find me." 
 
 He strolled back into St. James's Street, and went on 
 his way homeward. He let himself in with a latch-key, 
 and went into his study. There were several private 
 letters upon the table, through which he glanced hastily. 
 The last one was addressed to him in a typewritten en- 
 velope. He tore it open with a premonition as to what he 
 would find. It contained a single sheet of paper upon 
 which were typed these words: 
 
 Philip Champion, if you mean war we too can strike. If 
 you mean peace you had better accept this last summons. Be 
 seated at the third table on the right-hand side from the en- 
 trance, in the Cafe Kulm, at four o'clock to-morrow, Friday 
 afternoon. If you are not there, there will be one in England 
 very soon whom you will not care to see. 
 
 Lord Ellingham thrust the letter into his coat pocket 
 and took up the evening paper. Again in the agony 
 column he read with a smile an even more pressing edition 
 of a recent advertisement Philip Champion is urgently 
 desired to communicate with his friends.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 X^HRISTINE and Hannaway were walking together 
 V^J in Kensington Gardens. It was early in March 
 and the air was soft with spring sunshine. There were 
 flaring beds of yellow crocuses and wonderful borders of 
 hyacinths, faintly sweet. The chestnut-trees were in bud ; 
 here and there a flaky blossom was creeping out from its 
 waxy covering. The sky was blue and the sun was soft. 
 Christine had on a new and wonderfully becoming hat, 
 which her companion had noticed and admired. And 
 yet there was a cloud. 
 
 "Shall we sit down?" he asked gloomily. 
 
 "Just as you like," she answered, with suspicious 
 sweetness. 
 
 They chose a seat from which they could look 
 out over a lake, and sat there in silence for several 
 moments, watching the swans and listening to the 
 birds twittering over their heads. Then Christine 
 looked down at the tips of her patent-leather shoes 
 and frowned. 
 
 "I do not find you amusing this morning, my friend," 
 she remarked.
 
 PASSERS-BY 135 
 
 "I am sorry," he answered stiffly. "I might add that I 
 have also found you disappointing." 
 
 She looked around, as though to make sure that they 
 were alone. Then she turned toward him. " You and I," j 
 she said, " should not behave like children. We are both J 
 of us too old. I, at any rate, have seen and suffered too 
 much. You ask me some things which it is not possible 
 for me to tell you." 
 
 "I maintain," he said slowly, "that our friendship 
 has reached a stage when confidences should not be 
 impossible." 
 
 She kicked a pebble away impatiently. "You talk to 
 me," she said, "as though I were one of those light-hearted 
 puppets of girls whom you meet every day and every hour 
 upon the streets, in the park, on horseback here, and at 
 the theater. They would give you their confidence with- 
 out a doubt. Think what it would come to a few 
 flirtations, a few childish escapades, a stolen kiss, perhaps, 
 at the most. You know very well that it is not like that 
 with me." 
 
 He too turned his head and looked around. "I know," 
 he answered softly. "There are things in your early life, 
 of course, which even now it were better to speak of sel- 
 dom, if at all. You see, I am not prejudiced. I know that 
 there is danger, even now, in treating lightly that little 
 corner of the underground world where I first met you.
 
 136 PASSERS-BY 
 
 But there are some things which I feel that I must ask 
 
 you." 
 
 "I wouldn't, if I were you," she answered. "I am 
 afraid you would be disappointed. There is so little that 
 I can tell." 
 
 "I will not ask you much," he answered. "I do feel, 
 though, that since we are friends I think," he added, 
 looking thoughtfully into her partly averted face, "that 
 we may call ourselves friends you might surely tell me 
 this. What is the connection between the man whom 
 they caught that night and who is now in prison I 
 suppose Lord Ellingham, and yourself?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I cannot tell you," she 
 answered. 
 
 He looked moodily away from her. "No doubt," he 
 said, "your claim upon Lord Ellingham is a good one, 
 but you must remember that I see you beholden to him 
 for everything. Your jewels and your dresses, your house 
 and your carriage, all come to you from him. What right 
 has he to give you these things?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you," she answered. 
 
 He turned toward her. His hand rested for a moment 
 upon hers. "Christine," he said, "supposing that there 
 were a man in my place who was fond of you ? Supposing 
 he knew only what I know?" 
 
 "Well?" she asked, returning his gaze.
 
 PASSERS-BY 137 
 
 " Don't you realize," he asked, " that he would want to 
 know a little more?" 
 
 "I cannot tell," she answered. "Men are so strange. 
 I know little of them. I imagine that any one who cared 
 for me would trust me." 
 
 "He might do that, Christine," he continued, "and yet 
 there would come a time when he would have to know 
 these things." 
 
 "The man who cared for me," she said, "would have 
 to wait until that time came. If he felt that he could not, 
 it would be better for him to go and seek some one out of 
 the every-day world of every-day people." 
 
 There was a somewhat prolonged silence. Hannaway's 
 face was clouded. After all, he was a fool, he told himself. 
 The girl was too clever. She would tell him nothing. 
 
 "I am answered," he said slowly. "There is one thing 
 more." 
 
 She sighed. "You are not at all entertaining this 
 morning," she said. 
 
 "I cannot help it," he answered. "There are some 
 things which we must speak of. Look at me, Christine." 
 
 She turned her head as though surprised, either at his 
 request or at his use of her Christian name. Her deli- 
 cately marked eyebrows were slightly raised. She drew 
 a little away from him. 
 
 "I want to ask you," he said, "I must ask you, whether
 
 138 PASSERS-BY 
 
 in your heart you have any secret thought, any shadow of 
 an idea, as to who it was who entered your rooms that 
 night and killed Anatoile Devache?" 
 
 She sat still looking at him, rigid alike in features and 
 posture; but the color had left her cheeks, and a startled 
 anger smouldered in her eyes. 
 
 " You think, you believe," she said, in a moment or two, 
 "that I had something to do with that?" 
 
 " Not for one moment ! " he exclaimed hastily. " Do not 
 misunderstand me. Only, that man died by the hand of 
 some one who knew his mission. You must have thought 
 of it. You know more than I know about the coming of 
 this man. It is only reasonable to suppose that you may 
 have some idea as to who it was that killed him." 
 
 She rose to her feet. He would have detained her, but 
 she brushed him to one side. 
 
 "I do not wish to talk to you any longer," she said, a 
 little sadly. "I thought you were my friend. I believe 
 now that you are just making use of me to try to find out 
 things. They thought that night, you remember, that you 
 were a detective, and the thought nearly cost you your 
 life. Perhaps they were right. I cannot tell. Only, I 
 know that I am tired of your questions, always questions. 
 I am going away. I do not wish to see you again." 
 
 He caught at her wrist. "Christine," he said, "don't 
 you understand ? If I seem inquisitive or curious, it is
 
 PASSERS-BY 139 
 
 only because everything about you interests me. Chris- 
 tine, it is because 
 
 She had sprang away from him with the swift grace of 
 some beautiful young animal. With dismay he watched 
 her flying along the path. Pursuit would only have been 
 ridiculous. He stood looking after her until she was out 
 of sight. Not once did she turn round. He saw her call 
 a hansom and drive off. Then he turned and crossed 
 the park by another route, toward his rooms. 
 
 It was ten o'clock that night when Ambrose crawled 
 homeward across the bridge and down the narrow street. 
 Pennies had come but seldom. There were few who cared 
 to hear the wheezy tunes of his wretched instrument. His 
 feet and back ached. He was faint and nauseated with 
 hunger. He wheeled his little barrow into the entry and 
 came slowly along toward the door of his abode. A figure 
 loomed up from the shadows and accosted him. He 
 started back, and his hand darted like lightning to the 
 inner pocket of his coat. 
 
 "Who are you?" he asked harshly. "What do you 
 want?" 
 
 "Not another crack on the head, my friend," 
 Gilbert Hannaway said grimly. "I want to talk with 
 you." 
 
 Ambrose peered into his face. "It's you, is it?" he
 
 140 PASSERS-BY 
 
 exclaimed. "You want to talk with me, eh? Well, I 
 
 have nothing to say. I am dumb." 
 
 "You will change your mind presently," Hannaway 
 said. "The only question is whether you will come with 
 me to the public house over there or whether I shall go 
 with you to your rooms." 
 
 Ambrose eyed the lights of the public house, and a sud- 
 den sick longing assailed him. There were enough pennies 
 only for Chicot's supper and his own. There was nothing 
 left for drink, and there were long hours before he could 
 turn into his miserable bed. Hannaway saw his hesita- 
 tion and led the way across the street. 
 
 " Come," he said, " that is sensible." 
 
 Ambrose made no answer until they had reached the 
 door of the public house. A pleasant sense of warmth 
 swept out to them through the swing-doors. His eyes 
 glittered. 
 
 "I would drink with you to-night," he muttered, " even 
 though you were Jean the Terrible."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 " "Y "T THAT will you take to drink ?" Hannaway asked, 
 V T turning to his companion. 
 
 " I will have brandy," was the prompt reply " brandy 
 and hot water. I want bread, too, or a sandwich. Any- 
 thing to eat. There is a seat there in a warm corner. If 
 you want me to talk, I must sit down." 
 
 He led the way down the room to a corner where a small 
 table stood in front of a leather couch. As he walked the 
 mud and damp oozed from his broken boots. Hannaway 
 was aware of a slit in his coat, buttoned high up to his 
 throat to conceal the absence of a collar. In the darkness 
 outside he had been a dejected-looking object enough. 
 Here, in the brilliant light, he seemed little more than a 
 bundle of rags. He sank down upon the couch, and draw- 
 ing Chicot carefully from under his coat, made him com- 
 fortable in the far corner. 
 
 "In a moment thou shalt eat, my Chicot," he said. 
 "They are bringing food for you and drink for your 
 master. What, are you tired?" 
 
 Chicot seemed, indeed, a little weary. Nevertheless, 
 when a great dish of sandwiches was brought, he sat up
 
 142 PASSERS-BY 
 
 and ate with avidity. Ambrose seized one and tore it 
 to pieces with the air of a wild animal. Somehow or 
 other, of the two the monkey seemed to have the more 
 restraint. 
 
 "I eat fast," Ambrose declared suddenly, turning to his 
 companion, "because I am on fire to drink. Until I have 
 eaten I cannot drink. It is not that I am afraid of being 
 drunk, but I have not the strength. To-night I shall drink 
 and drink and drink. I shall talk to you, and I shall tell 
 you many things. You will go away and think, 'He is a 
 little mad, that miserable dwarf!' It is true; he is a 
 little mad." 
 
 Hannaway looked at his companion, and the more he 
 studied his face the greater grew his curiosity. For he 
 knew that underneath were different things. This strange 
 being was not all that he pretended to be. 
 
 "It is harder work without the girl," he said. "You 
 must have found it more difficult to make a living since 
 you lost her." 
 
 Ambrose drank, drank steadily, half a tumblerful of 
 brandy and water. "Yes," he said. "We have lost the 
 girl. We have lost Christine, Chicot there and I. Some 
 meddling jackanapes sent her a message, and she went. 
 She is a rich lady now. She is safe from the rain and the 
 cold, safe from the hunger that bites. It is better." 
 
 "Yes, it is better," Hannaway echoed. "After all, she
 
 PASSERS-BY 143 
 
 was not meant for hardships. What a man can stand is 
 sometimes death to a woman." 
 
 " Death I" Ambrose echoed. "Yes, it is that. To-night 
 I shall be drunk. I can feel it in my veins. It is like hot 
 sweet music. Some more brandy!" 
 
 "You shall have all the brandy you can drink," Hanna- 
 way answered; "but listen. Remember who I am. I 
 do not want to steal upon you and worm secrets away 
 when you have not the strength to guard them. I am 
 Gilbert Hannaway, you know. I was in Paris in May, 
 four years ago." 
 
 "In Paris, four years ago," Ambrose muttered. 
 
 "More than that," Hannaway continued. "I was in 
 the Place Noire. I was in the fight. I lay on the pave- 
 ment with a bullet in my leg when you passed down the 
 hill wheeling the piano, with Christine and a stranger by 
 your side. It was the night the terrible Jean was taken, 
 the night that only one man escaped." 
 
 "Ah!" Ambrose muttered. "You were there! Were 
 you a spy?" 
 
 "No," Hannaway answered. "But I will be frank with 
 you. I want to know the truth about all that happened 
 there that night. I want to know what share in those 
 things you and Christine had. I want to know the name 
 of the man who escaped, and I want to hear something 
 about the man who lies in prison."
 
 144 PASSERS-BY 
 
 " About Jean the Terrible ? " Ambrose muttered. " Ah 1 " 
 
 A waiter brought their drinks from the counter. Am- 
 brose emptied his tumbler almost at a draft. 
 
 "A larger glass," he demanded. "Don't be afraid; I 
 can stand it. Since she left I can stand anything. It 
 drowns the thought a little, and it loosens the tongue. If 
 you would have me talk you must see that I drink." 
 
 "You understand," Hannaway said, "I am here to ask 
 you questions to pump you, if you like. Drink, if you 
 will, but remember that." 
 
 Ambrose leaned his head, with its mat of ragged hair, 
 back against the cushion at the top of the couch. He 
 laughed softly, laughed till every bone in his body seemed 
 to shake. The corners of his mouth quivered. He showed 
 his yellow teeth. His eyes were still dry and bright 
 
 "Oh, I shall talk!" he said. "I shall answer your 
 questions. Yesterday or the day before, or perhaps to- 
 morrow, I would sooner have struck you than drank with 
 you. To-night I am in the mood. I tell you that it is in 
 my blood. But answer me one question first" 
 
 " Go ahead," Hannaway said. 
 
 " What are you ? Detective ? Philanthropist ? Or are 
 you simply a passer-by one who loves to gaze into the 
 strange corners of the world?" 
 
 "Call me a passer-by," Hannaway answered. "I am 
 certainly not a detective, nor can I claim to be a philan-
 
 PASSERS-BY 145 
 
 thropist. But I love to discover the meanings of things 
 which puzzle me. This morning I talked with Christine, 
 but she would tell me nothing." 
 
 Again Ambrose leaned back in his seat and laughed. 
 His long chin protruded. He .closed his eyes. His clenched 
 fingers were entwined. "She would tell you nothing," he 
 muttered. " No, I know that she would tell you nothing ! " 
 
 "I come, then, to you," Hannaway said, "and if you fail 
 me I shall go to Lord Ellingham." 
 
 Slowly the dwarf opened his eyes. "You will go to 
 Lord Ellingham?" he repeated. 
 
 "I will," Hannaway answered. "He was there that 
 night, you know. He, too, was one of the Black Foxes." 
 
 "A passer-by!" Ambrose muttered to himself, as he 
 held up his freshly filled tumbler to the light. "I drink 
 to them all. I drink to the passers-by, to those who stop 
 and bend over and are curious, to those who walk on, to 
 those who walk on and come back ! The girl, man?" he 
 asked suddenly. "What is she to you? Chris tine 1 
 Christine ! " he repeated, his voice suddenly soft. 
 
 "She is nothing to me," Hannaway answered sadly. 
 "This morning I spoke to her carefully of the past. She 
 sent me away." 
 
 "The past!" Ambrose muttered. "Ah, I could tell you 
 stories of that ! I could tell you of the days when I played 
 
 the organ in the little church, the church set among the 
 
 10
 
 146 PASSERS-BY 
 
 meadows, meadows yellow with buttercups and deep mari- 
 golds. There was the river, too broad and slow, clear 
 as wine. She sat on the bank, and the music came through 
 the open doors, and presently she would leave off picking 
 the buttercups, she would look no longer into the river bed. 
 She would come stealing up the avenue of poplar trees, up 
 onto the stone flags, into the cool church, up between the 
 old oak pews, to where I sat and played for her. I was not 
 like this. She was not afraid to touch me then. I have 
 felt her arms around my neck, I have felt her cheek close 
 to mine, while the music grew and grew, a great thing, a 
 live thing." 
 
 Hannaway was silent. Something strange seemed to 
 have come over his companion. He talked like a man who 
 has lost all count of place or time. Yet when he paused he 
 drank, and when he had emptied his tumbler he held it 
 out toward the busy waiter. 
 
 " You don't believe me ! " he cried, almost fiercely. " You 
 don't believe, perhaps, that I was not always like this. Go 
 to Annonay, then. Ask them there. Ask them of Ambrose 
 Drake of Annonay. Ask them to tell you of the day - 
 Bah ! These things are not for you. I forgot. You are 
 paying for the brandy. It is of Christine and the Black 
 Foxes that I must talk. The man is a long time fetching 
 the brandy. If I may not drink I will say no more." 
 
 " He is coming," Hannaway answered.
 
 PASSERS-BY 147 
 
 "He is here," Ambrose declared, drawing his glass 
 toward him with a little gulp of content. " When I drink 
 I remember. No," he added, leaning back once more and 
 half closing his eyes, " it is not memory ; it is sight. The 
 things of which I speak I see. I see Christine a child. 
 She walked with me then hand in hand through the fields. 
 I was only the son of the village schoolmaster, but they 
 trusted me. Sometimes they would have me up at the 
 house to play for them. I see Christine sitting in the open 
 window. I can smell the lemon trees, the scent of the 
 flowering shrubs, the scent of the drooping roses, great 
 wax candles upon the piano, great wax candles in the bare 
 room. Poor as rats, all of them, but proud. The seigneur 
 died. Christine and her mother went to Paris. I remem- 
 ber that day. I worked in the fields. I saw the carriage 
 go by, and I fell upon my face. I can smell the brown 
 earth, freshly turned by the plow. I was there praying, 
 poor fool ! Give me some cigarettes. Give me something 
 to smoke or I will not go on." 
 
 Hannaway took out his gold case and emptied its con- 
 tents upon the table. Ambrose took a cigarette and lit it, 
 puffing out the blue smoke without sign of pleasure or ap- 
 preciation. Hannaway watched the long fingers curiously. 
 They were well shaped. They had the appearance of hav- 
 ing once been well cared for. On the little finger was stiU 
 the mark where a ring had been.
 
 148 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "To Paris," Ambrose continued, still talking as though 
 to himself, " to Paris, of course, and after them I. It was 
 there that I starved. Oh, the long days and the nights 
 when I craved for food ! I was young then. I had not 
 learned that brandy is better, much better." 
 
 He banged his empty tumbler upon the table. The 
 waiter came and looked at him curiously. His hand was 
 perfectly steady. His eyes, for he had suddenly opened 
 them, were bright and clear. 
 
 "Some brandy, fellow!" he ordered. "Serve me at 
 once. My friend here is impatient." 
 
 "In a moment, sir," the waiter declared, hurrying 
 away. 
 
 "You're sure that you're not drinking too much?" 
 Hannaway asked bluntly. 
 
 "When I drink, I drink," Ambrose muttered fiercely. 
 "When I have finished, I have finished. Look at my 
 hand. It is as steady as yours. Does my voice falter? 
 No ! I will tell you where the brandy goes. It goes to the 
 brain. I see again. I feel again. I remember. I live, if 
 it be only among the shadows. Too much, indeed ! But 
 you do not understand. Ah ! " 
 
 He held out his hand. His tumbler was back again, 
 well filled. He half emptied it before he set it down. 
 
 "So I searched for them through the streets of Paris," 
 he went on, " from one quarter to another. Paris was wild
 
 PASSERS-BY 149 
 
 in those days. I saw a man killed one night. He was an 
 Italian, and I carried him, dying, to his lodging-house. 
 He gave me Chicot; Chicot, my friend." 
 
 He stroked the monkey thoughtfully with one hand. 
 Chicot, who had eaten many sandwiches, opened one eye 
 and went to sleep again. 
 
 "By night and by day I searched," Drake went on. 
 "When I found them it was too late. Trouble had come. 
 Trouble was with them all the time. Madame was dead, 
 and Christine dwelt in the gray house in the Place Noire, 
 where all the time men whom Paris called the Black 
 Foxes were creeping in and out." 
 
 "What was she doing there?" Hannaway asked 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Trouble, aye, more than trouble!" Ambrose con- 
 tinued. "We plunged deep there. It came at last, the 
 crash. You were there that night. Twenty gendarmes 
 it took to storm that house. I remember you lay in the 
 gutter when I ran past you with my piano. They let me go. 
 They thought I was a frightened passer-by." 
 
 "Who was the man in workman's clothes who escaped 
 with you?" Hannaway asked. 
 
 The barman crossed the room toward them. "Time, 
 gentlemen, please," he cried. 
 
 A policeman put his head in at the door. "All out, if 
 you please," he ordered.
 
 150 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Ambrose slid from the shiny seat onto the floor. He 
 took Chicot under his arm and caught up his hat. " It is 
 over," he cried. "I can see no more. I can remember 
 no more. We go to sleep, Chicot and I. Good night ! " 
 
 Hannaway would have pressed out by his side, but he 
 thrust him away. 
 
 "It is finished," he declared emphatically. "When I 
 cease to drink my brain is cloudy. I can remember 
 nothing." 
 
 He shot out through the door and vanished round the 
 corner. Hannaway drew a long breath and buttoned up 
 his coat. He looked behind at the public house, now al- 
 most empty, and he looked down the dark street where 
 Ambrose had vanished. He seemed suddenly to have 
 passed into a different atmosphere. He realized now, for 
 the first time, how absorbed he had been in those quickly 
 spoken, tense sentences. Slowly and reluctantly he turned 
 away and crossed the bridge.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 TWO men, ill dressed, unshaven, obviously foreigners, 
 sat at a small table in the Cafe* Kulm. The place 
 was not a hundred yards from Leicester Square, but to all 
 effects, and certainly to all appearances, it was very much 
 on the other side of the channel. The atmosphere was 
 dense with the fumes of tobacco and the odor of many 
 dinners. The mirrors which once decorated the walls were 
 cracked and greasy. The cloths which covered half of the 
 tables at the restaurant end of the room were remarkable 
 neither for their cleanliness nor for their quality. Near 
 the door the tables were marble topped, beringed with the 
 stains of coffee and strange drinks. One heard scarcely a 
 word of English. The two men, who were drinking ab- 
 sinthe together, were talking French. 
 
 It was a quiet time of the day, and, save for one other 
 visitor, the few tables consecrated to the guest who came 
 only to drink were unoccupied. The other visitor was 
 Ambrose Drake. He sat with a glass of brandy before 
 him, his arms folded, his head bent forward. Chicot was 
 asleep in his pocket. Outside, the piano had found tem- 
 porary shelter in a covered entry. The rain came down in
 
 152 PASSERS-BY 
 
 a gentle but sullen downpour. He had not a stitch of 
 dry clothing upon him. No wonder that he seemed drowsy, 
 that the fumes of the brandy which he was drinking had 
 mounted to his brain. 
 
 One of the two men pointed to him. They talked to- 
 gether in French, quickly, and with many gestures. 
 
 "The creature there," he said, "he reminds one, eh, 
 of the hunchback who stole off with the girl that night, 
 and and some one else." 
 
 The other man glanced across at Ambrose and shook 
 his head. "Miracles do not happen, my friend," he said. 
 "Besides, the little creature there is smaller and older. 
 See, he has drunk too much. He sleeps." 
 
 The man who had spoken first, Marcel they called him, 
 looked uneasily around. "When one is as I am," he 
 said hoarsely, "one fears the very shadows. One sees 
 spies everywhere. Listen, Pierre. You saw the Figaro 
 this morning?" 
 
 Pierre, gray-headed, obese, with the puckered face and 
 sallow complexion of a dram-drinker, nodded his head. 
 "Yes," he said. "The man is dead. You struck home, 
 Marcel." 
 
 Marcel wiped his forehead with his hand. His hair 
 was shaven close to his head. He was tall and of tre- 
 mendous physique, but he was also by far the more for- 
 bidding looking of the two. His face had the look of a
 
 PASSERS-BY 153 
 
 hunted wild animal. His eyes were furtive and uneasy. 
 He was never altogether at rest. 
 
 "What could I do?" he muttered. "Think you, my 
 friend. For five years I had suffered and starved. No 
 absinthe, no brandy, coffee fit for the pigs, tobacco a 
 whiff now and then, no more. I, my friend, who loved 
 always the best, who loved the red wine, who smoked 
 night and day ! And before me were another ten years. 
 Do you wonder that I struck?" 
 
 Pierre curled his mustache upward, showing a wide, 
 cruel mouth. His eyes were close together, his cheek- 
 bones high. He was not pleasant to look at. 
 
 "You were right, Marcel," he muttered. "A man 
 like you must live. Now that you are here you will be 
 safe. Here we have more hiding-places than in Paris 
 itself." 
 
 "Aye, safe!" Marcel muttered. "They will not find 
 me here, I am sure of that. But there is the money. One 
 must live ! We must all live. I dined ill last night. Un- 
 less one has fortune I shall not dine at all to-night. Pierre, 
 a blow must be struck." 
 
 Pierre held out the palms of his hands. "Anatoile," 
 he said, "came to strike that blow. He is dead, and the 
 hand that struck him might have come from the clouds. 
 Is it a wonder that one fears ? " 
 
 Marcel clenched both his hands. He leaned over the
 
 154 . PASSERS-BY 
 
 little round table, and his face was like the face of a devil. 
 "Nevertheless," he declared, "something must be done, 
 and that quickly. All our money has gone. He has not 
 obeyed this, our last summons. Who was he, I ask? A 
 stranger, a newcomer, to make fools of us all, of us, my 
 friend, who had risked our lives, and more than our 
 lives, to get together that money! Was there ever such 
 treachery? The disguise was there for me. The hunch- 
 back and the girl were waiting that my escape might be 
 the easier. The money that meant fortune to all of us 
 was there, too." 
 
 "He shall share it," Pierre muttered. "He must be 
 made to share it." 
 
 Marcel struck the table with his hand. " Which of us," 
 he muttered, "shall go and tell him so?" 
 
 Ambrose rose suddenly from his seat. He dragged the 
 chair along with him and placed it by Marcel's side. 
 "I," he answered, striking the table in front of him. 
 
 A bomb thrown in their midst would have astonished 
 them less. They shrank back, looking at him with terror- 
 stricken faces. Pierre's hand went to his waistband, 
 Marcel's to his hip pocket. It was plain what manner of 
 man these were ; they carried knives 1 
 
 "You need not be alarmed," Ambrose said coolly. 
 "You did not recognize me at first, but I knew you both 
 from the moment you entered. Don't you remember the
 
 PASSERS-BY ,155 
 
 cripple and his piano and the monkey? Here am I, and 
 here," he added, patting his pocket, "is Chicot. We 
 have sworn the oath. Have no fear." 
 
 Their courage came back. They even grasped him 
 by the hand. Ambrose called a waiter. 
 
 "I have a few shillings," he said. "We will drink." 
 
 They gave their orders. Ambrose leaned over the 
 table and patted Marcel on the back. 
 
 "You did well, my friend," he said, "to escape. It 
 was bravely done. You stabbed him in the back, eh, 
 that warder, and ran ? But it was a feat ! It was worthy 
 of the Black Fox!" 
 
 Marcel looked uneasily around. "We do not speak of 
 it," he said. "One never knows who may listen. Tell 
 us now of yourself. Tell us what has become of you since 
 that night." 
 
 The face of the dwarf was set and grim. His underlip 
 protruded. His eyes rolled as he spoke. "Of myself!" 
 he muttered. "There is not much to tell. We fled that 
 night, the girl and I, and the man whom all the time 
 we thought was you, Vicomte," he added, under his 
 breath. "On the Boulevard we separated. The man 
 who was with us, he took the piano. The girl went to 
 some lodgings in a quiet part. I went to St. Denis and 
 stayed there for two days. When I came back to Paris 
 the piano was left where he had promised. I found
 
 156 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Christine, but the man who had shared our flight 
 was gone. Afterward we seemed likely to starve. We 
 went in search of him. From town to town we went, 
 from country to country. Here in London we found 
 him." 
 
 "You found him?" they both muttered in unison. 
 "What then?" 
 
 "He took the girl away," Ambrose muttered. "He 
 took her away from me. Chicot and I have been alone 
 for months." 
 
 They looked at him wonderingly. His clothes were in 
 an evil state, his beard untrimmed. He was unwashed, 
 unkempt. 
 
 "You are poor, you? You have no money?" Marcel 
 demanded. 
 
 Ambrose laughed harshly. "Look at me!" he ex- 
 claimed. "You ask a question like that ! Bah !" 
 
 For the moment they forgot his presence. They ex- 
 changed swift glances, swift, comprehending glances. 
 
 "He has given you no money, friend?" Pierre asked 
 softly. 
 
 "The coin which we have just spent was his," Ambrose 
 answered. "It is all that I have ever had from him, and 
 he took Christine from me." 
 
 Marcel wet his dry lips with his tongue. "Look 
 here, friend," he said, "with you it is different, of course,
 
 PASSERS-BY 157 
 
 but you know who I am. You know how I have suffered, 
 and for what." 
 
 Ambrose nodded. "I know," he said. 
 
 "Think you," Marcel continued, "that I have done 
 it for nothing? Five years of the life that slaves lead! 
 Five years of the life which he might have led if he had 
 not stolen my disguise and escaped in my place! He is 
 rich, you say?" 
 
 "Aye!" Ambrose answered. "He has money to throw 
 away with both hands, gold to scatter in the streets if he 
 wills, gold to load his wife with jewels, to buy horses and 
 carriages and automobiles. He lives in a palace, an army 
 of servants wait upon him. It is a contrast, eh, Marcel ? 
 A contrast, is it not?" 
 
 "He shall pay for it," Marcel muttered. 
 
 "Why not go to him?" Ambrose asked. "Why not 
 beard him there and say: 'I am Marcel, and I come to 
 you from a French prison. You are '" 
 
 They stopped him. 
 
 "Mention no names," Marcel said uneasily. "This is 
 the region of spies. One must not be overheard. I will 
 not go to him. He is too clever. He might even give me 
 up to the police. We shall accept your offer, my friend. 
 It is you who shall go. He will not suspect that you come 
 from us." 
 
 "Listen," Pierre said. "We have summoned him here
 
 158 PASSERS-BY 
 
 and he did not come. We have summoned him in many 
 different ways. The result has been always the same 
 silence. He makes no move. If he feels fear he shows no 
 sign of it." 
 
 "What shall I say to him?" Ambrose asked. 
 
 Marcel threw out his hands. They were white and 
 shapely. Marcel, indeed, in other days, had been an 
 aristocrat. 
 
 "We must have money," he said, "money! Who is 
 he to live in the great places, while I have toiled among 
 the felons ? We must have money, or he shall be sent to 
 take my place there." 
 
 "How much?" Ambrose asked. 
 
 "A great deal," Marcel declared. "We shall not be 
 content with a trifle, Pierre here and myself. We have 
 had enough of suffering. We want to spend, spend, spend. 
 We must have money, and more money, and more money, 
 but there must be a beginning. I have not a louis. There 
 is not a louis between us. I need clothes and linen. I 
 am weak from prison. I need food and wine. Mon Dieu! 
 To feel myself once more a gentleman ! Then we will 
 talk, he and I. We will talk, indeed." 
 
 Ambrose nodded. "Very well," he said, "I will go to 
 him. He shall find the money. WTiy not ? Christine has 
 horses and carriages, fine clothes and servants." 
 
 "From him?" Pierre asked.
 
 PASSERS-BY 159 
 
 "From him," Ambrose answered. 
 
 Pierre and Marcel looked at each other uneasily. The 
 same thought was in their minds. 
 
 "But Anatoile?" Pierre whispered. 
 
 Ambrose smiled. "There are mysteries," he said, 
 "even on this side of the channel. In Paris one heard of 
 such things, and one nodded one's head ; one understood. 
 Here, too, strange things may happen." 
 
 "Listen," Pierre whispered, leaning across the table. 
 "Anatoile was our comrade. He was our messenger. 
 How came he to his death?" 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "One cannot tell," he said. 
 "The hand that struck him might have come from the 
 clouds." 
 
 The two men again looked at each other uneasily. The 
 face of Marcel was gray with fear. 
 
 "We will not talk of Anatoile," he declared. "My 
 nerves are not what they were." 
 
 "As you will," Ambrose answered. "To-morrow I 
 will go to see the person we have spoken of. At five 
 o'clock I come here." 
 
 He slouched out. The rain was over. He set Chicot 
 on the top of the little piano and started on his weary 
 trudge.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 HRISTINE and Lord Ellingham were lunching to- 
 gather at a fashionable West End restaurant. The 
 marquis bowed to some acquaintances a little coldly, and 
 turned back to Christine. 
 
 " My dear child," he said, "do not think that I too have 
 not some anxieties on your account. I admit that the 
 situation is very difficult. Certain things I am able to 
 give you. Certain other things I cannot give you. I only 
 wish that it were possible." 
 
 Christine looked across the table at him with weary, 
 questioning eyes. She was as perfectly dressed as any 
 woman in the room. Excellent taste, a first-class milliner, 
 and the natural advantages of her slim, sinuous figure 
 combined to invest her with a style which made her, in 
 all that select gathering, perhaps, the most notable figure. 
 She altogether lacked, however, any expression of con- 
 tentment with herself or her surroundings. Her eyes 
 were tired, her lips a little tremulous. She had found the 
 material things for which she craved, and she was finding, 
 also, that they left her only a looker-on at the life which 
 she longed to enter. At that moment she was particu-
 
 PASSERS-BY 161 
 
 larly depressed. Gilbert Hannaway had entered the 
 room a few minutes before, and after a glance at her com- 
 panion had passed on with a stiff bow and a look in his 
 face which she bitterly resented. 
 
 "I can hire you a chaperon, of course," Lord Ellingham 
 said. "I dare say my lawyers could find one who would 
 be able to introduce you more or less into society. But 
 you yourself know whether this would be wise. There 
 are certain things which we cannot ignore. They lie too 
 close behind us." 
 
 She toyed with her food and sipped her wine. "A few 
 months ago," she said, "this would have seemed paradise 
 to me, to be sitting here in the sort of clothes I wanted to 
 wear, in the sort of place I wanted to be in. Life is very 
 disappointing." 
 
 "We all find it so," he answered softly. "For ten 
 years of my life I myself was penniless, almost an ad- 
 venturer. All my good fortune came too late. I too have 
 the shadows always around me. I sometimes rise in the 
 morning afraid to look at my letters, afraid to step out 
 into the streets. At night I am only thankful because 
 another day has passed without disaster." 
 
 She looked at him curiously. It was not often that he 
 spoke to her so intimately. "You are a brave man," she 
 said. "No one would fancy that you were afraid." 
 
 He laughed quietly. "We know very little, after all," 
 
 11
 
 162 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he said, "of the people who jostle through life by our 
 sides. We see them with smiling faces, making a brave 
 show to the world. We know little of their inner lives, 
 of their secret troubles, of the shadows which sometimes 
 make life seem little better than a nightmare. There are 
 others besides myself who walk on the brink of a precipice." 
 
 " I wonder," she said thoughtfully, " whether he you 
 know who I mean will dare to come to England." 
 
 "Honestly," the marquis answered, "I believe it is the 
 one place where he would be surest of refuge. For one 
 thing, he would want to find me out, and for another, it 
 is said that there are districts back there in Soho where 
 the foreign criminal is safer than anywhere else in Europe. 
 Pierre is in London, I know. He summoned me to meet 
 him at some little cafe" last night." 
 
 "You did not go?" she asked. 
 
 "I did not go," he answered. "If I once recognized 
 the existence of any of these men it would be the begin- 
 ning of the end. There would be not one of them to satisfy, 
 but fifty. One can make terms with an individual, but 
 scarcely with a whole community. And some day," he 
 added, "there will be Marcel to deal with, Marcel fresh 
 from prison, his blood boiling with anger, his fingers itch- 
 ing to be at my throat. If ever they do release him he 
 will tell the whole truth, whatever happens to him. Ana- 
 toile was dangerous. Marcel free will be worse. But,"
 
 PASSERS-BY 163 
 
 he added, in a lighter tone, "we have had enough of this 
 serious talk. How does the new automobile go ?" 
 
 "Beautifully," she answered, with a little sigh. "I 
 have been out in it every day. If I were only not so 
 lonely!" 
 
 "Why does that young man," Lord Ellingham asked, 
 "look at you so strangely? His face somehow seems 
 familiar to me." 
 
 Christine half turned in her seat. Then she looked 
 down upon her plate. "You know him, I think," she 
 said. "It is Mr. Gilbert Hannaway." 
 
 "Of course," Lord Ellingham remarked. "I remember 
 him quite well. He was in Paris, was he not, on the night 
 of the great rout ? He has been to see me since. He is a 
 little interested, I think, in our affairs. That does not 
 explain, however, why he should look at you as though 
 you were providing him with some cause for personal 
 offense. ' 
 
 "I have seen him once or twice," Christine said slowly. 
 "He was inclined to be rather nice to me. Then he said 
 rome things which I could not tolerate." 
 
 "You quarreled?" 
 
 She nodded. "I suppose so," she answered. "He has 
 not been to see me since. No one has been to see me for 
 all these weeks not since those awful reporters left off 
 coming to ask me about Anatoile. Do you know," she
 
 164 PASSERS-BY 
 
 went on, leaning across the table, "I do not think that I 
 can stand it any longer. Life seems to come so near, and 
 yet to stay so far away. Some nights I feel like putting on 
 my best clothes and going to the theatres or the music- 
 halls, or even out into the streets, and saying to the people 
 who look at me, 'Come and talk to me if you will.' I 
 must talk to some one or I shall go mad. I see crowds 
 of people every day, nice-looking people, who look as 
 though they would like to talk to me. Some day I shall 
 single one of them out and carry him off." 
 
 Lord Ellingham looked grave. 
 
 "It is a dangerous way to make friends," he said, 
 "especially in London." 
 
 "Or," she went on, "I feel sometimes that I could 
 throw off all my beautiful clothes, and rush out into the 
 streets and search for Ambrose and Chicot. Many people 
 spoke to us when we tramped the streets and sang for 
 pennies, more people than speak to me now." 
 
 They left the restaurant a few moments later. Lord 
 Ellingham handed her into the smart little automobile 
 which was waiting. 
 
 "You cannot come a little way with me?" she asked 
 timidly. 
 
 "You may drop me at the Foreign Office, if you will," 
 he answered. "I have a busy afternoon. Besides, you 
 must remember," he added, taking his place by her side,
 
 PASSERS-BY 165 
 
 " that it is not well for either you or me that we are seen 
 too much together." 
 
 The short drive passed almost in silence. 
 
 "When can you take me out again?" Christine asked, 
 as they parted. 
 
 "Not for a week, at least," he answered. "I will try to 
 come round and see you, however, before then." 
 
 Christine was whirled away homeward. At the corner 
 of Piccadilly, however, there was a block. She sat looking 
 idly about her, watching the string of carriages go by and 
 looking into the faces of the streams of people. Suddenly 
 she gave a little cry, almost of terror. A weird little form 
 had sprung up through the open window of her automo- 
 bile, and was sitting there waving his worn little hat with 
 frantic demonstrations of pleasure. With a little gasp 
 she recognized Chicot. She leaned forward and spoke 
 to the chauffeur. Then she descended into the street. 
 Chicot, still waving his hat, ran on before, to the great 
 amusement of the passers-by. He led her straight to 
 where Ambrose was thumping out his miserable music, a 
 few yards beyond the corner of a quiet thoroughfare. He 
 went on striking the keys of his instrument. He did not 
 seem to recognize her. Suddenly she remembered that 
 she had been brutally selfish. 
 
 "Ambrose 1" she exclaimed. "Chicot has just come to 
 fetch me. I ought to have found you out before."
 
 166 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Ambrose continued to play, as though he had not heard. 
 She began to feel almost timid. 
 
 "Ambrose," she said, coming quite close to the barrow, 
 "do you not mean to speak to me?" 
 
 He ceased his playing then and raised his eyes to hers. 
 Her heart smote her as she saw the change in him. He 
 looked much older, and she knew very well that he had 
 been drinking. The signs were there, and she recognized 
 them. 
 
 " You should not talk to me in the streets," he said hi a 
 dry, colorless tone. "People will make remarks." 
 
 "Nonsense!" she answered. "You forget how short 
 a time it is since I stood by your side and sang." 
 
 "No, I do not forget," he said, "but those times are 
 past and gone. There is no need to remember them." 
 
 " Ambrose," she said, resting her delicately gloved hand 
 upon the top of the piano, "I am very lonely." 
 
 Something seemed to leap into his face, but it was so 
 quickly suppressed that she could not tell for certain 
 whether it had really been there or not. 
 
 "That," he said, "will soon pass away. I think that 
 you had better not be seen talking to me. Chicot and I 
 will move on. We are very glad indeed," he said softly, 
 "to have seen you." 
 
 "Ambrose," she begged, "will you not come and see 
 me? There are things I want to talk about. I shall be
 
 PASSERS-BY 167 
 
 in all this evening. My address is 42 Victoria Flats, in 
 the Buckingham Palace Road. Will you come, please, 
 and bring Chicot?" 
 
 "To-night?" he asked slowly. 
 
 "To-night," she repeated. 
 
 "Yes, we will come," he promised, "if you really wish 
 it, Chicot and I." 
 
 "You will not forget?" she asked, as he picked up the 
 handles of his barrow and prepared to move away. 
 
 "We shall not forget," he answered gravely.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE marquis came home from the House early on 
 the following afternoon, to find his study invaded 
 by his wife, who was dictating notes to his secretary. 
 
 "How charming!" she exclaimed. "Do say that you 
 can have tea with me. We will have it sent in here, 
 and Mr. Penton shall go away and type the letters I 
 have given him. We shall not be disturbed, for I have 
 given orders that I am absolutely not at home this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "So far as I am concerned," said the marquis, "I shall 
 be delighted. I have an hour and a hah* to spare, and I 
 really came home to rest." 
 
 "Are you speaking to-night?" the marchioness asked. 
 
 "I imagine so," he answered. "We are being fright- 
 fully harried over this Algerian business." 
 
 Penton hurried away with his note-book. The mar- 
 chioness rang the bell and ordered tea. 
 
 "Francis," she said, "I hope you won't think me quite 
 impossible if I ask you a somewhat bourgeois question." 
 
 "My dear," he answered, "ask me whatever you 
 will."
 
 PASSERS-BY 169 
 
 "Who is the young lady with whom you have lunched 
 and dined several times lately, and who has, I think, been 
 seen in your automobile?" 
 
 The marquis did not reply for a moment. His wife 
 drew up an easy chair to the fire, and seated herself in it. 
 
 "I hope you will not misunderstand the spirit in which 
 I ask you this question," she said, smiling at him a little 
 apologetically. "I am simply curious. If you were a 
 different sort of man I should not dream, of course, of 
 mentioning it." 
 
 The marquis waited while a footman who had entered 
 the room arranged tea upon a little round table. As soon 
 as the door was closed he turned to his wife. 
 
 "My dear Margaret," he said, "the young lady in ques- 
 tion is connected with a part of my life which I am only 
 anxious to forget myself, and which I sincerely wish that 
 a good many other people would forget also. However, 
 there she is, a person to be explained or not, according to 
 the extent of your curiosity." 
 
 The marchioness shrugged her shoulders. "I never 
 allow my curiosity," she said, "to go beyond bounds. 
 At the same time, I should like to ask you this. The young 
 person, you say, is connected with a part of your life which 
 you would prefer to forget. Is she connected also with the 
 anxieties which seem lately to have made a changed man 
 of you?"
 
 170 PASSERS-BY 
 
 The marquis sipped his tea thoughtfully. 
 
 "I had hoped," he said, "that I was exercising a little 
 more self-control." 
 
 "The change," she remarked, "may not have been 
 obvious to every one. I, however, have noticed it. Your 
 nervous breakdown, of which the papers made so much, 
 was, I imagine, only a pretext for getting away from Eng- 
 land. You show a very brave front to the world, but I 
 am an observant woman." 
 
 The marquis nodded thoughtfully. "The young lady," 
 he said, "is certainly connected with events in the past 
 which are just now giving me a great deal of anxiety. I 
 may add that when she appeared I was very much at a 
 loss to know what to do with her. I very nearly came to 
 you to beg for your patronage." 
 
 The marchioness sighed gently. "Anything that I could 
 do " she murmured. 
 
 "I am quite sure that you would not have failed me," 
 he interrupted. "Unfortunately, however, any direct con- 
 nection between that young person and my own house- 
 hold was not exactly desirable." 
 
 "I cannot be of any assistance to you, then?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He came and sat on the arm of her chair and took her 
 hand in his. "My dear Margaret," he said, "I fear that 
 you cannot. To tell you the truth, I am very much on the
 
 PASSERS-BY 171 
 
 brink of a volcano. It may blow up, and it may not. I 
 have to take my chances." 
 
 "You would not care, I suppose," she suggested hesitat- 
 ingly, "to tell me all about it?" 
 
 "My dear," he answered, "I could not." 
 
 The marchioness was thoughtful for a moment. "There 
 was a man," she said, "murdered a few weeks ago in a 
 young lady's apartment. I forget her name, or the name 
 of the man, but several of the penny society papers hinted 
 that she was the friend of a nobleman preeminent in 
 politics and society. No name was mentioned, of course, 
 but it was quite clear that it was you who was meant. 
 Was this the young lady in question?" 
 
 "It was," the marquis admitted. 
 
 "And the murder took place in her rooms?" 
 
 "It did," he admitted. 
 
 "Had that murder," she asked, "any connection with 
 the events of which you have been telling, or rather which 
 you will not tell me of?" 
 
 The marquis nodded. "Without a doubt," he answered. 
 
 The marchioness was again thoughtful. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I do not suppose there is anything 
 else I can say. If you had cared to give me your confi- 
 dence " 
 
 He laid his hand upon her shoulder gently, almost 
 caressingly. "My dear," he said, "if I could give it to
 
 172 PASSERS-BY 
 
 any one I would give it to you. As a matter of fact, I 
 cannot. I am not the only one who has to walk through 
 life with a black shadow at his heels. Some day I may 
 crush it, or it may crush me. One cannot tell. Only, it is 
 quite enough that it should wait upon my footsteps. I 
 would not have you burdened for one minute by my 
 anxieties." 
 
 "You are too kind," she murmured; "kinder and more 
 considerate than I would have you be. If I thought that 
 it would help you in the slightest I should insist upon your 
 telling me everything." 
 
 He smiled. "You are very generous," he said. "We 
 will let the subject drop for the present. Sometimes in 
 my saner moments I fancy that I am mad to take so 
 seriously anything which, after all, is more like opera 
 bouffe than stern reality." 
 
 A servant interrupted them. There was a person below 
 who desired to see his lordship. He had been there once 
 before and had been admitted; a dwarf or cripple he 
 seemed to be. 
 
 "You may show him up," the marquis directed. "I 
 will see him in the next room." 
 
 The marchioness sighed. "Then our tete-a-tete is at an 
 end," she murmured. She rose and shook out her skirts. 
 "You had better see your little man in here," she said. 
 "It will be more comfortable. And, Francis, I should
 
 PASSERS-BY 173 
 
 like you to remember this," she added. "I have asked 
 for your confidence, and if you should change your mind 
 at any time I should be glad to have it." 
 
 He drew her to him and kissed her upon the lips. 
 "Dear," he said, "some day it may be necessary that you 
 should have it, but I hope that that day is not yet." 
 
 She swept out, leaving behind her a lace handkerchief, 
 which he picked up from the floor and regarded curiously 
 for several moments, and a breath of lingering perfume, 
 something like the odor of dried rose-leaves mingled with 
 lavender. The marquis sighed as he walked slowly back 
 to the hearth-rug. 
 
 Ambrose was shown in a minute or two later. He fol- 
 lowed sullenly an immaculate footman. His own attire 
 was by no means orderly. His clothes were ill-brushed, 
 his boots were unpolished. He was certainly not a pre- 
 possessing object. 
 
 "So you have found me out again," the marquis re- 
 marked, as the door closed behind the servant who had 
 admitted him. 
 
 "I have found you out again," Ambrose answered. 
 "Don't think, though, that I have come on my own ac- 
 count. I have come neither for help nor with threats. 
 I am an envoy." 
 
 The marquis glanced at him shrewdly. "Come," he 
 said, "this is a new departure. You are in touch, then,
 
 174 PASSERS-BY 
 
 I presume, with some of our friends from the other 
 side?" 
 
 "They are here in London," Ambrose answered. "You 
 have read nothing of interest in the papers the last few 
 days, then?" 
 
 " Nothing," the marquis answered. 
 
 "You did not read," Ambrose continued, "of the man 
 who killed a warder and escaped from the fortress prison 
 of Enselle?" 
 
 "No," the marquis answered. "I have not read it" 
 
 "Marcel was his name," Ambrose continued slowly. 
 "Marcel was his right name, too, only in prison they 
 found him another." 
 
 The marquis stretched out his hand and felt for the 
 mantelpiece. His eyes were half closed. His cheeks were 
 ashen. " Do you mean," he asked, " that he that the 
 vicomte has escaped ?" 
 
 "I mean more," the dwarf answered slowly. "He is in 
 London. I come to you from him. He has sent me." 
 
 The marquis was like a man who, after a long 
 struggle, finds himself face to face at last with the end, 
 the end which is death. There was resignation as well 
 as despair in his face, as he turned away and stood 
 with his head resting upon his hands, his elbows upon 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 "They are both here," Ambrose said; "Pierre and
 
 PASSERS-BY 175 
 
 Marcel. They bid me tell you that they have been trifled 
 with long enough. They bid me say that if within a week 
 you do not appoint a meeting-place the covenant of silence 
 is at an end." 
 
 The marquis was silent. He understood exactly what 
 it was that they meant. For some time he did not stir. 
 Then he turned around and faced his visitor. "What sort 
 of a mood is our friend in?" he asked. 
 
 "A murderous one, if he has not his own way," Am- 
 brose answered grimly. "I think, milord, that you had 
 better come." 
 
 "So do I," the marquis admitted. "Where is this place 
 you spoke of?" 
 
 "In Charles Street, off Warder Street the Cafe* Kulm 
 it is called." 
 
 The marquis nodded. "I dare say I could find it," he 
 declared, "but I think, on the whole, it would be better if 
 our friends came here. People have such a trick of recog- 
 nizing one in the most out-of-the-way places." 
 
 "It would be better, perhaps," Ambrose admitted, 
 "but Marcel has lost his nerve. He is terrified to move. 
 I am not sure that he will come." 
 
 "He is probably safer here than in Soho," the marquis 
 answered. "So far as I am concerned, at any rate, he has 
 a safe conduct. Tell them to come at twelve o'clock to- 
 night."
 
 176 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Ambrose turned toward the door. "Very well," he 
 said, "I will deliver your message." 
 
 With his hand upon the door-knob he hesitated and 
 faced the marquis once more. "Listen," he said. "If 
 they speak to you of Christine it would be better not to 
 "!et them know her whereabouts. They are like madmen, 
 these two. They are not safe to trust." 
 
 "I will remember," the marquis answered, watching 
 his companion with curious eyes. He was thinking of 
 Anatoile 1
 
 CHAPTER XXin 
 
 ON his return from the House that night, the marquis 
 let himself in with his latch-key, and went at once 
 to the study. His secretary was there, engaged with a pile 
 of letters. 
 
 "Routed the enemy, I hope, sir?" Pen ton remarked, 
 rising. 
 
 "For the present," Lord Ellingham answered. "There 
 is not much satisfaction, however, in holding office with a 
 majority as slim as ours. I won't keep you any longer, 
 Penton. I have some queer sort of visitors coming in, 
 people in whom I am somewhat interested, and I want to 
 talk to them alone." 
 
 The young man picked up his papers and prepared to 
 leave. The marquis's valet, who had heard his arrival, 
 had come silently into the room and was relieving his 
 master of coat and hat. 
 
 "Whiskey and brandy and soda on the sideboard," the 
 latter directed, "a box of cigars, and some of my own 
 Russian cigarettes. Nothing more to-night, Perkins, 
 except wait a moment." 
 
 The man came back and bowed inquiringly. 
 
 12
 
 178 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "There will be two men here to see me directly. They 
 should arrive about twelve o'clock. They will probably 
 look like burglars, or some sort of desperate characters. 
 It does n't matter. I will see them at once. Show them 
 in here." 
 
 "Very good, your lordship," the man answered. 
 
 The marquis found himself alone. The long hand of 
 his clock pointed to five minutes of the hour. Curiously 
 enough, although he fully realized the seriousness of the 
 situation, he felt more cheerful than he had done for 
 months. At last th<?se nameless fears were to take to them- 
 selves definite shape. He would know exactly what was 
 demanded of him. He would know exactly where he 
 stood. If it were a question of money he ran over in 
 his head rapidly his sources of income. For his position, 
 he had little enough to spare, and yet there were means 
 of raising capital, if it must be raised. If it were money 
 they wanted, and money only, he might, after all, fight 
 his way through. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck. He rose from his chair, and 
 mixing himself some brandy and soda drank it off at a 
 draught. It was rarely that he touched spirits, and he 
 felt the effect at once. Whatever he might have been, he 
 told himself, as he walked up and down the room, his 
 hands behind him, his brows knit, his eyes flashing with 
 resolute fire, he was now Marquis of Ellingham, a dis-
 
 " Marquis of Elliugham ! " he cried. " Lord Ellingham, indeed ! " 
 
 {Page 179
 
 PASSERS-BY 179 
 
 tinguished politician, the head of a great house, a man 
 entitled to respect and consideration. He would not allow 
 himself to be abjectly frightened because that terrible 
 chapter of his past life was to be laid bare. He would 
 hear what these men had to say. Afterward he would 
 consider what was best to be done. He was strong enough 
 to hold his own. He had influence, power, and the security 
 of an established position. He had the choice of many 
 weapons. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The servant with some 
 hesitation, notwithstanding his orders, ushered in the two 
 expected guests. 
 
 "The gentlemen whom your lordship was expecting," 
 he announced. 
 
 Marcel and Pierre entered. They both wore long coats 
 buttoned up to their throats. They both carried bowler 
 hats in their hands. They were both gloveless. The door 
 closed behind them. The receding footsteps of the ser- 
 vant were heard. Then Marcel, who had been breathing 
 softly but thickly since his entrance, clenching his teeth, 
 obviously at war with a storm of passions, broke loose. 
 
 "Marquis of Ellingham!" he cried. "Lord Elling- 
 ham, indeed ! The mansion of my Lord Ellingham ! 
 The butler of my Lord Ellingham ! Look at me ! " 
 
 He threw open his coat. His blue serge suit was ragged 
 and shiny, his linen frayed and soiled.
 
 180 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Look at me!" he exclaimed. "Me! A vicomte of 
 thirteen generations, an aristocrat, fresh from the convict 
 prison. Do you know what I have been through ? Cham- 
 pion, you, Ellingham, or whatever you call yourself?" he 
 cried, pointing at the marquis with shaking finger. "Do 
 you know what I have been through while you have been 
 living here in luxury? I have scrubbed my cell, I have 
 eaten bad food, I have herded with swine, I have drunk 
 water, bad water. I have smoked a cigarette once a day 
 or a week, perhaps, of tobacco which the warders refused. 
 And I have done these things in your name. It is you 
 who should have been there, you who should have come 
 and somehow or other dragged me out. But you, no ! 
 You were a traitor. You left me to rot. But I am free ! 
 Perhaps it is my turn for a little time now." 
 
 "Be calm, my dear Marcel," his companion begged. 
 " It is not the time to excite yourself. Those days are past. 
 We come here to talk of the future." 
 
 The marquis bowed and pointed to chairs. He pointed, 
 also, to the sideboard. " I am sorry," he said, " to find that 
 you come here to-night in a spirit of recrimination. I will 
 admit that on the occasion you have mentioned the luck 
 went against you. Yet I do not see that I am greatly to 
 be blamed." 
 
 Marcel, who had been on his way to a chair, swayed 
 upon his feet. His cheeks were livid. His eyes seemed
 
 PASSERS-BY 181 
 
 almost as though they would start from his head black 
 eyes with red rims, ugly, uncompromising things.' 
 
 "Not greatly to be blamed?" he repeated. "Not 
 greatly to be blamed, when you stole away and left the 
 others to their fate ? When you robbed me of my means 
 of escape, robbed me " 
 
 "One moment," the marquis interrupted. "What is 
 this you are charging me with ? I robbed you of the means 
 you provided for your own escape. Well, if you had 
 meant to leave us in the lurch, I scarcely see how you 
 can blame me for seizing my opportunity." 
 
 "It is not only that," Marcel cried. "It is this, this, 
 this ! " throwing out his arms in a comprehensive gesture. 
 " Whose money has gone to the furnishing of this mansion ? 
 Whose money pays the servant who brought us in here, 
 keeping us all the time at arm's length as though we were 
 vagrants and tramps? I, Vicomte de Neuilly, great- 
 grandson of a Duke of France. God in heaven ! I ask 
 whose money pays for the clothes upon your back? For 
 the carriages and horses, the automobiles, the whole 
 luxury of your life?" 
 
 The marquis was looking genuinely astonished. " Whose 
 money is paying for these things ?" he asked. "My own ! 
 Whose else?" 
 
 Marcel reached out his hand for the brandy. He drank 
 nearly a tumblerful, neat, before he spoke again. Then
 
 182 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he came up to within a yard of the marquis' chair, and 
 stood therewith outstretched hands. "I will not strike," 
 he said. "I will not ask you why you mock me. I am 
 here to tell you this. You are worse than a thief. You 
 are a thief who steals from his own kind. You are a man 
 who breaks his own laws. You are the lowest of the low. 
 But unless you would have the whole world know to- 
 morrow, or the next day, what we know, you will make 
 instant restitution. You think that I shall fear to speak, 
 you think that I am afraid to feel the handcuffs once more 
 on my wrists, the irons on my ankles. I would rather 
 feel them. I would rather go back to that prison and rot 
 in my cell than leave you here in luxury, unpunished." 
 
 "Upon my word," the marquis said, "my dear Marcel, 
 you are becoming incomprehensible. I tell you frankly 
 that I cannot see that you have against me any very great 
 grievance. I alone escaped, it is true, where you others 
 suffered. I fought a little too vigorously in that first rush, 
 but for what happened in the struggle you can scarcely 
 hold me responsible. I should have sought you out after- 
 ward, have provided money for your defense, have come 
 to lighten the rigors of your prison life, perhaps. Well, 
 I did n't. There you have matter for complaint. But 
 what more, what more have you to say against me?" 
 
 Marcel was almost hysterical. "What more?" he 
 shrieked. "Why this! Not only did you keep away
 
 PASSERS-BY 183 
 
 from us, but you came over here and lived in luxury upon 
 our money." 
 
 "Either you are mad," Lord Ellingham declared, "or 
 I am. I have never seen a penny of your money. All 
 that there was in the house in the Place Noire that night 
 was seized by the gendarmes. I escaped with less than 
 thirty louis in my pocket. I reached London absolutely 
 penniless." 
 
 Marcel sank back into his chair. He tried to speak, 
 but a sudden pallor crept over his face. The dissipations 
 of the last few days, coming so soon after the privations 
 of his prison life, had been too much for him. Pierre 
 bent over and unfastened his collar. The marquis brought 
 more brandy. Marcel slipped to the floor and lay there 
 gasping like a dying man. 
 
 "Shall I telephone for a doctor?" Lord Ellingham 
 asked. 
 
 Pierre shook his head. "No," he answered quickly. 
 " He will revive. He was like this for a minute or two last 
 night. It is nothing, an affair of the nerves. He has 
 brooded upon this. Your answer excited him. See, he 
 is coming to already." 
 
 Marcel moved his head. He sat up. He gripped Lord 
 Ellingham's wrist. "Are you going to deny," he whis- 
 pered hoarsely, "that you brought four million francs 
 away with you that night?"
 
 184 PASSERS-BY 
 
 The marquis laughed indulgently. "My good fellow," 
 he said, " I brought exactly what I have told you. I know 
 no more about four million francs than you do." 
 
 Marcel staggered to his feet. His mouth and eyes were 
 wide open. He leaned toward Lord Ellingham and 
 caught him by the shoulders. " Say that again 1 " he hissed. 
 "Say it again ! Keep your face where it is. Say it to me 
 now." 
 
 "I repeat," the marquis said quietly, "that I brought 
 away from the house in the Place Noire less than thirty 
 lou is. Of the larger sums I never had any certain knowl- 
 edge. I took it for granted that you and the others had 
 them somewhere safely put away for the time when you 
 would be able to seize them." 
 
 Marcel staggered back. "God in heaven!" he ex- 
 claimed. "If this should be true! If it should be 
 true!" 
 
 "Every word that I have said to you," the marquis said 
 earnestly, "is absolutely and entirely true. You speak of 
 four million francs. Where are they, then ?" 
 
 "Where are they?" Marcel shrieked. "Why, they 
 were within a few feet of you when you escaped. What 
 has become of the three? You shall tell me," he added, 
 gripping the marquis' elbow. 
 
 "What has become of whom?" the marquis asked, in 
 amazement
 
 PASSERS-BY 185 
 
 "Why, of that d d trio," Marcel cried, "the girl, 
 
 the hunchback, and his piano?" 
 
 The marquis freed himself, and sat down in his chair. 
 "A girl, a hunchback, and a piano," he repeated quietly. 
 "What of them?" 
 
 "You know very well," Marcel answered quickly. 
 "You escaped with them. You turned the corner of the 
 Place Noire, pushing the barrow which supported that 
 instrument, with the hunchback hopping along by your 
 side, and the monkey sitting on his shoulder. Did n't 
 I see you where I lay struggling with that infernal English- 
 man ? I saw you go, you and four million francs. Where 
 are they ? I tell you," he continued, with a determined air, 
 rising to his feet, "I will find them. I will find them if I 
 go into every city of the world." 
 
 The marquis was still bewildered. "The money " he 
 began. 
 
 "It was hidden in the false back of the piano," Marcel 
 hissed. "I arranged that when I made up my mind to 
 escape with them in disguise. Either the dwarf or the girl 
 has found it. I '11 follow them. I '11 follow them as long 
 as there 's breath in my body." 
 
 The marquis was silent. He was looking into the rem- 
 nants of the fire. "Four million francs," he muttered, 
 "in a piano, with a girl and a hunchback and a monkey?"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 AMBROSE reclined upon an easy chair, with Chicot, 
 well fed and happy, upon his knee. Opposite to 
 him sat Christine, watching the pair with an interest which 
 she found it hard to account for, even to herself. 
 
 "You are happy, Christine?" Ambrose asked suddenly. 
 
 "Of course not," she answered. "No one ever is, es- 
 pecially when they expect to be. A few months ago I 
 plodded the streets with you, and my feet ached, and I was 
 cold to the bone. I was sick to death of coarse clothes, 
 sick to death of our struggling life. This is what I dreamed 
 of then, dreamed of and prayed for a home, warm, 
 luxurious, decent clothes, servants, plenty to eat and 
 drink. And now I have them, Ambrose, as you see, and I 
 find that it does n't make much difference. Take a cigar- 
 ette, Ambrose. You love good tobacco. These should 
 please you." 
 
 Ambrose helped himself from a tin box at his side. 
 "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "it is because you are 
 not rich enough. Christine," he added, with a curious 
 gleam in his eyes, "supposing you had money, a great 
 deal of money?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 187 
 
 Christine sighed. "I am beginning to think," she said, 
 a little doubtfully, "that there are other things." 
 
 "There is nothing," Ambrose said grimly, "which 
 money will not buy, if only you have enough of it. When 
 I say enough of it, I mean a great deal millions, Chris- 
 tine, millions!" 
 
 "Will it buy me friends?" she asked, a little bitterly. 
 "I have beautiful rooms here, plenty to eat and drink, the 
 sort of clothes that I like, but I am very lonely, Ambrose. 
 I am lonely half the time." 
 
 He looked at her steadfastly. There was an uneasy 
 seriousness in his face. His eyes seemed almost dilated. 
 " I think," he said, " that you have, after all, something of 
 the spirit of the vagabond in your blood. Our life," he 
 continued, speaking half to himself, "was not always so 
 miserable as in London. Down in the south there was 
 sunshine, sunshine always, dry roads, green fields, blue 
 skies, the song of birds, and fruit, bread, and red wine at 
 least, always for the asking. Christine, we were mad to 
 come here." 
 
 " Mad ! " she echoed. " Oh, I wonder ! " 
 "Can you doubt it?" he asked, almost fiercely. "It 
 was an evil day that brought us across the channel, that 
 set us tramping about the streets of London. We starved 
 here on what would have kept us for a week in the simpler 
 places."
 
 188 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "It was I who insisted on coming, she said thought- 
 fully. "I wonder if I am sorry?" 
 
 "If you are not," he answered, "God knows that you 
 should be! There, from day to day, we were at least 
 natural. We sang and we made music, we rejoiced 
 with the harvesters, and bowed our heads before the 
 simple coffin carried along the straight white road. 
 We lived with the people there, Christine. Their joys 
 were ours, and their sorrows. Here there is no one to 
 care if we die to-morrow; no one, that is to say, who 
 counts." 
 
 "You are right, Ambrose," she said. "Sometimes I 
 am tired of my beautiful rooms, my dresses, and my 
 carriage. Sometimes I would give them all for a day of 
 the old sunshine." 
 
 Ambrose leaned a little forward in his chair. His long 
 fingers were nervously interlaced. His voice shook. 
 "Christine," he said, "let us go back. I swear to you that 
 there shall be no more suffering, that you shall have enough 
 to buy pretty clothes, the best food and wine. You shall 
 know no suffering; you shall sing only when you like. 
 Only come. This life is not good for either of us, and it 
 will be worse." 
 
 "How do you mean worse?" she asked. 
 
 "I mean," he answered, " that Marcel is here Marcel 
 and Pierre. They will track you down, Christine. They
 
 PASSERS-BY 189 
 
 will find out where you are, and they will come and de- 
 mand a share of all that you have. Christine, let us go 
 away. Let us go further afield, say to Italy. We can be 
 hidden there." 
 
 "Why hide?" she asked. "What is there to hide 
 from?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Ambrose looked into 
 the fire. It seemed as though he were debating with him- 
 self whether he should speak of secret things. 
 
 "They are desperate men, these," he said. "They will 
 try, first of all, to get what they can from Lord Ellingham. 
 I think that they will fail. Then they will come to you. 
 Anatoile came." 
 
 She shivered. Her face was suddenly pale. "Don't 
 mention that man's name ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 "I am sorry," he answered humbly. "For the moment 
 I forgot. Yet listen to me, Christine, if you will. I did not 
 stop you when you vowed that the one object of your life 
 was to find the man who had escaped by our side from the 
 Place Noire that night. There was something righteous 
 in your search. I figured to myself that you would find 
 him, that you would say to him : * Back to Paris ! Back to 
 the aid of the man who, in addition to his own, is suffering 
 for your crimes!' I did not imagine that it was only 
 for the love of gold that you were hunting him down. I 
 fancied that in your heart there was some pity for the man
 
 190 PASSERS-BY 
 
 who was sighing out his life behind the walls of a French 
 
 prison." 
 
 "Pity for him!" she interrupted scornfully. "But I 
 forget. You do not understand. Listen ! I did start out 
 on my search with all the feelings in my heart of which 
 you have spoken, but there came a time when I saw 
 things differently." 
 
 "The man was too clever for you," Ambrose muttered. 
 
 "It was not that," she answered, in a low tone, and 
 without any sign of resentment. "It was not that, indeed, 
 only I found that things were different from what I had 
 imagined." 
 
 "And now," Ambrose murmured, "you take his money, 
 you live in luxury on his bounty. It is not a good thing, 
 Christine, for you are nothing to him, or he to you. It 
 would be better to be free." 
 
 She shook her head. "You do not understand," she 
 said. 
 
 He sat forward in his chair. The firelight played upon 
 his long haggard face, his uneven features, his tangled 
 hair. Yet the care he had taken with his person was not 
 altogether wasted. His face, notwithstanding its strange 
 setting, might have been, for those few moments, the face 
 of a poet or a great enthusiast. His eyes were burning 
 with the fires which were consuming him. 
 
 " Christine," he said, " if it were possible for us to steal
 
 PASSERS-BY 191 
 
 away, you and I, and the little one here," he added, draw- 
 ing his hand over Chicot's head, "if it were possible, I 
 say, to steal away, to find some corner where the sun 
 shone and we were safe from pursuit, and for you to have 
 all the money that you could spend, all the luxuries in 
 which it were possible to indulge, would you come, Chris- 
 tine? Say to Greece," he continued, as one who has re- 
 ceived a happy inspiration. "You have often spoken of 
 Greece. It is a beautiful country. You would like to go 
 there?" 
 
 Christine looked at him, as though doubtful whether he 
 were really in earnest. "Do you mean with the piano?" 
 she asked. " Do you mean beg our way, as we did in the 
 old days?" 
 
 He threw out his hands with a gesture of contempt. 
 "No," he answered. "I want you to imagine, just imagine 
 that you were rich, that I could make you rich without the 
 help of Lord Ellingham or Marcel, or any of their kin. 
 Would you leave England then, steal away without a 
 word to any one?" 
 
 "With you and Chicot?" she asked doubtfully. 
 
 "With Chicot and me," he answered, with trembling 
 lips. "Have we not cared for you always? Have you 
 not been dearer to us than our lives ? Have we ever failed 
 you?" 
 
 She shook her head. "It is not that," she said. "After
 
 192 PASSERS-BY 
 
 all, why need we discuss this seriously ? It is all imagina- 
 tion. You have not a fortune to give. Even if you had 
 
 "Well," he interrupted breathlessly, "even if I had?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I think I have had enough," she 
 said, "of playing the vagrant. I think I have had enough 
 of being outside everything there is in life worth having. 
 Can't you realize, Ambrose, that never since I left An- 
 nonay have I had one really happy day ? There has been 
 excitement, and tragedy, and pain, and suffering, flashes 
 of joy, but long times of misery. Oh, I am tired of it ! I 
 want something that is nearer the heart of life itself. 
 I want friends and a home. I want 
 
 He was suddenly pale. He struck the chair by his side 
 with clenched fist. He leaned forward. He seemed al- 
 most like an accuser. " You want a husband ! " he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes met his without 
 flinching. "What if I do?" she asked. "It is terrible, 
 I suppose, to confess it, but is it so very unnatural ? Women 
 were made to have some one take care of them." 
 
 "Haven't you been taken care of all your life?" he 
 asked fiercely. "Haven't you been taken care of when 
 there were dangers on every side, through hard times and 
 difficult ones?" 
 
 "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "You have been very, 
 very good, Ambrose. Don't think that I could ever for-
 
 PASSERS-BY 193 
 
 get it. You have been the best of guardians. You have 
 looked after me as no one else could have done." 
 
 "God knows!" he muttered under his breath. 
 
 "But," she continued, a little lamely, "it is not alto- 
 gether the same thing." 
 
 He rose to his feet. The hand which held Chicot was 
 trembling. Chicot leaped up onto his shoulder, and 
 pressed his hairy face against his master's. 
 
 "I understand," Ambrose said, a little hoarsely. "For- 
 get what I have said. I have no fortune to give, no 
 fortune!" 
 
 13
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 !" Ambrose muttered. "Hot, fiery, plenty 
 of it ! Waiter, more brandy. Bring the bottle." 
 
 The man hesitated. Ambrose laid a sovereign upon the 
 table. 
 
 "Do you think that I cannot pay?" he asked. "Is that 
 why you hesitate ? Or do you think that I am drunk ? 
 Look at my hand. It is steady enough, is n't it ? Bring 
 me the brandy at once." 
 
 The man hurried away with a little shrug of the 
 shoulders. If his queer customer chose to drink too 
 much it was not his fault. He was at least able to speak 
 clearly; he had no signs of approaching drunkenness. 
 Yet this was the fifth time he had been served with 
 brandy the last twenty minutes. 
 
 "It is a mad dream," Ambrose muttered. "Four mil- 
 lion francs is too small a sum. If the skies rained gold till 
 one stood knee-deep in it, it were hard for such as I to 
 wade through it to happiness. What shall we do, Chicot, 
 now, eh ? Shall we give it up ? Shall we try the river, or 
 shall we turn our backs upon this cursed country and let 
 Christine go ? "
 
 PASSERS-BY 195 
 
 Chicot yawned. Obviously the question did not in- 
 terest him. He had dined well, much better than usual, 
 and he would have preferred that his master had chosen 
 to go straight home. Since it was not so, however, he was 
 content to doze in the warmth of his master's pocket. The 
 waiter brought the bottle of brandy, and Ambrose drank 
 once more, not in sips, but in quick, hurried gulps. The 
 waiters made remarks about him to one another as they 
 passed to and fro. Ambrose had very much the appear- 
 ance of a man who had just committed some dreadful deed 
 which he was striving to forget. Marcel and Pierre found 
 him sitting there when they arrived. They paused for a 
 moment by the door to look at him. 
 
 "See," Pierre remarked, "he has money. He drinks 
 brandy. One does not drink brandy for nothing here." 
 
 "Bah !" Marcel answered. "Does he not still push the 
 piano ? Who would lead such a dog's life if he possessed 
 but a hundreth part of " 
 
 Pierre laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder. 
 "Hush!" he said. "One does not know in this sort of 
 place who may listen. See, he is drinking, and he mutters 
 to himself. I think that he is nearly drunk. See how he 
 fills his glass. It is a fortunate moment, this. If there is 
 truth to be wrung from him, now is the time." 
 
 They approached the table and greeted him noisily. 
 Ambrose set down his glass, and looked at them for a mo-
 
 196 PASSERS-BY 
 
 ment as though they had been strangers. Then he struck 
 
 the table before him with the palm of his hand. 
 
 "Marcel! Pierre!" he cried. "Waiter, bring glasses. 
 These are friends of mine. They will drink with me. 
 How goes it, my brave Marcel ? Still free, I see. Long 
 may the fortune be with you ! " 
 
 Marcel looked uneasily around. "Not so loud, fool!" 
 he said. "At this place one never knows who listens. 
 We are here to talk with you." 
 
 "And I," Ambrose declared, "I am here to listen. 
 Speak on." 
 
 They leaned across the table. 
 
 "Listen," Marcel said. "Take your thoughts back to 
 one night, never mind how long ago, when you hobbled 
 and ran by the side of your piano, and the man who now 
 calls himself Lord Ellingham, escaping in the clothes of a 
 workman, pushed the piano and ran by your side. You 
 three were there the girl Christine, you, and Ellingham." 
 
 Ambrose nodded. "Aye, it is true!" he said. "We 
 three! Very soon, though, we lost our companion. He 
 crossed the city with us, and he flitted away. We saw no 
 more of him till a few weeks ago." 
 
 "Another question," Marcel said, leaning across the 
 table. "It is about the piano." 
 
 "The piano?" Ambrose repeated, staring at his ques- 
 tioner. "What of it?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 197 
 
 "You have it with you now, in London?" 
 
 "Of course," Ambrose answered. "How else could one 
 live ? There is no bread lying in the streets here, no brandy 
 to be given away. And brandy," he muttered, "is a good 
 thing, a very good thing." 
 
 "It is the same instrument?" Marcel persisted. "You 
 have not changed it?" 
 
 "Changed it? Why should I?" Ambrose answered. 
 "It was made for me. The keys are worn, but the inside 
 is good. It keeps in tune. Why should I change it?" 
 
 "Where is it now?" Marcel asked. 
 
 "In the entry near my lodgings, where I leave it every 
 night," Ambrose answered. "Why do you ask me these 
 questions ? What has my piano to do with you ?" 
 
 "Not much," Pierre answered carelessly. "And yet 
 we were curious. You drink slowly, my friend, after all. 
 Waiter, more cognac ! All together now ! To us who are 
 left of the Black Foxes!" 
 
 Ambrose set down his glass. "I will not drink to that," 
 he said. " I will not drink to a gang of " 
 
 Pierre dropped his glass purposely upon the floor. 
 Marcel frowned angrily. 
 
 " Fool ! " he exclaimed. " Keep your tongue still. We 
 will drink no toast at all, then, only to ourselves." 
 
 "As you will," Ambrose muttered. "For myself, I 
 never drink toasts. I drink and I drink and I drink, but
 
 198 PASSERS-BY 
 
 toasts, bah! See here, my friends!" he exclaimed sud- 
 denly. "What about my piano? Why do you ask me 
 questions about it?" 
 
 The two men exchanged swift glances. They filled 
 Ambrose's glass. They filled their own. 
 
 "For no special reason," Marcel answered. 
 
 "For no special reason," Ambrose echoed. "Good! 
 Just now I said that I drank no toasts. I will drink one 
 now to a night when the snowflakes fell soft on the ground, 
 when the revolver bullets were whistling, when we ran 
 down the silent street, we three and Chicot. It was a 
 clever escape, that, and it was all through me. It was I 
 who managed it I, for the sake of Christine." 
 
 "It was wonderful," Marcel declared, "only it was the 
 wrong man who escaped. It was I who should have been 
 with you." 
 
 Ambrose shook with laughter, a strange choking laugh, 
 in which there was little enough of mirth. "He was too 
 clever for you, too clever," he gasped. "Somehow I think 
 that he will always be too clever for you. What did he 
 tell you to-day? What did he send you out for to seek? 
 Why do you ask for my piano ? Eh, Marcel ? Eh, Pierre ?" 
 
 He lurched a little sideways, and his eyes seemed closed. 
 The two men exchanged quick glances. 
 
 "He knows," Marcel whispered. "He knows. Fill his 
 glass once more; then we will take him home."
 
 PASSERS-BY 199 
 
 They filled his glass, and made a pretense at drinking 
 themselves. Ambrose did not open his eyes. He seemed 
 to sleep. The manager came up, summoned by an ob- 
 servant waiter. 
 
 "You must take your friend away, gentlemen," he said. 
 "We cannot have people falling asleep here. Take him 
 away at once, please. It is nearly closing time, and the 
 police might look in at any moment. It 's hard enough," 
 he added, with a little grumble, "to keep one's license 
 as it is." 
 
 They jogged Ambrose's elbow, but he only fell over to 
 the other side without opening his eyes. Then they helped 
 him to rise. A waiter fetched his hat, and they left the 
 place, supporting him one on either side. They moved a 
 few yards down the street. Then Marcel called a four- 
 wheel cab, and they hoisted him in. 
 
 "Where are your lodgings?" he asked. 
 
 Ambrose half opened his eyes. "Pickett Street, Water- 
 loo Road," he answered, and then fell back among the 
 cushions. 
 
 They gave the address to the driver. Marcel sat by his 
 side. Pierre was opposite. The cab rumbled off.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE two men who stood talking earnestly in a corner 
 of the Duchess of Mechester's drawing-room ex- 
 cited comment both on account of the length of their con- 
 versation and from the mere fact that they were carrying 
 on an animated discussion. And yet, although one was 
 Baron de Mayo, French ambassador to London, and the 
 other was the Marquis of Ellingham, Secretary for Foreign 
 Affairs, the interests of their respective countries never 
 once engaged their attention. So far as the baron was con- 
 cerned, their conversation was pure gossip, and that it had 
 any further significance for his companion was a fact of 
 which he was entirely ignorant. 
 
 "I had to-day," he remarked, after they had shaken 
 hands and talked for a moment or two of nothing in par- 
 ticular, "a visit from the most extraordinary man in 
 France." 
 
 The marquis was interested. "Pray continue," he 
 begged. "All my life I have wondered who was really 
 the most remarkable man in France, you or Monsieur 
 Coquelin." 
 
 "Neither of us, I fear," the baron answered, with a smile.
 
 PASSERS-BY 201 
 
 "The man to whom I am alluding is Jacques Leblun, the 
 detective." 
 
 " I have heard of him often," the marquis said quietly. 
 
 "He is over here," the baron continued, "in connection 
 with an affair which at the time, I remember, interested 
 me greatly. You, marquis, probably never read of it. It 
 is difficult to keep in touch with the domestic affairs of 
 other nations. This affair, though, was, in a sense, of 
 world-wide interest, for the people concerned in it were 
 of all nationalities. It was simply the breaking up of 
 a band of thieves, the most dangerous, I think, in some 
 respects, of any that ever flourished in Paris." 
 
 "You interest me greatly," the marquis murmured. 
 "Pray continue." 
 
 "They began in a small way, I believe," the baron said. 
 "A very well dressed and charming woman, accom- 
 panied by a man, also irreproachable a man, indeed, of 
 our ancient nobility began to frequent the night cafe's 
 of Paris, the sort of places which flourish now in the Mont- 
 martre district. There they seemed to make acquaint- 
 ances with people from all parts of the world, young 
 people generally, who had money and little sense. They 
 made acquaintances with Russians, with Englishmen, 
 with Americans, and in time invited them to their house, 
 an old-fashioned but very fine place in the Place Noire. 
 Gambling to an unlimited extent went on there, gambling
 
 202 PASSERS-BY 
 
 which, without a doubt, was conducted upon principles 
 favorable to the occupants of the house. Strange stories 
 began to be whispered about concerning that house in the 
 Place Noire. People entered it who were never seen to 
 reappear. From it, too, as it eventually transpired, was 
 conducted a system of robbery, magnificent in its con- 
 ception and on the whole, I should imagine, immensely 
 lucrative. The police were warned, and the whole locality 
 was under constant surveillance. And yet, so clever were 
 those people, it was many months before the police felt 
 themselves justified in raiding the place. That night 
 attack is well remembered in Pairs, even to-day. Two 
 gendarmes were shot, but three of the ringleaders were 
 arrested. A man named Marcel, who was supposed to 
 be the ringleader and against whom many things were 
 proved, was sentenced to imprisonment for life. Through- 
 out his trial, however, he denied most emphatically that he 
 was the actual leader of the Black Foxes, as they called 
 themselves. He denied that it was he who shot one of the 
 gendarmes through the heart, or that he was responsible 
 for more than the conduct of the gaming part of the place. 
 The police, however, were almost unanimous against him, 
 and the story of some other leader was looked upon as a 
 myth. Only this man Jacques Leblun was dissatisfied. 
 There was a story about a man, an Englishman or an 
 American, I think he was, who escaped in disguise as a
 
 PASSERS-BY 203 
 
 workman pushing a piano through the streets. Such a 
 person was certainly seen in the vicinity that night, but 
 was allowed to pass, as there was nothing to excite sus- 
 picion. A dwarf, who was usually in charge of the piano, 
 was there, and a girl who sang. They were known to the 
 police, as all these semi-mendicants are. There was noth- 
 ing against them, so they let them go through the cordon 
 which had been drawn about the Place Noire. Curiously 
 enough, however, neither the dwarf nor the singing girl 
 was ever seen in Paris again." 
 
 "A most interesting story," the marquis declared. 
 "You say that the man Marcel was convicted?" 
 
 " He was sentenced to penal servitude for life," the baron 
 said. "That brings me to the present point of the story. 
 A few weeks ago he escaped from the prison where he was 
 confined. It was not an easy task. No one but a person 
 of great resource and cunning would have attempted it. 
 But he is free, and he is thought to be in London. Jacques 
 Leblun is here upon his heels, here not only to make his 
 arrest, but because he himself believes in the existence of 
 that other leader, and he thinks that by following Marcel 
 he will discover the other person." 
 
 The marquis drew a little breath. "Your story," he 
 said, "becomes still more interesting." 
 
 " I am glad that you find it so," the baron remarked po- 
 litely. "To me the subject has always possessed a certain
 
 204 PASSERS-BY 
 
 fascination. It has now reached an exceedingly interest- 
 ing stage. Somewhere in London Marcel is hiding; also 
 somewhere in London, if the theory of Monsieur Leblun 
 is true, is the man who was his associate at the Place Noire, 
 but who escaped capture. Leblun is here to watch. I 
 must confess that I am exceedingly curious to discover 
 what the result may be." 
 
 "It is a most interesting situation," the marquis said. 
 
 The baron, struck by some slight hesitation in his com- 
 panion's tone, glanced into his face. "Ah!" he said. "I 
 am afraid that I have bored you." 
 
 The marquis, who felt that he was ghastly pale, recov- 
 ered himself with an effort. "These rooms," he said, "are 
 overheated. You know we English cannot live without 
 fresh air. I think I shall make my adieu to the duchess. 
 I am joining my wife at Esholt House." 
 
 The marquis drove through the gaily lighted streets and 
 squares, leaning back among the cushions of his motor. 
 His arms were folded, his chin had sunk upon his chest. 
 The color of his face was still ghastly. There were drops 
 of perspiration upon his forehead. Was it to be in vain, 
 then, this fight of his ? Was he to lose it all honor, name, 
 and power for the sake of those few wild months ; be- 
 cause of a shot fired, as he had told himself a thousand 
 times, in self-defense ? Jacques Leblun ! The name 
 seemed to ring in his ears. He fancied him sitting apart
 
 PASSERS-BY 205 
 
 somewhere in a little room of one of the great hotels, 
 looking down into the city, watching the swarms of people, 
 gifted with some strange power by which his searching 
 gaze could penetrate walls and annihilate distance. Even 
 in the security of his electric brougham he looked around 
 wildly more than once. He seemed to feel the eyes of that 
 silent Frenchman following him wherever he went. Mar- 
 cel he had not greatly feared. He had felt himself strong 
 enough to deal with such a man. Jacques Leblun was 
 different. Jacques Leblun had had suspicions all the 
 time. He only had believed Marcel when he swore that 
 it was not his hand alone that had directed those amaz- 
 ing coups. What was to be done? What course was 
 there open to him ? Flight ? It was the most dangerous 
 of all. The days were past when flight from the hand of 
 the law could be effective. The world was girded with 
 steam and electricity. Its farthest corners were at the 
 mercy of those who stayed at home and smiled. Death ? 
 Well, that was a last resource. He was still under fifty, 
 and the joy of his new life and the honest love of his wife 
 were still strong in his blood. Death might be a last re- 
 source, but it should be the very last. Not until the hand 
 of fate was upon his shoulder and the world was growing 
 dim would he stoop to that. To buy his freedom from 
 Jacques Leblun he well knew to be impossible. The man 
 was above such things. Money was nothing to him ; fame
 
 206 PASSERS-BY 
 
 was the very breath of his nostrils. There was no move 
 that he could make, nothing that he could do save keep a 
 steadfast face to the world and leave the issue to fortune. 
 
 The brougham glided up to the curbstone, and stopped 
 before the apartment hotel to which the marquis had di- 
 rected his chauffeur. He descended, and crossing the 
 pavement bade the commissionnaire good evening, rang 
 for the elevator, and ascended to the seventh floor.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 CHRISTINE was sitting alone, curled up in her 
 chair. She had spent a quiet evening at home 
 and was now thinking about Ambrose and their recent 
 interview. She heard the front door-bell ring, and rose 
 doubtfully to her feet. Her maids had gone to bed. She 
 could not imagine who it might be, come to visit her at 
 such an hour. She stepped out into the hall, and then 
 paused in sudden fear. Supposing it should be Marcel ! 
 She stood rooted to the spot. The whole horror of the 
 coming of that other man, and the thing which had hap- 
 pened to him, was suddenly brought vividly before her. 
 Once more the bell rang, softly but insistently. She heard 
 a sound in the servants' room, and it gave her courage. 
 At any rate, she was not alone. A cry would summon 
 both the girls. She opened the door and peered out. 
 
 "You!" she exclaimed. 
 
 The marquis nodded. She closed the door mechan- 
 ically, and led the way into the sitting-room. Then 
 she turned to look into his face once more. There were 
 signs there of the agony through which he had been 
 passing.
 
 208 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "What has happened?" she asked. "Why have you 
 come here at this hour?" 
 
 "I came on the chance of finding you up, and alone," 
 he answered. "To-night I have had a blow. I wanted 
 to tell you about it, and ask whether you know who is in 
 London." 
 
 "I know that Marcel is here," she answered, "Marcel 
 and Pierre." 
 
 Lord Ellingham shook his head. " It is neither of them," 
 he said. " One could deal with men like those, one in my 
 position. It is somebody worse. It is Jacques Leblun who 
 has followed them, who stands aloof somewhere, watching." 
 
 "Jacques Leblun?" she echoed. "Do you mean the 
 French detective?" 
 
 Lord Ellingham nodded. "Yes," he answered. "He 
 is the man who was present all through the trial of Marcel 
 and the others, who was always silent, but always listen- 
 ing. He believed that Marcel told the truth when he 
 swore that there was another man who was responsible 
 with him for some of the things which happened at the 
 Place Noire. He believed that it was not Marcel who 
 shot that great bully of a gendarme." 
 
 "And he is here?" Christine asked ; "in London?" 
 
 "He is here, watching," the marquis answered. "He 
 is here because he believes that through Marcel he will 
 find that other man."
 
 PASSERS-BY 209 
 
 Christine's face softened, her dark eyes became com- 
 passionate. She passed her arm through his, and led him 
 to a chair. "It is terrible," she said, "but it is not so bad 
 as it seems to you just now." 
 
 "Pierre and Marcel were in my house only yesterday," 
 the marquis said. "Even the details of my escape are 
 known to Leblun. I was told to-night by Mayo, the am- 
 bassador, of the man who, with the hunchback and the 
 girl, passed out of the Place Noire that night, wheeling a 
 piano." 
 
 She was silent for several minutes. "I wonder," she 
 said softly, "how much you really had to do with that 
 house of mysteries?" 
 
 The marquis groaned. "Not so much, after all," he 
 answered. "You know very well that I was desperate 
 that first night, when your mother and Marcel brought 
 me there. I was ready to join in anything, but even then 
 I would have nothing to do with the gaming." 
 
 "It was the attack upon the banks ?" she asked softly. 
 
 The marquis nodded. "I was in that," he admitted. 
 "It appealed to me. It was a desperate adventure, and it 
 meant wealth for all of us if we succeeded." 
 
 "But it did succeed." 
 
 "It succeeded all right," he said, "but unfortunately 
 the house was raided the next night, and I suppose the 
 
 money was seized." 
 
 14
 
 210 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "You were not concerned," she asked, "in the Pierre 
 Laplage matter?" 
 
 "Not I," he answered. "I never stooped so low as 
 that. I brought some English boys into the house one 
 night, but I told them it was a gaming-place, and that I 
 could not answer for the play. They ran their own risk." 
 
 "If I could help you " she murmured. 
 
 "You can tell me where I can find Ambrose," the mar- 
 quis said. " If he goes wheeling that infernal piano about 
 London, Leblun will find him to a certainty." 
 
 "Ambrose was here not long ago," Christine said. "He 
 was in a strange mood, too." 
 
 "Has he ever accepted anything from you?" the mar- 
 quis asked. 
 
 "Not a penny," she answered. "He will not." 
 
 The marquis' thoughts went back to the day when 
 Ambrose had come to see him and urged him to fly from 
 the country. "It is conceivable," he said, "that Am- 
 brose might feel that he has a grudge against me for taking 
 you away." 
 
 She nodded. "He is a strange being," she said. "I 
 think he does feel like that." 
 
 The marquis gave a little gesture of despair. "It is 
 hopeless," he said. 
 
 "It is nothing of the sort," she answered. "I will send 
 for Ambrose. I will see that he holds his peace."
 
 PASSERS-BY 211 
 
 "It is useless trying to bribe him," the marquis said. 
 "Money seems to mean nothing to him." 
 
 "He will do more for me than any one," Christine said. 
 "I promise you that he shall not betray you. I will see 
 to that. As for those others, if they speak they must go 
 back to prison. If they speak they lose forever the chance 
 of making any money out of you. I do not think they are 
 to be feared." 
 
 "There is one more," the marquis said, "an English- 
 man who was playing at the tables that night, himself, I 
 believe, half a spy." 
 
 " Gilbert Hannaway I " she exclaimed. 
 
 The marquis nodded. "There are too many who 
 know or guess," he said. "The odds are heavy against 
 me." 
 
 Christine was deep in thought. "I am afraid," she 
 said, "that, after all, I am your greatest enemy. Ambrose 
 is wild with you because I have left him. Gilbert Hanna- 
 way and I have quarreled because I would not tell him 
 why I was willing to accept so much from you. Never 
 mind. Ambrose I am sure I can deal with, even now. 
 Gilbert Hannaway I will try." 
 
 The marquis glanced at the clock and rose. "I must 
 go on," he said, a little wearily. "I came to tell you these 
 things, Christine, to put you on your guard. If Jacques 
 Leblun should find you out
 
 212 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She laughed scornfully. " Look at me ! " she exclaimed. 
 "Am I likely to be recognized ? Remember that in Paris 
 I wore short skirts, and my hair was down my back." 
 
 " You have changed," the marquis said. " I suppose 
 
 He broke off suddenly in his sentence. The telephone 
 bell of a small instrument placed upon the sideboard 
 was ringing violently. They stared at each other. The 
 marquis glanced at the clock. 
 
 "It is past eleven!" he exclaimed. "Who would ring 
 you up at this hour?" 
 
 "Heaven knows!" she muttered. "I shall not an- 
 swer." 
 
 "You must," he directed. "Go and see who it is." 
 
 She took the receiver from the instrument with tremb- 
 ling fingers. There was another receiver upon the table. 
 She passed it silently to the marquis, who held it to his 
 ear. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked, in a tremulous voice. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, except for a strange 
 vibration of the wires. Then came a voice which at first 
 she failed to recognize. 
 
 " Christine ! " it called. " Is it Christine who speaks ?" 
 
 "It is I," she answered. "Who is it ?" 
 
 Again the vibration, only this time its cause was ob- 
 vious enough. It was a laugh, a strange, half-delirious 
 laugh. The girl shivered.
 
 PASSERS-BY 213 
 
 "It is Ambrose," they heard at last. "I, Ambrose. 
 Listen well, for I have something to tell you." 
 
 "I am listening," Christine faltered. "Go on." 
 
 "All the night," the voice continued, "I have been with 
 two madmen madmen, Christine. Oh, how I have 
 laughed ! I sat with them in a little cafe*. They whis- 
 pered together they must make me drunk. So they 
 tried. They bought brandy, and I drank. More brandy, 
 and still I drank. Then they whispered together again. 
 My eyes were closed. And what do you think? It was 
 of my piano that they spoke, the little piano that we have 
 wheeled together through the lanes and along the boule- 
 vards and across the streets of this cursed city. They 
 thought listen, Christine, for this is a joke they 
 thought there was something hidden in it." 
 
 Christine looked up, and her eyes met Lord Elling- 
 ham's. They were both as pale as death. 
 
 "He is mad," she whispered. 
 
 The marquis said nothing. Even his lips were pale. 
 From the wire came the shrill denial. 
 
 " Oh, not mad, Christine, not mad ! Only drunk 
 drunk and happy as a man can be. It is so droll. They 
 found out where my piano was in the entry, you know, at 
 Pickett Street. They took me by the arm, and they 
 helped me out of the place, and my knees shook and my 
 eyes were closed. But inside I laughed. They put me in
 
 214 PASSERS-BY 
 
 a cab, and we drove on and on and on, all the way to 
 Pickett Street. They helped me out of the cab. I stum- 
 bled across the pavement. 'Which way?' they asked, 
 and shook me. I led them right. I led them to the entry. 
 I showed them the catch of the gate. We entered, and 
 there was the piano. Christine, it was droll 1 They tore 
 the back off my poor little instrument. They lifted the 
 first board, they struck matches and peered in, tore the 
 strings in their eagerness and haste, and then they began 
 to curse. I sat and looked at them, muddled, drunk, you 
 understand, drunk as a man may be. They quarreled, 
 those two, wild with disappointment. They quarreled at 
 first silently, and then I saw the blood rising hot. They 
 spoke so fast and so angrily that I heard only one half 
 of what they said. They were very, very angry. Marcel 
 took Pierre by the throat. I sat upon the ground and 
 watched them. I was too drunk, you see, to move. Then, 
 as I swayed, a knife fell from my pocket, the knife I 
 always carry for fear but never mind that." 
 
 "Stop!" Christine shrieked. "I am faint. Don't go 
 on, Ambrose." 
 
 The marquis held her up. He did not speak, but there 
 was something in his face which gave her strength. 
 
 "I am better," she murmured. "Finish, Ambrose. 
 Finish quickly." 
 
 " The knife fell from my pocket. Marcel saw it, snatched
 
 PASSERS-BY 215 
 
 it up. Pierre saw it, too, and he ran. Out of the entry 
 they ran, and I suddenly was not so drunk. Up I rose 
 and hobbled after them. I saw them go down Pickett 
 Street, around the corner; I saw Marcel's hand lifted, I 
 saw him strike, I saw the crowd gather. They picked 
 Pierre up, and they chased Marcel. Listen, Christine. 
 Pierre is dead. There is only Marcel left." 
 
 She began to moan. She lay a dead weight against the 
 marquis' shoulder, but his hand still gripped his receiver. 
 For a moment the voice said nothing. Then it continued : 
 
 "Marcel ran swiftly, and they say here that he has 
 escaped. But Pierre is dead. Where he fell he died, and 
 Marcel is hunted now for his life. Christine, these things 
 are strange." 
 
 "But where are you?" she faltered. "Is there no one 
 who can hear?" 
 
 "I am in the place I love," he answered. "I am in the 
 great public house at the top of the bridge, where there 
 are cushions and mirrors, where it is warm and the bottles 
 of brandy on the shelves stand like regiments of soldiers. 
 No, there is no one who can hear. I stand in a little com- 
 partment, and the door closes tight. No one can hear. 
 I have paid my threepence to talk to you. I have told 
 you these things, Christine, although I am drunk. It is 
 wonderful, eh? Now I go back to my seat, to drink, to 
 talk, and to drink. Good night."
 
 216 PASSERS-BY 
 
 They heard the click of the instrument as he hung the 
 receiver in its place. They listened for a moment. There 
 was no other sound. The marquis turned toward Chris- 
 tine. He himself was trembling in every limb. Word by 
 word, as the story had come to him in those sharp, staccato 
 sentences, he had felt his heart beat more wildly. The 
 perspiration was standing all over his forehead. He was 
 breathing like a hunted man. He saw the struggle in the 
 entry, the knife slip from the pocket of the dwarf. He 
 saw it snatched up, he saw the chase Pierre bent 
 double, running for his life; Marcel, degenerate, half 
 madman, tearing after him. He seemed to see the blow 
 struck, he saw the crowds of people in pursuit. Last of 
 all, he saw Ambrose sitting in the cushioned seat he loved, 
 the brandy before him, muttering, drinking. With an 
 effort he realized where he was. The weight of the girl 
 was heavy upon his arm. He looked into her face and 
 saw that she had fainted.
 
 The weight of the girl was heavy upon his arm. She had fainted. 
 
 {Page 216
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 GILBERT HANNAWAY rose from his chair to 
 greet an unexpected visitor. A few minutes before, 
 lingering over his after-breakfast cigarette, he had found 
 life dull enough. But the magic name on the piece of 
 pasteboard which he still held in his hand had aroused in 
 him something very much like excitement. 
 
 "Mr. Leblun," he said, holding out his hand, "I am 
 very glad to know you, sir." 
 
 There was nothing impressive about the appearance of 
 Jacques Leblun. He was short and slight, dark, clean- 
 shaven, and with a somewhat worn face. His eyes were 
 nearly always half closed, as though he were short-sighted. 
 His hair was parted in the middle, and arranged with 
 great exactness. He disposed of his hat and stick and 
 accepted the armchair which his host had wheeled up to 
 the fire. 
 
 "Your name," Hannaway remarked, "has been familiar 
 to me for a good many years, ever since I spent some time 
 in Paris, as a matter of fact." 
 
 Leblun nodded. He spoke English excellently, and 
 with very little accent. "You are very kind, sir," he
 
 218 PASSERS-BY 
 
 said. "You were in my country, I believe, four or five 
 years ago." 
 
 "That is true," Hannaway admitted. 
 
 "You were present, I also believe," Leblun continued, 
 "when a house in the Place Noire was raided by gen- 
 darmes, and several captures made. It was a gaming- 
 house, and the home of certain men of a dangerous 
 character." 
 
 Hannaway nodded. "I was there playing baccarat," 
 he said. "The place interested me. I had been there 
 several times before." 
 
 Leblun sighed gently. "Mr. Hannaway," he said, 
 " I am getting an old man now. Such ambitions as I had 
 are practically either laid aside or accomplished. I am, 
 or rather I have been all my life, as I think you know, a 
 detective. You, I believe, are one of those gentlemen 
 who, without being connected with such matters pro- 
 fessionally, still find a certain amount of interest shall 
 I say sport ? in following out to their termination such 
 affairs as may chance to interest you. Have I expressed 
 myself so that you understand me? I spoke English a 
 great deal when I was younger, but lately I am a little out 
 of practice." 
 
 "Your English is perfect, Mr. Leblun," Hannaway 
 said, "and I understand exactly what you say. It is true 
 that I have taken a certain amount of interest in some of
 
 PASSERS-BY 219 
 
 the great crimes of the day. It is also true, if you care to 
 know it, that my interest in that house in the Place Noire 
 was largely because I was aware that the gaming-tables 
 were being conducted in an illicit fashion, and I was 
 almost certain that behind it all there was another and a 
 more criminal reason for its existence." 
 
 Leblun sighed gently. "We should have met in those 
 days," he remarked. "We might have been able to help 
 each other. A raid, as you know, was made, and certain 
 captures effected. Marcel, who posed as the ringleader, 
 was arrested and convicted, not only for the various rob- 
 beries which it was proved had emanated from that 
 house, but for having shot dead a gendarme in trying 
 to escape. Marcel this may not be news to you 
 escaped from his prison three weeks ago." 
 
 "Escaped?" Hannaway murmured. 
 
 Leblun nodded. "To you, sir," he continued, "I do 
 not mind confessing that we could, if we had chosen, have 
 arrested him within a dozen hours of his escape. For 
 reasons of my own I persuaded the chief of police to let 
 him go for a time. It is always perfectly easy to lay our 
 hands upon him, and in the interests of justice I was curious 
 to see in what direction he would turn his footsteps." 
 
 "In the interests of justice?" Hannaway repeated. 
 "You are going a little beyond me." 
 
 Leblun nodded. "Permit me," he said, "to explain.
 
 220 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Marcel, at the trial, as you may or may not remember, 
 vigorously protested his innocence of having fired that 
 fatal shot. He also declared that there was another, an 
 Englishman, behind him in the conception and execution 
 of that remarkable series of thefts in which the gang that 
 inhabited the house in the Place Noire was implicated. 
 Marcel was not, I may add, believed, except by me. I 
 have been convinced always that there escaped from the 
 house that night, wheeling a piano, and having by his 
 side a hunchback and a singing girl, the man whose brain 
 was really responsible for the most daring and successful 
 robbery that Paris has ever known. Therefore, when 
 Marcel escaped, I said let him go. Let us follow him. 
 He will lead us toward that person who, in all probability, 
 made off with the large sums of money which we were 
 unable to lay our hands on at the time of the raid. Marcel 
 headed straight for London. He is in London now, in 
 hiding, and in desperate fear for his life. Since his coming 
 he has added to his crimes. Two days ago, in some 
 drunken quarrel, he stabbed his companion, an associate, 
 a man named Pierre Michel, and only escaped from the 
 police through a miracle." 
 
 "You take my breath away!" Hannaway exclaimed. 
 " I read in the papers of an affair near Waterloo Bridge, 
 I think it was between two Frenchmen." 
 
 Leblun nodded. "Marcel," he said, "is lying, as he
 
 PASSERS-BY 221 
 
 thinks, securely hidden, in reality watched by an army of 
 spies. But he makes no move. He goes nowhere. He 
 has sent one message, and only one. That was delivered 
 to a hunchback somewhere down in Pickett Street, who 
 goes around with a piano and a monkey. Without a doubt 
 he is the same person who was with the man of whom 
 Marcel is in search." 
 
 "The note was delivered ?" Hannaway asked. 
 
 "It was delivered," Leblun answered. "Every move- 
 ment of the hunchback will be watched, just the same as 
 every movement of Marcel himself. It is clear that for 
 some reason Marcel does not desire to communicate 
 directly with his former coadjutor. He is going to do it 
 through Drake. At least, that is what we surmise." 
 
 "Tell me," Hannaway asked, "since Marcel's arrival 
 in this country has he made no calls whatever upon any 
 one whom you could associate with the house in the Place 
 Noire?" 
 
 "We fancy not," Leblun answered. "Perfect though 
 I believe my spy system is, there was one night when it 
 went wrong. Marcel and Pierre disappeared somewhere 
 in the West End, and for several hours were not seen. 
 They reappeared, however, at a small cafe" in Soho, with- 
 out money, but in a state of some excitement. I don't 
 think it possible that they would discover the man whom 
 they had lost, and come away without money."
 
 222 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "I have found all this exceedingly interesting," Hanna- 
 way admitted. "Now let me ask you a more personal 
 question. Why have you come here to take me into your 
 confidence?" 
 
 Leblun shrugged his shoulders. "Mr. Hannaway," 
 he said, "I am no longer a vain man. I am no longer 
 anxious to obtain for myself all the glory of a subtle cap- 
 ture. I want to find this man of whom Marcel himself is 
 in search, and I come to you for your help. In return you 
 shall have whatever credit there may be in having tracked 
 him down." 
 
 "You want to find," Hannaway said thoughtfully, "the 
 man who escaped from the Place Noire that night in the 
 garb of a workman." 
 
 "Exactly," Leblun answered. "He is in London some- 
 where. That I know. He should have stood beside 
 Marcel in the dock. He should now be serving his time 
 in a French prison. In the interests of justice I should 
 like to lay my hands upon him." 
 
 "Mr. Leblun," Hannaway said, "I am flattered by 
 your visit and the offer you have made me, but I cannot 
 help you." 
 
 The Frenchman leaned forward in his chair. Sud- 
 denly the man's whole intelligence seemed to shine out of 
 his face. His eyes were like gimlets. Hannaway felt that 
 his very thoughts were being read.
 
 PASSERS-BY 223 
 
 "You know who this man is," the detective said quickly. 
 "Your manner tells me so. There is no doubt whatever 
 about it. You desire to shield him, and therefore you will 
 not help me. Why ? Is he your friend ? Or your friend's 
 friend ? Why, I ask you ?" 
 
 Hannaway was a little taken aback. He was not pre- 
 pared with an immediate answer. 
 
 "Consider what you are doing," Leblun said seriously. 
 "Crime is crime, all the world over. It is no kindness to 
 society to shield a man who has not paid his debt to the 
 laws of his country. He may now be in a position to com- 
 mand your sympathy. He may be poor and unfortunate, 
 perhaps, and you may say to yourself, 'He has suffered 
 enough/ You may shrug your shoulders and say, 'I will 
 have mercy, I will keep silence.' Or again, he may have 
 become rich and powerful. He may have found a place in 
 the great world. He may be married and have children, 
 and you may say to yourself, 'The man has reformed. 
 Years have gone by. I will not bring the shadow of his 
 past life to darken his present. The days of his sin have 
 passed. I will let him alone.' Which is it, Mr. Hanna- 
 way ? Will you tell me that ? " 
 
 "I will tell you nothing," Hannaway answered. 
 
 Leblun sighed gently. "Ah!" he said. "Ours is a 
 profession in which the sentimentalist is bound to come 
 to grief. That is the worst of you amateurs. Up to a
 
 224 PASSERS-BY 
 
 certain point you are excellent. Then you break down. 
 Pardon me if I remind you that it is generally a woman 
 who is responsible for these breakdowns. What, I wonder, 
 has become of the girl who was with the dwarf and the 
 workman, when he turned the corner of the Place Noire 
 and vanished into space? Can you tell me that, Mr. 
 Hannaway ?" 
 
 "I can tell you nothing," Hannaway answered. 
 
 "But you could," Leblun interrupted quickly. "Oh, I 
 am sure of that ! You have too honest a face. One can- 
 not look at you and make mistakes. So the girl is in it, 
 too ! I am afraid we have lost sight of her. Still, if you 
 will not help me, I must work alone. It is not a difficult 
 task, after all, you know. Sooner or later Marcel or Drake, 
 or some messenger, must go stealing on his way toward 
 this person, whoever he may be. Marcel cannot starve. 
 He cannot live long without brandy and cigarettes. H 
 has nothing, nothing at all. I have seen to that. We must 
 wait." He took up his hat and stick, and held out his 
 hand to Hannaway. " Au revoir," he said. "I am sorry 
 that you decline my offer of comradeship." 
 
 "It is not that exactly, Mr. Leblun," Hannaway said. 
 "I am flattered to have received a visit from you. But as 
 you yourself said, I am only a dabbler in such affairs. I 
 might follow them out if I were greatly interested, if I felt 
 that it was in the interest of human justice, not only legal
 
 PASSERS-BY 225 
 
 justice, to do so. But frankly, I tell you that in this case 
 my sympathies are against you." 
 
 "You do not deny, then," Leblun said quickly, "that 
 you know the man." 
 
 "I believe," Hannaway answered, "that I could find 
 him. If my suspicions are just, although personally I 
 have a grievance against him, I should say let him go." 
 
 Leblun smiled. "Ah!" he said. "We others, you 
 know, we know only one kind of justice, and that is the 
 justice which brings to punishment, to legal punishment, 
 I should say, the criminal. I know of no other sort. We 
 may meet again, Mr. Hannaway." 
 
 He bowed himself out, leaving Hannaway a little dazed 
 by the turn their conversation had taken, more than a 
 little disturbed at its possible import. He went slowly 
 into his dressing-room, changed his clothes, and descended 
 into the street. Even then he seemed undecided as to his 
 destination. He called a hansom, and directed the man 
 to drive to Cavendish Square. He had gone scarcely a 
 hundred yards, however, when he redirected him. 
 
 "Number 42 Victoria Flats," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE maid-servant who admitted Hannaway was a 
 little uncertain whether her mistress would see 
 him. There was a gentleman already in the drawing- 
 room. But at that moment Christine's own maid, crossing 
 the hall, welcomed Hannaway with a little smile. She 
 was sure her mistress was always ready to receive Mon- 
 sieur Hannaway ! 
 
 She threw open the drawing-room door and announced 
 him. Hannaway drew back, but he was too late. Chris- 
 tine's visitor had already recognized him. Christine 
 herself seemed rather to welcome his coming. Monsieur 
 Leblun laughed softly as he rose and bowed. 
 
 "Ah, my dear Monsieur Hannaway," he said, "you 
 should have accepted my offer of an alliance. You see 
 how easy it is for those with whom fortune sides. If 
 there was one thing more than another that I would have 
 given much to know," he added, "it was to whom your 
 first visit would be paid after our little conversation a few 
 minutes ago. Chance, you see, has told me. Chance has 
 brought you here. If Mademoiselle de Lanson is half as 
 glad to see you as I am your welcome is indeed a warm 
 one."
 
 PASSERS-BY 227 
 
 Christine looked from one to the other in astonishment 
 She did not understand. "What does it mean?" she 
 asked Hannaway. "And why do you come to me?" 
 she added, drawing herself up. "You have been away so 
 long that this is a pleasure which I scarcely expected." 
 
 Hannaway threw aside all personal scruples. "I came," 
 he said simply, "because I could not stay away any 
 longer. I do not quite understand what our friend Mr. 
 Leblun means, but I can assure you that my visit here 
 was planned long before his call upon me this morning." 
 
 Mr. Leblun smiled and glanced at the clock. "A man," 
 he said, "who at half-past ten presents himself at the 
 house of a very charming young lady is not as a rule to be 
 found at ten o'clock in slippers and dressing-gown, with 
 a Bradshaw and Continental Guide on his knee and the 
 frown of a pessimist on his forehead. I must confess, 
 Mr. Hannaway, that I do not believe you were promising 
 yourself so pleasant a morning." 
 
 "I do not imagine," Hannaway said, "that my move- 
 ments one way or the other need concern you. This 
 young lady and I are engaged to be married. I have a 
 right, therefore, to come when I choose, and to ask you 
 the meaning of your visit?" 
 
 Christine was dumb with amazement. Then a flood of 
 color rushed to her cheeks. She looked toward Hannaway, 
 and met his earnest gaze.
 
 228 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "As to the object of my visit," Leblun said, "it is easily 
 told. I came to ask Mademoiselle de Lanson with whom 
 she and the hunchback Drake left the Place Noire, 
 one night four years, seven months, and twelve days 
 ago. Mademoiselle de Lanson has not yet told me," 
 he added, fixing his eyes upon her, "but I believe that 
 she can." 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Lanson, on the contrary," Christine 
 said, "can tell you nothing of the sort. There was a man, 
 but I always understood that it was Marcel. He disap- 
 peared soon after we turned the corner of the square. I 
 have not seen him since." 
 
 Leblun smiled. "Mademoiselle," he said, "the in- 
 terests of justice are great, and sometimes they justify 
 strange questions. You and your companion were penni- 
 less in those days, you were penniless when you tramped 
 your way across France, you were penniless when you 
 landed in London, you were penniless, almost starving, 
 for weeks afterward. Let me ask you, where does the 
 money come from for this?" He made a rapid move- 
 ment with his hand around the room. 
 
 Christine drew herself up and pressed the bell by her 
 side. "Monsieur Leblun," she said, "you may be a 
 wonderful detective, but it is not permitted of any one to 
 address such questions to me. The money for my rooms, 
 and for the wages of the servant whom I have summoned
 
 PASSERS-BY 229 
 
 to show you out, is my own, and where it comes from is 
 my business." 
 
 The parlormaid was already at the door. Christine 
 turned to her. 
 
 "You will show this gentleman out," she said, pointing 
 to Leblun. 
 
 Leblun took up his hat and stick. Not a muscle of his 
 face betrayed in any way humiliation or disappointment. 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I am obliged to you for what 
 you have told me and for what you have not told me. I 
 rejoice to have found you in such pleasant circumstances, 
 and in such good health; and I congratulate you both," 
 he added with an almost fatherly air, "upon an engage- 
 ment which cannot, I am sure, end anyhow but happily. 
 Good morning." 
 
 He disappeared with a farewell bow. The door was 
 closed behind him. They heard the servant show him 
 out. They heard the rattle of the elevator as it descended. 
 Then Christine sank into a chair. Hannaway was still 
 standing. 
 
 "Christine," he said, "for months I have suspected the 
 truth. I mean that I have suspected the identity of the 
 man who escaped with you that night. For some weeks 
 I have known it for a certainty." 
 
 She sat up and looked at him. "Well," she said, "what 
 concern is it of yours? What are you going to do about
 
 230 PASSERS-BY 
 
 it? And how dared you come here and say such things 
 to that man?" 
 
 "I said them," Hannaway continued, "because I wished 
 to have the right to order him from the room if it were 
 necessary. I wish to heaven I could say them truthfully." 
 
 She laughed, a little bitterly. "What, of me?" she 
 exclaimed, "a singer in the streets, a 
 
 "A singer in the streets, if you will," he interrupted. 
 "That makes no difference. As a singer in the streets I 
 would take you to my heart to-morrow, gladly and proudly. 
 It is not that. It is when you become the pensioner of 
 Lord Ellingham that I am forced to drop my arms. I 
 once asked you for an explanation, but you would not 
 give it. A word from me this morning and there would no 
 longer have been a Lord Ellingham. I ask no reward 
 for keeping your secret. All that I ask is that you tell me 
 the truth." 
 
 "I will tell you," she answered. "You have done your 
 service, and you shall be paid. But understand that I 
 tell you not of my own free will, but because I may be 
 said to owe it to you. Lord Ellingham is my stepfather." 
 
 "Your stepfather?" Hannaway repeated slowly. "You 
 mean that he was married 
 
 "He was married to my mother, Madame de Lanson of 
 Annonay," she repeated. "It was when we were all living 
 with my uncle at the house in the Place Noire."
 
 PASSERS-BY 231 
 
 "This is amazing," Hannaway murmured. "Why, 
 she died a month before the raid." 
 
 "She died exactly five weeks after she was married," 
 Christine answered. "I think that he tried to be kind to 
 me, but I was very angry, and it was then that I ran away 
 and joined Ambrose." 
 
 "So that is why you were up in the Place Noire that 
 night?" Hannaway remarked. "You were there to help 
 him to escape?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. "On the contrary," she said, 
 "I thought it was my uncle who was with us. He sent an 
 urgent message for us to go up that night, and to take a 
 suit of workman's clothes. We went and left them exactly 
 where he told us, and waited opposite the house, in one 
 of those dark corners. When a man came out dressed in 
 those things we did as he told us and hastened away. For 
 years I thought it was Marcel who had escaped, and I was 
 always angry because he had done nothing for us. He 
 had my mother's money and mine. After that night we 
 hurried away into the country. I never looked at the 
 papers. It was Ambrose who told me what had happened. 
 And Ambrose lied. He told me that it was my stepfather 
 who had been arrested and sent to prison as the head of 
 the gang, and that my uncle was still free. So I went 
 searching for him, determined that somehow or other I 
 would make him restore the money which belonged to me,
 
 232 PASSERS-BY 
 
 and which he had promised my mother that I should have. 
 Then that morning at Victoria Station I saw the man 
 whom I had believed was in a French prison." 
 
 "Lord Ellingham!" Hannaway exclaimed. He moved 
 suddenly forward. All the lines in his face seemed to 
 yield. He held out his arms to her, but she drew away. 
 
 "No," she said. "You have doubted me. I do not 
 blame you, but I cannot forget it. Besides, this is no time 
 for such things. I am afraid, afraid for him. Ambrose 
 knows, and there is Marcel. One of the two will tell 
 Leblun." 
 
 "Christine," Hannaway said earnestly, "I will do what 
 I can to help. If I can save him I will, but you must 
 forgive me." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. Her face had certainly 
 grown softer. "But you cannot really care," she said 
 doubtfully. "I am only half educated. I have done 
 strange things all my life. I am selfish, vain, thought- 
 less. You do not know what sort of a person I am. 
 It is just a fancy of yours. You will outgrow it." 
 
 He shook his head. " Fancy," he repeated reflectively. 
 "There is some fancy at the root of every passion. 
 Christine, do you remember when I saw you first?" 
 
 She smiled. " It was in the Place Madeleine," she said, 
 "and you gave me ten francs, or rather you put it into 
 Chicot's hat"
 
 PASSERS-BY 233 
 
 He nodded. "I saw you there, singing upon the curb- 
 stone," he said, "with your hands behind you, and your 
 head raised above all those people, looking up to the sky. 
 I watched you longer than you ever knew. I watched 
 you repulse those who tried to talk to you. I watched you 
 listen to their stupid gallantries with stony face. I saw 
 you give a franc to a beggar woman, and smile at her, and 
 she gave you a bunch of her violets. I saw you go away, 
 walking with your arm on Ambrose Drake's shoulder, 
 toward the Champs Elyse"es, looking neither to the right 
 nor to the left, always up to the sky, as though the people 
 who came and went, who listened to your singing and 
 made banal speeches, had no existence whatever for you. 
 I saw you again, in a crowd this time, on the boulevard. 
 I passed you quickly in a motor-car with a friend. Again 
 you were singing, and again your head was raised so that 
 you saw nothing but the sky above the tall buildings. I 
 saw you again pass along the streets, you and Drake, 
 with the monkey sitting on the top of the piano the 
 strangest combination, I thought, that I had ever seen. 
 Your face was so young, and yet you carried yourself 
 as one who understood and despised." 
 
 "And all the time," she murmured, half to herself, "I 
 did not know." 
 
 "I saw you in the Place Noire one night," he continued. 
 "I saw how you treated that young cub of a French marquis
 
 234 PASSERS-BY 
 
 who called you in. And I saw you on the night when the 
 gendarmes came. I saw you go calmly down the hill, and 
 I knew very well that you were helping some one to 
 escape. I had been shot by accident, I fancy but I 
 could have raised the alarm if I had chosen. I let you 
 go. I don't know why, but I let you go. Since then I have 
 looked and watched for you and Ambrose. I never heard 
 a street piano without turning my head to see. I never 
 heard a girl singing but that I made sure that it was not 
 you. Then, one night, I looked down from my window, 
 and I saw what I had been looking for so long a street- 
 piano, a hunchback, and a singing girl; and I knew, 
 although your hair was no longer down your back and 
 your skirts were lengthened, that it was you. I rushed 
 down, but I was afraid to speak. You had suffered, I 
 could see that. You looked tired of life, as though its 
 buffets had been too many for you. I wanted to speak 
 to you, I wanted to know about that man whom you 
 had helped to escape. Well, you remember what 
 happened." 
 
 She nodded. "I am sorry," she said simply. "You 
 can understand now that we did not wish to come across 
 people who knew anything of those days." 
 
 "I wanted you to know," he said, "that this was not 
 altogether a new thing with me. I wanted you to know 
 that I have carried about with me for years now the
 
 PASSERS-BY 235 
 
 thought of the little girl who sang in the Madeleine. If 
 I was unreasonable and jealous it was because " 
 
 She stopped him, but there was no anger in her gesture. 
 "We will forget that," she said. "Only, for the present, 
 I must think, I can think of only one thing. Lord Elling- 
 ham has been kind to me. He was always kind to me. 
 He must be saved somehow from Leblun." 
 
 Hannaway held out his hand. "If I can help I will," 
 he said. "It is a dangerous combination. It is a danger- 
 ous trio Marcel and Ambrose, who know, and Leblun 
 who desires to know. But we will see. You think Am- 
 brose is safe?" 
 
 "I am not sure," she answered. "Sometimes I think 
 so. Sometimes I remember that he was terribly jealous 
 when I left him." 
 
 "Leblun will find him out, for certain," Hannaway 
 remarked. 
 
 "Ambrose will tell nothing unless he chooses," Chris- 
 tine answered. " He is as clever as Leblun himself. This 
 afternoon or to-night I shall go and see him. If he will 
 promise there will be only Marcel to fear. And Marcel 
 is hiding, in fear of his life." 
 
 "May I go with you ?" Hannaway asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "Ambrose is strange," she said. 
 *'To see you with me might make him jealous." 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The parlormaid en-
 
 236 PASSERS-BY 
 
 tered a little doubtfully. "There is a person to see you, 
 madam." she announced, "a person who was here a few 
 nights ago." 
 
 Christine turned to Hannaway. " It is Ambrose ! " she 
 exclaimed. "Please go! I would rather that he did not 
 see you here. Alice will take you out to the other elevator."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A LITTLE exclamation broke from Christine's lips 
 as Ambrose entered the room. It was Ambrose, 
 indeed, but not the Ambrose she had known. He stood 
 before her transformed. The shaggy mane of hair had 
 been cropped by a fashionable barber. He wore dark 
 but well-cut clothes, clean linen, a gray tie of fashionable 
 pattern. He wore patent boots, he carried a stick and 
 gloves. The hat in his hand was a black bowler, also 
 new. 
 
 "Ambrose!" she exclaimed. "Why, I scarcely recog- 
 nized you," she added weakly. 
 
 Ambrose laughed, and his voice, at least, had not 
 changed. "I suppose," he said, "the wheel of fortune 
 spins to every one some time. I have been left some 
 money." 
 
 "You have given up the piano and the streets?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "From necessity," he answered grimly. "Those two 
 maniacs smashed it to pieces the other night, searching 
 for treasure." 
 
 "What, in the piano?" she exclaimed. 
 
 He nodded. "They were mad," he said shortly.
 
 238 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She motioned him to a seat. She herself was ill at ease. 
 It seemed to her that even as he sat there she could hear 
 the tremulous dramatic words come throbbing through 
 the telephone, telling the story of that struggle in the 
 dark entry, of the dropping of the knife, of the flight of 
 the two men into the darkness. What a different person 
 it was who sat there in black coat and well-creased 
 trousers! Even his deformity was less apparent. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "what you are going to do. Am- 
 brose," she cried, with sudden fear, "you have not been 
 taking money to betray Tell me, Ambrose, quickly I 
 Has this man Jacques Leblun found you out?" 
 
 "What, the French detective?" he asked calmly. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "Have you seen him? Don't 
 dare to tell me that you have taken money from him ! " 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "I have not seen him, or 
 taken his money," he answered. "Is he over here? Ah, 
 I can guess ! He is over here after Marcel." 
 
 "Worse than that," she answered. "He is watching 
 Marcel. He is watching to see to whom Marcel appeals. 
 He has not forgotten the stranger who escaped from the 
 Place Noire that awful night." 
 
 Ambrose nodded thoughtfully, and his eyes grew 
 brighter. "So Leblun is still on the trail," he said softly. 
 "It is very well. It fits in with what I was going to say 
 to you."
 
 PASSERS-BY 239 
 
 "Go on," she said. "Tell me what it is." 
 
 Ambrose looked at her steadfastly for several moments. 
 Christine was pale. There were dark rings under her 
 eyes, and her mouth drooped wearily. As he looked, his 
 own eyes grew soft. 
 
 "Christine," he said, "you have lost a good deal of your 
 youth in this sad city. There were days, even after we had 
 started on the search, when you were gay, when you danced 
 for the love of it, when the laughter was in your eyes and 
 the color in your cheeks. You are losing your youth, 
 Christine, in this cursed city." 
 
 "It is not that," she answered. "I am afraid." 
 
 "What of?" he demanded. 
 
 "It is the shadow of those awful days," she answered, 
 "which seems to rest upon us still. The coming of these 
 men has stirred up all the old horror. You know what I 
 fear, Ambrose. I am afraid of Leblun. I am afraid of 
 Marcel. You know why." 
 
 " He is only your stepfather," Ambrose muttered. 
 
 "He has been good to me," she answered. "He too has 
 repented of those days. He too sought to escape from the 
 memory of them. And now they are tracking him down. 
 They must not, Ambrose. Oh, I mean it! They must 
 not!" 
 
 "You are afraid," he asked calmly, "lest you lose your 
 newly found wealth, your beautiful clothes, your carriage ?
 
 240 PASSERS-BY 
 
 You are afraid lest you be driven out into the streets, to 
 plod once more by the side of the piano, to sing while 
 Chicot collects the pennies? Is that it?" 
 
 "No," she answered. "It is not only that. I am not 
 so altogether selfish. It is for his sake, too." 
 
 "Listen," Ambrose said. "The days of the street-piano 
 are over. It is smashed. Its notes are dumb. I shall 
 never strike them again. I too have wealth. I can save 
 even him." 
 
 "How?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Never mind," he answered. "Don't ask me too many 
 questions. You may learn things which you will be sorry 
 to hear. There remain now only you, Marcel, and myself 
 who could point to the Marquis of Ellingham and say to 
 Jacques Leblun, 'There is the man you seek!' I say 
 there remain only you, Marcel, and myself. I should 
 have said there remains only myself, for I can keep Marcel 
 silent." 
 
 "You mean it?" she exclaimed breathlessly. 
 
 "I mean it," he answered. "Now I will go a little 
 farther still. I will tell you, Christine, that it rests with 
 you alone." 
 
 "With me?" she repeated. 
 
 " It is for you to save him, or to hand him over to Jacques 
 Leblun," Ambrose declared. "Look at me. I am a poor, 
 unsightly mortal, yet you know that the only days of hap*
 
 PASSERS-BY 241 
 
 piness I have ever enjoyed were when we tramped together 
 and sang for our living. Alone, Chicot and I are miser- 
 able, whether we are rich or poor, hungry or fed. Come 
 back to us, Christine. Your life shall be different, I prom- 
 ise you. I ask no more than to be your humble slave, 
 your courier, your faithful attendant. You shall travel 
 where you will, how you will. I have money, money at 
 last. It is yours to do what you will with. Only come 
 with us. Then I promise you that he shall be safe." 
 
 "I do not understand," she faltered. "You do not 
 mean that I shall come back once more and sing in the 
 streets, that I shall give up " 
 
 "You will give up nothing," Ambrose declared. "There 
 is no need for it. For every shilling that you spend now 
 you shall spend a sovereign. For every carriage that you 
 own now you shall have a dozen. You shall be a queen. 
 You shall have prettier clothes than any other woman, 
 jewels and flowers and all the luxuries which life can 
 fashion. Only you must come away to some other country. 
 You must live near Chicot and me, with no one to creep 
 nearer your heart. If you do that he shall go free." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" she asked, with a sudden appre- 
 hension of the things that were working in his brain. " If 
 I refuse?" 
 
 "If you refuse," he answered, "I shall go to this Mon- 
 sieur Jacques Leblun. I shall say to him: 'Walk a little 
 
 16
 
 242 PASSERS-BY 
 
 way with me, and I will show you the man who wheeled 
 my barrow from the Place Noire in the clothes of a work- 
 man, the man whom we sheltered, and whose escape we 
 planned. He is here, an aristocrat, a rich man to-day, 
 known and honored throughout the country, and yet the 
 associate, once upon a time, of a herd of assassins, the man 
 who shot a gendarme through the heart, the man who 
 has cheated a French prison, the man whose life has been 
 a lie.'" 
 
 She looked at him as though fascinated. There was 
 something of horror in her distended eyes. "It is a bar- 
 gain, then, which you propose?" she asked. 
 
 "It is a bargain," he admitted. "Why not? What 
 other chance have I ? You threw me over like a discarded 
 garment when the day arrived that you could do without 
 me. Why should I shelter myself beneath false illusions ? 
 To you I am only Ambrose the dwarf, Ambrose the poor 
 cripple, who kept you and fed you when things went awry. 
 How else can I win for myself a few hours daily of your 
 presence, a few kind words, the glorious knowledge that 
 you are near? No other way, Christine. I know it well, 
 and that is why I say that you, if you will, shall buy his 
 safety. You shall buy his safety, or you shall sign his 
 death- warrant." 
 
 Christine shrank back in her chair. This was more 
 awful than anything which she had feared.
 
 PASSERS-BY 243 
 
 "Don't misunderstand me," he went on. "I ask for 
 no more, to be no more to you than I have been hither- 
 to. I am content with that. It may seem little to you. 
 For me it makes life a heaven. You know it. You 
 believe me. If you hesitate for a moment, send your 
 thoughts backward. Ask yourself what has been the 
 text of my life through the long days, through the 
 weary months, through the slow, crawling years. You, 
 Christine! To keep you safe, to keep you free from 
 harm, to minister to your wants, to win a poor word of 
 gratitude or a smile. A dog's life, perhaps. Why not ? 
 What other life is there for me? Come, what do you 
 say?" 
 
 "Do you mean," she asked, "that if I tell you that I do 
 not wish to come away with you, that I wish to stay here, 
 that I have other thoughts and other hopes, do you mean 
 that you will still drag me away to be your companion, 
 that you will do this or betray him?" 
 
 "I do mean it," he answered firmly. "I mean it so 
 surely as you and I are now speaking to each other words 
 of naked truth." 
 
 "If I refuse " she faltered. 
 
 "If you refuse," he interrupted, "I search for this 
 Monsieur Jacques Leblun. I say to him, 'Come with 
 me, and I will show you the man you came here to seek.' 
 Oh, I know, and he knows that I know ! He watches me.
 
 244 PASSERS-BY 
 
 He watches Marcel. What do you say, Christine ? What 
 have you to say to Chicot and to me?" 
 
 Her head dropped into her hands. "I cannot tell," she 
 moaned. "I think you are cruel. I do not want to go 
 away with you. I want to stay here." 
 
 "Want to stay here!" he echoed scornfully. "To 
 stay here in this pall of smoke, under this gray sky, in 
 this sad city ! It is a disease, then, which bids you stay. 
 It is not life, it is not freedom, it is not anything worth 
 having. Tell me, Christine, will you come?" 
 
 She looked at him with the air of one who has made a 
 resolution. "You ask me too suddenly, Ambrose," she 
 said. " I cannot answer you. Give me a few hours, until 
 morning, say, to think it over." 
 
 He rose from his chair. "Very well," he said, "I will 
 give you until to-morrow. I cannot give you longer, for 
 Marcel is in a strange way. He is half mad with drink 
 and fear. I am afraid every moment that he will blurt 
 out who he is and all he knows. There are spies around 
 him at every corner, if he did but know it spies, doubt- 
 less, of the great Jacques Leblun." 
 
 "Till to-morrow morning," Christine faltered. "Let me 
 have till then, at least"
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 MONSIEUR Jacques Leblun was comfortably en- 
 sconced in a large easy chair drawn up before 
 the fire in the small smoking-room adjoining the bar of 
 the Altona Hotel. He held in his hand several half sheets 
 of paper, the contents of which he had been carefully 
 reading, not, apparently, for the first time. One by one, 
 as he had finished with them, he laid them on his knee, 
 until at last the little pile was complete. Then, with a 
 faint sigh, which might have meant either satisfaction or 
 despair, he tore them into small pieces, and threw them 
 
 into the fire. From a case of curiously chased silver he 
 
 / 
 
 selected a cigarette, lit it, and began to smoke, very slowly 
 and very thoughtfully. His eyes, as usual, seemed half 
 closed, certainly his head was turned away from both of 
 the doors to the room, and yet, curiously enough, without 
 turning his head or even looking away from the fire, he 
 addressed the man who had entered from the hotel side 
 and was making his way toward the door which commun- 
 icated with the private suites of apartments. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Hannaway?" he said. 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway stopped short. He came slowly
 
 246 PASSERS-BY 
 
 toward the fireplace, and for the first time recognized the 
 little man in the easy chair. " Mr. Leblun ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 Jacques Leblun nodded his head thoughtfully. "Come 
 and sit down for a few minutes," he said. "You will take 
 a drink with me, perhaps." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway hesitated. Leblun turned toward 
 him. His forehead was a little wrinkled. Even as he 
 spoke he stifled a yawn. 
 
 "I am tired of your sad country, Mr. Hannaway," he 
 said. " I have no friends here, and I am lonely. In Paris, 
 at this hour, I would be sitting in the Cafe" de la Paix, and 
 friends would come and go all the time, friends with 
 whom I speak for a moment, or only grasp their hands 
 perhaps, or give them a cheerful salutation. But here I 
 am alone, and I am a man who loves company. Remem- 
 ber Ventente cordiale. Be kind to the foreigner, forced to 
 sojourn for a few days among your fogs. Take a chair 
 here, and talk with me." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway divested himself of his overcoat, and 
 drew an easy chair up to Leblun's side. "I was on my 
 way to my rooms," he said, "to indulge in the luxury, 
 unknown in your cafs, of a cup of afternoon tea. If you 
 will allow me I will take it with you. You have been 
 destroying letters, I see. It is always rather a sad task." 
 
 Leblun smiled faintly. "There are things which are 
 sadder," he answered, "and one of them is to have to
 
 PASSERS-BY 247 
 
 admit failure in anything one undertakes. Personally," 
 he continued, assuming a somewhat retrospective air, 
 "I have not often had to confess myself beaten. This 
 afternoon I am in that sad position. I think that before 
 I go to bed to-night I shall ask that exceedingly assiduous 
 waiter who ministers so cheerfully to our wants to bring 
 me the Continental time-table. In short, I fear that there 
 remains for me nothing but to look for a train back to my 
 beloved Paris." 
 
 "You surprise me, Monsieur Leblun," Hannaway ad- 
 mitted, with impassive face. " Failure is a thing which one 
 has not learned to associate with your name. Neverthe- 
 less, if what you say is really the truth, I do not doubt but 
 that you have run up against a problem impossible of 
 solution." 
 
 Once more Leblun sighed. His eyes were still fixed 
 upon those smouldering pieces of paper. "Frankly, my 
 dear Monsieur Hannaway," he said, " I believe that I have 
 done all that an intelligent man could do. I have re- 
 constructed my story. Listen to it for a moment with me. 
 Ah ! Your tea arrives, I see. I trust that you find it in 
 order. Permit me to drink your health in another cup of 
 coffee." 
 
 He paid the waiter, and in a few moments they were 
 once more alone. 
 
 "I was speaking," Leblun continued, "of a reconstruc-
 
 248 PASSERS-BY 
 
 tion. All that Is so simple. We see, flying from that scene 
 of violence in the Place Noire a few years ago, three per- 
 sons and a monkey. We see a man, the man whose 
 identity we wish to solve, clad in the garb of a workman, 
 pushing a street-piano. Hastening along by his side, we 
 see the hunchback, to whom that musical instrument be- 
 longs. On the other side of it walks a child girl perhaps I 
 should call her who only a few weeks before had thrown 
 in her lot with that dwarf, and was singing in the streets 
 for her living. On the top of the piano, reclining in a 
 basket, and rudely shaken, I fear, by the speed at which 
 that barrow is being pushed, reposes the monkey Chicot. 
 They turn the corner of the Place Noire, they are seen 
 somewhere in the Rue Pigalle, there is a rumor that they 
 pass through the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre. After 
 that, silence. Space swallows them up. They are gone." 
 
 Leblun ceased with a little sigh. Hannaway produced 
 his cigarette case. 
 
 "You smoke, I see," he remarked. "Permit me." He 
 lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 " Circumstances, as you know," Leblun continued, " in- 
 duced one to take once more an interest in that somewhat 
 remarkable trio. One comes to London. One follows a 
 fugitive, who should surely be as eager as I myself to dis- 
 cover these mysterious persons. The hunchback, well, 
 that is easy. He reveals himself without the slightest
 
 PASSERS-BY 249 
 
 trouble. One learns that from the moment he turned the 
 corner of that square until to-day he has been to all ap- 
 pearances no better off for his little adventure. He has 
 tramped the streets, he has thumped out his miserable at- 
 tempt at music, he has lived and drunk and starved, being 
 cold or warm according to the vagaries of that section of the 
 public who are in the habit of dispensing copper coins to 
 itinerant musicians. To conclude with the hunchback, it 
 is only, curiously enough, this very day that a sudden 
 change comes over him. This morning, at an early hour, 
 he presents himself at various establishments devoted to 
 the clothing of those who need their clothes quickly, and 
 are not scrupulously particular as to fit. In other words, 
 early this morning our friend Ambrose Drake, with money 
 in both pockets, throws aside his rags, purchases for him- 
 self the outfit of a gentleman at large, saunters through 
 the streets respectably attired, a new hat on his head, new 
 gloves in his hand, new boots on his feet, new clothing to 
 the last stitch on his body. Attired in such a fashion, he 
 sallies out to pay a call upon a young lady." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway turned his head slowly. It was not 
 long since he had left Christine. This man was indeed 
 wonderful. 
 
 "So much for the hunchback," Leblun continued. "Of 
 the mysterious stranger, alas ! one learns nothing. Indeed 
 he seems to have vanished into space. The monkey, I
 
 260 PASSERS-BY 
 
 rejoice to say, flourishes, and from the fact that he ate a 
 hearty meal after his master's assumption of the garb of 
 respectability we will conclude that his future is assured. 
 We come to the girl." 
 
 Once more Hannaway, who had resolved not to open 
 his lips until his companion had finished, stole a glance at 
 him. There was no increase of animation in Leblun's 
 manner. He still leaned back in his chair, watching the 
 blue smoke of his somewhat odoriferous cigarette. 
 
 "Here," Leblun continued, "we must permit to our- 
 selves the license of a little imagination. We learn that 
 for years the girl and the hunchback tramped side by side 
 along the highways and the byways of the Continent 
 They tramped through France, they tramped through 
 Germany, they were heard of, even, in that home of all 
 mendicants the north of Italy. Then at last, not so 
 long ago, they came to England. One hears of them in 
 London. Things, apparently, have not gone well with 
 them. Ambrose is in rags. The girl walks as one whose 
 interest in life is finished, in soiled clothes, in gaping boots, 
 broken-spirited, broken-hearted. And then, one day, presto, 
 the magician's wand ! One looks again. One sees the girl 
 in a handsome apartment, with carriages and motors, with 
 her own French maid, clad in furs and silks and laces, a 
 customer at the best shops, a person with apparently a 
 limitless purse. The hunchback's days of prosperity have
 
 PASSERS-BY 251 
 
 not yet come. Still he tramps the gutters. The mud 
 from the wheels of his quondam companion's motor 
 splashes him as he makes sad music in the forlorn streets. 
 One asks oneself, whence her prosperity?" 
 
 Leblun looked down from the ceiling. He seemed to 
 have fixed his attention upon one particular scrap of 
 smouldering paper. 
 
 "One is not kept long in doubt," he went on. "One 
 hears of the visits at her apartment of a mysterious gentle- 
 man. She is seen with him at luncheons and dinners. 
 There is even talk of a trip to Paris. The truth is very 
 soon apparent. How she first attracted him one cannot 
 tell. She has her share of good looks. It may even have 
 been pity which first attracted his notice. But we are 
 able to assure ourselves with every certainty that the sing- 
 ing girl Christine has become the mistress of the Marquis 
 of Ellingham." 
 
 " It is a damned lie ! " Hannaway thundered out 
 
 Leblun turned his head, turned it as swiftly as the 
 head of a mechanical toy. His hand flashed out. He 
 was suddenly alert. "Then why," he asked, "is she liv- 
 ing upon the Marquis of Ellingham's money? Tell me 
 that. You say that she is not his mistress, and you say it 
 with conviction. Then what remains?"
 
 CHAPTER XXXH 
 
 THE two men sat looking at each other for several 
 breathless seconds. Hannaway felt all the angry 
 impotence of a man caught in a trap. His face was still 
 being raked by Leblun's merciless eyes. He had betrayed 
 the secret which he was so anxious to guard. Leblun had 
 played with him as with a child. 
 
 "So you deny my very natural inference?" Leblun 
 said, breaking the silence at last. "You believe that 
 Mademoiselle de Lanson has some other claim upon 
 Lord Ellingham? It may be so. You may be right, 
 my friend." 
 
 " I know nothing of the matter," Hannaway said slowly. 
 "It was foolish of me to discuss it with you." 
 
 Leblun shrugged his shoulders. "Between comrades," 
 he said, " what does it matter ? To talk is always interest- 
 ing. It would astonish you to know it, my dear friend, but 
 I am not at all sure that you have not supplied me with 
 the missing clue. By the by, have you any acquaintance 
 with Lord Ellingham?" 
 
 "None," Hannaway answered briefly. 
 
 "A very interesting personality," Leblun said. "I read
 
 PASSERS-BY 253 
 
 his speeches always. A friend of France, too. It would 
 be interesting to meet him." 
 
 Hannaway rose to his feet. "Mr. Leblun," he said, "I 
 will wish you good afternoon." 
 
 " If you must go," Leblun remarked. 
 
 Hannaway left the room, made a circuit of the building, 
 and issued again into the courtyard. He called a hansom, 
 and was driven at once to Cavendish Square. The major- 
 domo of the household came forward to answer his eager 
 inquiries. The marquis was not at home. He had lunched 
 out. He was probably now at his club, or on his way 
 down to the House. 
 
 Hannaway stepped back into his hansom, and drove to 
 Pall Mall. The doorkeeper of the very exclusive club to 
 which Lord Ellingham belonged showed him into a 
 waiting-room. 
 
 "Any card, sir?" he asked. "His lordship is in the 
 reading-room, I believe." 
 
 "I have no card," Hannaway answered, "but if you will 
 tell Lord Ellingham that my name is Hannaway, and that 
 I wish to see him on very important business, I think he 
 will come." 
 
 Hannaway was left alone for almost ten minutes. He 
 smoked one of the cigarettes with which the room was 
 lavishly supplied, took up the papers one by one, and 
 threw them down. Christine would never forgive him,
 
 254 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he was sure of that. It was he who had betrayed this 
 man. Fool that he was, to have measured his wits for one 
 second against the wits of Jacques Leblun ! 
 
 Lord Ellingham came in at last. His manner was per- 
 fectly composed, and he showed no signs of hurry. Han- 
 naway looked at him in admiration. The man must know 
 that he was living on the brink of a volcano. Neither his 
 face nor his manner showed any signs of it He greeted 
 his visitor civilly, but without enthusiasm, and waited to 
 hear what he had to say. 
 
 "I have come," Hannaway said quietly, "because I 
 think you ought to be told of the presence in this country 
 of a man named Jacques Leblun, and also the reason for 
 his presence." 
 
 "I am perfectly well aware of it," the marquis answered. 
 "At the same time, I shall be happy to hear what you have 
 to say." 
 
 " We need not play with words," Hannaway said. " We 
 both know a little. We can both assume a little. Leblun 
 came here to discover the man who escaped from the Place 
 Noire on the night of the raid. You were that man, Lord 
 Ellingham. It is you for whom Jacques Leblun is 
 searching." 
 
 Lord Ellingham stood quite still. He made no sign. 
 His cheeks, indeed, had no color to lose. "Well," he 
 asked quietly, "have you come here to tell me that? Or
 
 PASSERS-BY 255 
 
 have you come here to tell me that you have already told 
 Leblun?" 
 
 "I had no thought of anything of the kind," Hannaway 
 exclaimed hastily. "But I want to explain to you some- 
 thing that has happened. Leblun laid a trap for me, and 
 I fell into it. He spoke of Mademoiselle de Lanson. He 
 spoke of her as a beggar, and he spoke of her life to-day. 
 He smiled an irritating, maddening smile. Mademoi- 
 selle de Lanson had done well for herself, she had for her 
 lover the Marquis of Ellingham! He said this with his 
 eyes watching my face. I told him that he lied. I was a 
 fool it was so obvious a trick. And when I flung the 
 lie in his teeth all that he did was to smile. Then why, he 
 asked, does the money of the Marquis of Ellingham pro- 
 vide luxury for Mademoiselle de Lanson? I could not 
 answer. He knew that I could not answer." 
 
 Lord Ellingham was silent for several moments. "I 
 wonder," he remarked, "how he ever got hold of my name 
 at all?" 
 
 "He traced Christine," Hannaway said. "Then, of 
 course, he searched for the explanation of her altered cir- 
 cumstances. His inquiries led him to you. Perhaps he 
 was not absolutely certain that his explanation was not 
 really the truth. At any rate, he tried it on me, and I fell." 
 
 "Does Mademoiselle de Lanson know this?" the mar- 
 quis asked.
 
 256 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "She does not, as yet," Hannaway answered. 
 
 "Keep it to yourself," the marquis ordered. "Leblun 
 may come and see me. At any rate, I shall be prepared." 
 
 He looked at his visitor as though expecting him to go. 
 Hannaway hesitated. 
 
 "If I could be of any assistance, Lord Ellingham," he 
 suggested, almost timidly. 
 
 Lord Ellingham shook his head. His face showed no 
 signs of fear, or emotion of any sort. "Pray do not dis- 
 turb yourself, Mr. Hannaway," he said. "I need not, I 
 know, mince words with you. If this thing has to come, 
 I must meet it. Afterward well, it does n't much mat- 
 ter. You will excuse me, I am sure. It is more than time 
 that I was on my way down to the House." 
 
 The marquis, as was his daily custom, walked from his 
 club toward the Houses of Parliament. Acquaintances 
 whom he met, and whom he unfailingly recognized, no- 
 ticed nothing altered in his demeanor, except, perhaps, a 
 slightly added graciousness, a smile more noticeable than 
 usual. Yet, indeed, he walked very much like a man in 
 a dream. All the time that one terrible question seemed 
 to be ringing in his ears. When would it be ? How soon 
 would the blow fall? Would he be allowed to reach the 
 House, to make his speech, to take up the cudgels once 
 more on behalf of his hard-pressed party? How soon?
 
 PASSERS-BY 257 
 
 he asked himself. Would he be allowed to return home ? 
 Would he see his wife again ? His face grew gray, and his 
 lips quivered, as he thought for a moment of the shock 
 this thing would be to her. There was no way to avoid 
 it now. Leblun was on his track. Nothing in the world, 
 to a past master like Leblun, was so easy as to bridge over 
 the years, to trace his career back, step by step, to that 
 terrible night when he fled from the Place Noire. He had 
 no defense, there was no hole for escape. He was guilty. 
 He was the man who should have suffered in prison, as 
 Marcel had suffered. He was the man, indeed, whom the 
 authorities had thought they were punishing. There was 
 no hope, he told himself; nothing to do but to keep a 
 brave face to the world, and perhaps But that he 
 must think of more seriously. The ethics of suicide had 
 always interested him. Surely, if any one was justified in 
 escaping from life, he was. 
 
 A beggar with a tray of matches touched him upon the 
 arm. " Only one penny a box, sir. Buy a box, guvnor." 
 
 The marquis shook his head. The man still kept his 
 place. They were passing a four-wheel cab, drawn up 
 against the curb. The beggar leaned over his tray. "Step 
 into that cab for one moment, sir," he muttered under his 
 breath. "It is Marcel who waits for you there." 
 
 The man glided away. Lord Ellingham turned invol- 
 untarily toward the cab drawn up against the curb. In- 
 
 17
 
 258 PASSERS-BY 
 
 side was a furtive figure with black-rimmed eyes and 
 ghastly face. It was Marcel, hiding among the cushions, 
 afraid to look out, and yet eager to attract his attention. 
 Lord Ellingham paused. After a moment's hesitation he 
 crossed the pavement and stepped into the cab.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIH 
 
 was a change in Marcel which Lord Elling- 
 JL ham, surveying him critically, found somewhat sur- 
 prising. He was well dressed, although the clothes were 
 ready-made, and a certain elegance of bearing, for which 
 in the old days he had been distinguished, had reasserted 
 itself. He was clean-shaven, his hair was cut, and even 
 his nails had been manicured. He was conscious of his 
 companion's somewhat surprised scrutiny, and his lips 
 parted in a slight smile. 
 
 "My consideration for you, dear friend," he said, "has 
 led me to take this unusual care with my person. I have 
 decided to forget the untoward events of the last few days. 
 I have decided to believe that I am free from pursuit, and 
 that I am now tete-a-tete with a generous friend. It is the 
 the optimism of my race, you see a quality worth 
 cultivating." 
 
 "I congratulate you," Lord Ellingham said dryly. "I 
 do not exactly know why I accepted your pressing invita- 
 tion, but since I am here, perhaps you will tell me why you 
 extended it to me." 
 
 "Willingly," Marcel answered. "This man is going to
 
 260 PASSERS-BY 
 
 drive us slowly along the Embankment. I have engaged 
 him for half an hour. A portion of the time has elapsed 
 already. First, then, I want to tell you that we have failed 
 to discover those four million francs, or any trace of 
 them." 
 
 "You and Pierre?" Lord Ellingham remarked quietly. 
 
 Marcel looked at him swiftly. "Pierre and I," he re- 
 peated. "The money is not in the place where it was 
 hidden. The hunchback we find still a beggar upon the 
 streets. The girl alone seems to have prospered." 
 
 "From which you conclude?" Lord Ellingham asked. 
 
 "It is the girl who found the money," Marcel declared. 
 "Listen. There is another reason for believing this. An- 
 atoile you remember Anatoile he too knew of the 
 four million francs. To whom did he go? He did not 
 come to you. He did not waste time with the hunchback. 
 He went to the girl, and in her rooms he was found 
 murdered." 
 
 Lord Ellingham frowned slightly. "I am perfectly 
 convinced," he said, "that the girl knows nothing of the 
 four million francs." 
 
 Marcel laughed hardly. "My friend," he said, "you 
 were always easily deceived by women. Christine's 
 mother twisted you round her little finger. Christine her- 
 self, I have no doubt, could do the same. How else do 
 you suppose that she lives in luxury, drives in carriages,
 
 PASSERS-BY 261 
 
 wears a string of pearls, lives, in short, as a lady of wealth ? 
 Of course there is another way." 
 
 Lord Ellingham stopped him. "You forget," he said, 
 "that Christine is my stepdaughter. She lives on an al- 
 lowance from me." 
 
 Marcel laughed once more. "My dear Marquis," he 
 said, " that may be, or it may not be. Who cares ? Money 
 I must have, not a little money, but a great deal. I 
 want my share of that four million francs. I want it either 
 from you or from her." 
 
 "Neither of us," the marquis declared, "knows anything 
 whatever of the money you speak of." 
 
 Marcel shrugged his shoulders. "I repeat," he said, 
 " that there are four million francs to be accounted for. I 
 hold you and her responsible. Half of that sum I demand. 
 I demand it from you, and if you refuse it me I shall de- 
 mand it from her. If you both refuse, if I see no chance 
 of getting it, then I will earn my pardon. I will seek for 
 Mr. Jacques Leblun. I will say to him : ' Here is the man 
 who can solve for you the mystery of that house in the 
 Place Noire. I will prove to you that what I said when 
 I was on trial was the truth. Come with me, and I will 
 show you the man who should have stood by my side in 
 the dock.'" 
 
 Lord Ellingham was thoughtful. He looked out of the 
 window at the great sluggish river. "I am not sure," he
 
 262 PASSERS-BY 
 
 said, " whether it would pay me to buy your silence. There 
 is the hunchback too, who knows. He is a strange crea- 
 ture, and I think he has no love for me. Besides, be- 
 tween ourselves, I fancy that my time is nearly up. 
 Leblun is in this country even now, and I think he means 
 to know the truth." 
 
 Marcel's thin lips parted, showing his white teeth. It 
 was a snarl of fear, of angry fear. "Leblun here!" he 
 muttered. "If so, he came after me." 
 
 "In any case," the marquis continued, "I do not see 
 why I should beggar myself for nothing. I have had some 
 years of life, life that has been worth living. I think that 
 I may as well make my bow to fate as gracefully as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "You talk like a fool," Marcel declared. "You are in 
 no real danger at all. There is no reason why you should 
 not remain unsuspected all your days. The hunchback 
 amounts to nothing. He is half mad, drunk most of the 
 time. He counts for nothing. The girl will not betray 
 you. There is no one else. Let me tell you, life in prison 
 is a horrible thing. The cells, oh, my God ! There are 
 no words to describe them. It is a life for vermin, not 
 for men." 
 
 "I have not the slightest intention," the marquis said, 
 "of experiencing it. There are other ways." 
 
 Marcel shrugged his shoulders. "Death!" he said.
 
 PASSERS-BY 263 
 
 "One speaks of it easily enough, but, after all, it is the 
 end. I have held a revolver against my own temple, but 
 the thought of the black gulf will make one's hand tremble 
 a little, my friend. One sees so quickly, one sees so much," 
 he added, leaning a little forward. "All the past horrors 
 seem to loom up. All the dead men one has ever caught 
 a glimpse of seem to lie, cold and ugly, before one's vision. 
 No more the wine, the kisses, and the sunshine, the flow 
 of life in one's veins. Death ! Extinction ! Ah ! " 
 
 His face was gray with fear. His companion looked at 
 him curiously. 
 
 "Prison life," he said calmly, "has shaken your nerve, 
 my dear Marcel." 
 
 "We talk like children," Marcel declared suddenly. 
 "I am not here to play with words. Will you give me 
 money, or will you not?" 
 
 "I will not," the marquis answered. "If I gave you 
 any sum that I could afford, you would be back for more 
 the moment it was spent. If I treat with you at all I 
 hang a millstone around my own neck. I have burned 
 my bridges. I have nothing to do with the past. I do 
 not remember the house in the Place Noire, and you, you 
 are a stranger. Tell your story to whom you please. 
 My mind is made up." 
 
 "You are not serious?" Marcel whispered hoarsely. 
 
 "I am entirely serious," Lord Ellingham answered. "I
 
 264 PASSERS-BY 
 
 owe you nothing. There was never any comradeship 
 between us. You were a bad lot from first to last. You 
 ruined the life of the poor woman I was beguiled into 
 marrying. I had courage, which you had not, but it was 
 you who were responsible for all the wickedness, the real 
 treacherous wickedness, which went on in that cursed 
 house. I hated you then. I despise you now. Go to 
 the first policeman you find. Tell him all you know. I 
 am ready to meet whatever Fate may have in store for 
 me, at any time. Permit me," he added, letting down 
 the window. "I am going to tell the cabman to 
 stop." 
 
 Marcel sprang at him, but Lord Ellingham easily threw 
 him away. Then, of its own accord, the cab stopped. The 
 door was thrown open. Marcel glared wildly out 
 
 "Where are we?" he exclaimed. 
 
 Lord Ellingham stepped from the cab and looked around 
 him. Five or six policemen were close at hand. Two 
 inspectors were on either side of the vehicle. They were 
 drawn up before a gray stone building. 
 
 "Why, I believe," Lord Ellingham remarked, looking 
 around him, "that this is Scotland Yard." 
 
 Marcel was speechless for a moment. He allowed him- 
 self to be led from the cab. Before he realized what had 
 happened handcuffs were upon his wrists, he was being 
 led into the building. Suddenly he stopped.
 
 PASSERS-BY 265 
 
 "This is your doing," he shrieked, turning to Lord 
 Ellingham. "This is a trap." 
 
 Lord Ellingham shook his head. "I can assure you," 
 he remarked pleasantly, "that I had not the faintest idea 
 where we were." 
 
 "I am arrested, am I?" Marcel cried out. "Then 
 arrest him too," he added, pointing to where Lord Elling- 
 ham stood, calm and unruffled. "He may call himself 
 what he chooses now, but five years ago he was a very 
 different person. He is the man who escaped from the 
 Place Noire with the hunchback and the girl. He was 
 one of us, the boldest of us all. If I am to be taken back 
 again he shall come too." 
 
 They tried to drag him away, but he protested, shrieking, 
 and trying to throw himself at Lord Ellingham. 
 
 "Don't you hear me?" he cried. "This is the truth I 
 am telling you. The truth, I swear it ! Don't let him go." 
 
 The marquis turned to the chief inspector, who at once 
 raised his hat. "I presume, Inspector," he said, "that 
 my being found in company with this person does not 
 render me liable to arrest? I certainly did know him in 
 Paris years ago. He is the Vicomte de Neuilly, and in 
 those days he was a person whom every one knew. He 
 came to me to-day with a pitiable story, and I was induced 
 to listen to him. If I am required for any purpose you 
 will know where to find me."
 
 260 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Certainly, my lord," the man answered. "Will you 
 allow one of my men to fetch you a hansom ? He is a bad 
 lot, I am afraid," he added, motioning with his head to 
 where at last Marcel was being dragged away. "I did 
 hear, though, that he had been a gentleman once." 
 
 A hansom drove up, and Lord Ellingham stepped in. 
 "The House of Lords," he directed. "I am a little late. 
 Please hurry."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE marchioness, who was spending a dull even- 
 ing at a very large reception, welcomed her hus- 
 band with a brilliant smile. " Positively, my dear Francis," 
 she declared, abruptly dismissing the little man who had 
 been her escort, "you are the only reasonable person I 
 have seen for hours. I never have been so bored. Why 
 you have come, I cannot imagine, but since you are here, 
 please take me away." 
 
 "Exactly what I came to do," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "It was nice of you," she murmured. "There are two 
 more places I ought to look in at before I go home, but I 
 don't feel in the least sociable. It is shockingly early, 
 though, isn't it?" 
 
 "It is scarcely past eleven o'clock," the marquis an- 
 swered. 
 
 "We must do something," she declared. "It is too 
 absurd to go home." 
 
 He handed her down the broad steps, and a footman 
 called their carriage. 
 
 "I have an idea," he said. "Let us go to one of the 
 large supper restaurants."
 
 268 PASSERS-BY 
 
 " Delightful ! " she exclaimed. " I have been wanting 
 to go to the Altona for supper. I nearly went with Lord 
 Hardington the other night. It will be far more piquant, 
 dear, to go with you." 
 
 They carried out their program faithfully. It was not 
 until they were seated at a small round table in a com- 
 fortable corner of the great restaurant and were watching, 
 the marchioness with some amazement, the throngs of 
 people who streamed in that she noticed anything unusual 
 in his manner. 
 
 "Why, my dear Francis," she said, "you are not well 
 to-night. Your face looks drawn, and your eyes are fever- 
 ish. Did things go wrong in the House?" 
 
 "Things went well enough," he answered. "I am a 
 little bothered, but it is a matter which has nothing to do 
 with politics." 
 
 "I am sorry," she answered. "Can you tell me about 
 it?" 
 
 He shook his head. "It is not worth while," he said. 
 "It is one of those little storms that sometimes blow 
 across one's life. They look formidable enough when the 
 clouds are gathering, but they pass oh, yes, they pass." 
 
 She leaned across the table and laid her fingers upon 
 his arm. "Yet to-night," she said, "I do not seem to 
 understand you. I seem to feel a long way off." 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, "it is because I, too, have been in a
 
 PASSERS-BY 269 
 
 distant country. One's thoughts play the truant in a 
 strange manner sometimes. To-night, when I was sitting 
 in my place, waiting to speak, instead of collecting my 
 ideas on the subject of Morocco, I found myself thinking 
 of the days when you and I were boy and girl together." 
 
 "It is a long time ago," she murmured. 
 
 "It is not so very long," he answered; "not so long, 
 indeed, but that sometimes the very days themselves seem 
 to stand out, easily recognizable, even through the tangle 
 of years. I remember the day when your father told me 
 that the fourth son of an impecunious peer, penniless, 
 and with none too good a reputation, was no match for 
 his daughter. I remember our last walk together across 
 the park and up the Beacon; a clear October evening it 
 was, with a snap in the air and a sky like crystal, a sky 
 full of strange lights. We walked down the broad green 
 path hand in hand, and the lights began to break out like 
 little points of twinkling stars in the valley below. Your 
 house, too, was all ablaze. Do you remember? It was 
 the night they were expecting the man to whom you were 
 to be married." 
 
 "I remember," she answered, a little sadly. 
 
 "I remember the day I left England," he went on. "I 
 was a little desperate just then, Margaret. I could not see 
 into the future. I did not know that if I had only been 
 content to wait my time would come."
 
 270 PASSERS-BY 
 
 She touched his hand for a moment. "It has come," 
 she murmured. 
 
 "Yes, it has come," he answered, but without a smile, 
 without any change in the settled gravity of his features. 
 "It has come, but a little late, Margaret. I did not know 
 then, or I should have left England in a different spirit. 
 I should have left undone," he added, with a sudden 
 bitter note in his low tones, "I should have left undone 
 many things. I lived a bad life, Margaret, in those days." 
 
 "Don't!" she begged. "I do not want to hear about 
 them. You were badly treated. You were disappointed. 
 I think you were a little in love with me. What you did is 
 wiped out. Think of it no more, please." 
 
 "There are stains," he answered, "which nothing can 
 wipe out. No," he added hastily, "don't think that I am 
 suffering from the pangs of a troublesome conscience. It 
 is not that. But sometimes, Margaret, even the events 
 themselves rise up and stretch out their hands toward my 
 throat" 
 
 She set down her glass and looked at him fixedly. 
 "Something has happened," she whispered. 
 
 "Dear Margaret," he answered, "something may 
 happen." 
 
 Neither of them spoke for several moments. People 
 were passing their table. An officious maUre d' hotel was 
 at his elbow with suggestions. They were both people
 
 PASSERS-BY 271 
 
 with all the self-control of their order, a self-control which 
 had become a habit of their lives. She looked around and 
 criticized, kindly but humorously, some of their neighbors. 
 She spoke of the music, the decorations, the perfume of 
 the flowers. They were to all appearances a couple like 
 all those others, well-bred, appreciative, interested, and 
 yet a trifle bored. When they were alone, however, she 
 leaned a little forward. 
 
 "What is it, Francis?" she asked. 
 
 "In Paris," he answered slowly, "I had friends who 
 were criminals. I was a criminal myself." 
 
 She laughed. "We all are," she answered. "There is 
 not a day that every one of us, in our thoughts, if not in 
 our actions, does not offend against that marvelous code 
 of laws by which we are surrounded." 
 
 He nodded. "Some of us," he said, "escape. I have 
 escaped until now. I want to prepare you just a little, 
 Margaret. There is a chance that one of those ugly 
 chapters may be reopened. There is a man in this country 
 who is determined to bring home to me a deed, or a series 
 of deeds, rather, for which I was certainly jointly re- 
 sponsible with others, and which were certainly offenses 
 against the laws." 
 
 "You are sure," she asked, "that it is not some one who 
 is trying to blackmail you?" 
 
 "I am sure," he answered. "The man is above that
 
 272 PASSERS-BY 
 
 He is not to be bought. They say he is the cleverest de- 
 tective in France. If so, he can scarcely fail to find me 
 out" 
 
 She was not in the least daunted. She raised her glass 
 and drank to him with a little nod. "My dear Francis," 
 she said, "there are hundreds of people who go through 
 life with some such shadow dogging their footsteps. It 
 always seems worse than it really is. Take my advice. 
 Refuse to believe in it, refuse to believe that fate could be 
 so cruel. At any rate, there is no need to poison the days 
 or the hours that lie between. Forget it for a little while, 
 at least. If it comes well, we will meet it hand in hand. 
 Our life is sometimes almost too absorbing. Let us try 
 to forget that you are a great politician, a peer of Eng- 
 land, and that I am your wife and a person of consequence 
 in society. Then if it comes we can be primitive. We are 
 man and woman together. We can at least be as brave 
 as those others underneath." 
 
 He looked 'at her for several moments, and there was 
 something in his eyes which brought the color to her 
 cheeks, something which he never attempted to translate 
 into words. He felt his heart beating with a new vigor. 
 The shadows which had been leaning over him suddenly 
 melted away. The courage of his race he had always 
 had more than his share reasserted itself. They talked 
 for half an hour or more, but gaily, and as two people to
 
 PASSERS-BY 273 
 
 whom the world is still an enchanted garden. And when 
 they sat in their carriage, on their way back to Cavendish 
 Square, his arm went around her waist and her lips sought 
 his. 
 
 "I wonder," she whispered, "why you did not take me 
 straight home to-night? We could have talked there." 
 
 He smiled at the recollection. "My dear Margaret," 
 he said, "I was a slave to my fears. I was afraid of finding 
 some one waiting there for me." 
 
 " Foolish ! " she murmured. 
 
 He opened the door of the house in Cavendish Square 
 with his own latch-key. The lights were burning dimly 
 in the hall, for it was almost one o'clock, but the hall- 
 porter, who was still up, came hurrying to meet them. 
 
 "Any letters or telegrams, Jameson?" the marquis 
 asked, as he suffered himself to be divested of his over- 
 coat. 
 
 "There are none which Mr. Penton has not attended 
 to, my lord," was the respectful answer. "Only, about 
 two hours ago, a gentleman called to see you. He said 
 that his business was very important, and he has been 
 allowed to wait for your coming." 
 
 The marquis did not answer for a moment. He was 
 straightening his tie, which had been momentarily dis- 
 arranged, and he turned away from the mirror with a 
 
 smile. "Well," he said, "I do not know who my late 
 
 18
 
 274 PASSERS-BY 
 
 visitor may be, but I shall have an excuse for a cigarette. 
 Our little supper was so delightful," he added, "that I 
 forgot even to smoke. Where is this person, Jameson?" 
 he asked, turning to the man. 
 
 "I showed him into the library, sir," the man answered. 
 
 The marquis turned to escort his wife to the foot of the 
 stairs. She shook her head. 
 
 "Why, no," she said. " I am not in the least sleepy. If 
 you do not mind I will come and help you interview your 
 late caller. I don't suppose his business is particularly 
 private." 
 
 The marquis stood still for a moment. Then, with a 
 little acquiescent bow, he motioned for her to precede him 
 toward the door which the man was already opening.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE man who had been waiting rose with a little 
 gesture of relief as the door was thrown open. He 
 looked with some surprise toward the marchioness. The 
 marquis was silent for a moment. This was not the man 
 he had expected to see. It was necessary for him to rear- 
 range his ideas. 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway bowed, and turned toward him. 
 "I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken, Lord 
 Ellingham," he said, " in awaiting your return. I wished 
 to see you upon a matter which is of great importance to 
 me, and I ventured to hope that you would give me a few 
 minutes of your time at once, if possible." 
 
 Lord Ellingham was acquiescent, almost urbane. "I 
 shall be very glad to hear what you have to say, Mr. 
 Hannaway," he said. "Permit me," he added, turning 
 toward his wife, "to present to you this gentleman. 
 It is Mr. Gilbert Hannaway the Marchioness of 
 Ellingham." 
 
 Hannaway bowed low. "I must apologize again, Lady 
 Ellingham," he said, "for disturbing your husband so 
 late. If you can spare him to me for a few minutes, though,
 
 276 PASSERS-BY 
 
 I shall be very glad. I wish to consult him about a some- 
 what important matter." 
 
 The marchioness smiled pleasantly. "Please don't 
 mind me a bit," she said. " I am going to sit over there 
 in the easy- chair and I hope you won' t mind smoke a 
 cigarette." 
 
 Gilbert Hannaway looked from the marquis to his wife 
 in some embarrassment. "If I may say so," he began, 
 "the business which I have with you, Lord Ellingham, is 
 of a private nature." 
 
 " Mr. Hannaway, ' ' the marquis said, ' ' I have no secrets 
 from my wife. Every word which you could possibly say 
 to me, connected with any subject whatever, I should even 
 prefer you to say before her. I have great confidence in 
 my wife' s j udgment. ' ' 
 
 The marchioness smiled. "My husband," she said, 
 " has been indulging in a little retrospection this evening. 
 I am quite sure that he would like me to hear anything 
 that you may have to say. And so far as you are concerned, 
 I can assure you that I am a most discreet person." 
 
 Hannaway bowed. " If it is your wish, Lord Ellingham, ' ' 
 he said gravely, "there is no reason why I should not say 
 what is in my mind before your wife. I have come to 
 make something which to you may sound like an appeal. 
 I have come at this hour of the night because there is 
 very little time to spare."
 
 PASSERS-BY 277 
 
 The marquis seated himself in an easy chair, opposite 
 to his wife, and placed one for Hannaway between the 
 two. "Go on," he said. "You are sure that you will 
 not smoke?" 
 
 Hannaway shook his head. "Not at present, thank 
 you," he answered. "I want to talk to you, Lord Elling- 
 ham, about something which happened in Paris nearly 
 five years ago." 
 
 "I imagined so," the marquis murmured. 
 
 "It is very largely a personal matter, after all," Hanna- 
 way continued, "which has brought me here. In those 
 days I was a young man, with a love of adventure which 
 led me into strange places more than once. It was this 
 love of adventure which made me an habitue* of the night 
 cafe's in Paris, and a visitor at a certain house in the Place 
 Noire, where I met you, Lord Ellingham, more than 
 once." 
 
 Lord Ellingham nodded. " Go on," he said. 
 
 "I am not here," Hannaway continued earnestly, "to 
 speak of the things which went on in that house. They 
 do not concern my present mission at all. It used to 
 amuse me to imagine myself an inspired solver of mys- 
 teries. I used to like to set myself imaginary tasks, to 
 trace down imaginary criminals. It was only the outcome 
 of my natural love of adventure; the fancy or hobby, or 
 whatever you like to call it, passed away. I am not here
 
 278 PASSERS-BY 
 
 to-night to pose as a person who by chance has stumbled 
 
 across a secret." 
 
 The marquis raised his eyebrows. "No?" he asked 
 politely. "You are aware, of course, that there is one 
 close at hand?" 
 
 "I am aware of it, Lord Ellingham," Hannaway 
 answered. "It is not my business. I am here neither to 
 warn nor to intimidate you. I am here to crave a favor." 
 
 The marchioness leaned a little forward in her chair. 
 
 "A favor?" her hustand repeated, with knitted eye- 
 brows. "I do not quite understand." 
 
 "I was young in those days, and I think I have told you 
 that I had romantic impulses," Hannaway continued. 
 "There was a girl she was little more than a child 
 who when I first knew it was an inmate of the house in 
 the Place Noire. For some reason, I am not sure why, 
 but I think I can guess, she left it. She left it, penniless, 
 except for a generous gift from you. She left it, I know, 
 against your will, but feeling that from you, at any rate, 
 she had never met with anything but kindness. I used to 
 watch her. I used to wonder what attraction there was 
 in her somber dark eyes and her somewhat sullen bearing. 
 But there was an attraction. Other people, as you know, 
 felt it. She left that house it was as well for her that 
 she did and she sang in the streets with a hunchback 
 who came from the village where she was born, who had
 
 " I am not here to-night to pose as a person who by chance 
 
 has stumbled across a secret." [Page 278
 
 PASSERS-BY 279 
 
 followed her to Paris, and who seems all his life to have 
 borne for her a wonderful affection. I saw them occa- 
 sionally in Paris. I often tried to renew my acquaintance 
 with the girl. Always she was cold and distant. She 
 seemed to have become imbibed with a great and ever- 
 present distrust of my sex. Then came that fatal night 
 when the police made their raid upon the house in the 
 Place Noire. She and the hunchback were there, outside. 
 He had many strange friends, and he had heard of what 
 was coming. They had hastened up at the bidding of 
 the Vicomte de Neuilly the man Marcel, as he is now 
 called the girl's uncle. There was some scheme by 
 means of which he was to escape with them. You man- 
 aged somehow to take his place. Sheltered by their pres- 
 ence, wheeling, in fact, their piano, you escaped. You 
 passed down the little cobbled hill which led from the 
 Place Noire, and you passed also out of that life. No one 
 can be more sorry than I, Lord Ellingham, that you did 
 not pass out of it forever." 
 
 "I am very much interested," Lord Ellingham mur- 
 mured. "Please continue. If you had told me that you 
 had come once more to warn me I could have understood 
 your presence. But a favor?" 
 
 "I am coming to that," Gilbert Hannaway continued. 
 "I was wounded that night, as perhaps you know, and it 
 was some months before I was able to get about again.
 
 280 PASSERS-BY 
 
 All the time I found myself thinking of that girl with the 
 dark eyes and the strange, sad little face. When I was 
 well I set myself to find them, and I failed. They were 
 not in Paris; they were not in any of the cities where I 
 sought for them. In whatever city I chanced to be I 
 looked for them. At night in my rooms, if I heard a 
 piano in the streets, I hurried to the window. It was 
 always the same failure. I did not see the girl again 
 until a few months ago." 
 
 "In London?" the marquis asked. 
 
 "In London," Hannaway assented. "I looked down 
 from my rooms in the Altona Hotel, and I saw a melan- 
 choly trio in the passage below. I saw a hunchback 
 thumping out miserable music, and I saw a girl standing 
 with her hands behind her back, singing with lifeless de- 
 spair. I was out there in a moment. It was they. The 
 girl at first did not recognize me. She was still the same, 
 inaccessible, only to me far more fascinating. I felt my 
 heart beat with a return of all the emotion which I had 
 felt years before. I knew that I had never forgotten 
 her; she seemed somehow to have become a part of my 
 life. As I talked to her I felt years younger; I felt again 
 that the world of romance was a real pulsating thing. I 
 made myself known, and for some reason or other she 
 was alarmed. They tried to escape; I persisted, the 
 hunchback stole round behind and struck me on the
 
 PASSERS-BY 281 
 
 head. I was giddy for a few moments, and when 1 came 
 to they had disappeared." 
 
 "Since then," the marquis remarked, "I suppose you 
 have met the young lady more frequently?" 
 
 "I saw her twice again," Hannaway answered, "and 
 then she disappeared with you in a carriage at Victoria 
 Station. A few days later we came back from Paris on 
 the same steamer. She was no longer a street singer. 
 She was a creature of another world, the world to which 
 I had felt all the time that she belonged. I made her ac- 
 quaintance by chance. Since then there is a considerable 
 interval which I need not enlarge upon, because the facts 
 are known, Lord Ellingham, to both of us. I discovered 
 that the girl was your stepdaughter ; that you had married 
 her mother, Madame de Lanson, in Paris; that she was, 
 indeed, the daughter of the woman who died in the house 
 at the Place Noire a few weeks before the raid." 
 
 The marchioness shivered a little, but she did not speak. 
 The marquis turned his head and looked toward her. 
 She smiled, and nodded back at him. 
 
 "The girl is your stepdaughter," Hannaway continued, 
 "and directly you found her out, or rather she found you 
 out, you of course provided for her. I had hoped that 
 before now she would have become my wife." 
 
 The marquis raised his eyebrows. The corners of his 
 mouth twitched with a faint smile. " My dear Mr. Hanna-
 
 282 PASSERS-BY 
 
 way," he said, "if the favor which you are going to ask 
 of me, is my permission to pay your addresses to my 
 stepdaughter, I can assure you that in all such matters 
 her wishes are entirely mine." 
 
 Hannaway held out his hand. "Lord Ellingham," he 
 said, "it is not so simple a matter. You remember the 
 hunchback of whom we have spoken?" 
 
 "Quite well," Lord Ellingham answered. 
 
 "His devotion to Christine," Hannaway said, "seems 
 to be one of those strange and unaccountable passions 
 which people who are in any way unusual, mentally or 
 physically, seem to be most capable of. Practically since 
 his boyhood he has given his life for her. He has kept 
 her from want when he himself has been near starvation." 
 
 "I appreciate all that," the marquis said, interrupting. 
 "I will tell you something. So fearful was he lest they 
 should be separated that he came to warn me that she 
 was in England searching for me. I was, in fact, on the 
 point of leaving England, when some other person brought 
 us together." 
 
 "It was I," Hannaway admitted. "I knew for whom 
 she was searching, and I told her. You will not blame me 
 for that? There was no reason why I should not Your 
 secret I was guarding, although there was no reason what- 
 ever why I should not have cried out to the world that 
 the Marquis of Ellingham had once been an habitue" of a
 
 PASSERS-BY 283 
 
 house of very evil repute, in a low quarter of Paris. I did 
 not do that. I had no thought of doing it. I was even 
 glad that you had been able to reestablish yourself in the 
 world. Never a whisper passed my lips of the things I 
 knew, nor did I in any way bring myself to your notice." 
 
 "It is quite true," the marquis admitted. 
 
 "But with the girl it was different," Hannaway con- 
 tinued. " I saw her in want. I knew that she would never 
 take anything from me. Naturally, having it in my power, 
 I showed her how to find you." 
 
 "I have no word of complaint against your behavior, 
 Mr. Hannaway," the marquis said. "In fact, you have 
 shown a considerable amount of forbearance." 
 
 "I want to return to the subject of the hunchback and 
 his devotion," Hannaway continued. "What he suffered 
 after their separation I can only imagine. Christine her- 
 self was a little cruel, but even when she did offer him the 
 means to leave his miserable life he refused almost fiercely. 
 Still he played his piano and dragged himself aboutLondon, 
 living God knows how. All the time he was watching her. 
 All the time, I fancy, things were smoldering in his mind. 
 One knows nothing. One cannot even guess what such 
 things may mean," he continued, dropping his voice a 
 little, "but Anatoile, the Frenchman, who came over 
 most surely to rob her, was found dead in her rooms, and 
 I alone know a knowledge I have never shared with a
 
 284 PASSERS-BY 
 
 single person that that night Ambrose played his piano 
 outside. I am very sure that he has been in communica- 
 tion with the other Frenchmen, Marcel and Pierre. All 
 the time there has been something in his mind. He had 
 given his life for Christine. In a way it was an epic. He 
 had asked for nothing from her save her presence. She 
 was not even kind to him. His life was one unending 
 sacrifice for her. When she left him, do you think that a 
 creature like that would accept his fate?" 
 
 Hannaway paused. His listeners leaned a little for- 
 ward. Both seemed deeply interested. 
 
 "What can he do?" the marquis asked. "If he re- 
 fuses money from Christine, and she has money to give 
 him if he will accept it, what else can he ask?" 
 
 "I have come to tell you what he does ask," Hannaway. 
 said. "Only yesterday he came to Christine. He was 
 dressed in new clothes. His piano he declared was smashed. 
 He had been left a great sum of money. He announced 
 himself a rich man. Then the things which had been 
 smoldering in his mind broke forth. He told her that 
 there was no life for him in which she did not share. He 
 told her that he had solved the mystery of the man who 
 escaped from the house in the Place Noire. He told her 
 that it was you you, for whom Christine has a deep 
 and constant affection at which I never guessed. He told 
 her that unless she would consent to come back to him
 
 PASSERS-BY 285 
 
 on any terms to treat him like a dog if she wished, but 
 to let him see her day by day he would go to-morrow 
 to Jacques Leblun, who is here in London, and tell him 
 the truth." 
 
 There was silence for several moments. The marquis 
 seemed wrapped in thought. His wife was watching him 
 earnestly. 
 
 "This money," Lord Ellingham said, "where did it 
 come from?" 
 
 Hannaway shook his head. "I have no idea," he said. 
 
 "I think," the marquis said, "that I can tell you. I 
 think that it represents a sum of four million francs, which 
 Marcel believed that I had." 
 
 "Four million francs?" Hannaway repeated. 
 
 The marquis nodded. " It was hidden in the piano that 
 night," he said. "Marcel hid it there when he planned 
 to escape."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 " iy yCARCEL," the marquis said thoughtfully, "was 
 1. T X arrested to-night. Pierre and Anatoile are dead. 
 There is no one else left. Now, Mr. Hannaway," he 
 added in an altered tone, "we come to the favor which you 
 crave from me. Continue, if you please." 
 
 "Christine," Hannaway said, "is leaving on the nine 
 o'clock train to-morrow. She is going away with Ambrose, 
 thinking that by doing so she will save you. I am very 
 sorry, Lord Ellingham, but in that she is mistaken. Noth- 
 ing that Ambrose could say or do would affect your future. 
 Leblun is here, and I am confident that he knows." 
 
 For the first time the marchioness allowed a little ex- 
 clamation to break from her lips. She recovered herself 
 almost directly, and looked anxiously across at her husband. 
 "Leblun knows?" he repeated. "You are sure?" 
 "There is no doubt about it," Hannaway answered. 
 " I told you this afternoon of the trap into which I had 
 fallen. The very fact that he mentioned your name 
 showed clearly enough what was in his mind. Lord Elling- 
 ham, your stepdaughter's self-sacrifice would be absolutely 
 unavailing. Will you not intervene and save her?"
 
 PASSERS-BY 287 
 
 The marquis glanced at the clock. Hannaway shook 
 his head. 
 
 "She has left her rooms and gone to a hotel, so as to 
 avoid me," he said. " Her maid would not tell me where, 
 but after nearly an hour's persuasion I got her to tell me 
 that she was to meet her mistress at Victoria for the nine 
 o'clock train to-morrow morning." 
 
 "I will be there," the marquis answered. 
 
 "We will both be there," his wife echoed. 
 
 Hannaway looked from one to the other. A sudden 
 wave of pity swept over him. "You are very good," he 
 said simply. "Lord Ellingham," he added, rising to his 
 feet, " I need not say that if there is a single thing which I 
 can do to help I am entirely at your service. If you would 
 like me to go to Leblun " 
 
 The marquis shook his head. " I think," he said, " that 
 we had better let events take their course. I am, of 
 course, responsible for some portion of the misdeeds 
 that were planned in that house, and if justice demands 
 it I must answer for them. Are you quite sure, Mr. 
 Hannaway, that you won't have a cigarette before you 
 go?" 
 
 Hannaway accepted one simply because he was reluc- 
 tant to leave. 
 
 "You will be at the station to-morrow morning?" the 
 marquis asked.
 
 288 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "I shall," Hannaway answered. "I was going there 
 to do what I could to prevent her from going." 
 
 "She shall not go, I promise you that," the marquis 
 said, smiling. "A very devoted person, the hunchback, 
 no doubt, but a dangerous creature to be the owner of 
 four million francs. He would lose his head at once. What- 
 ever happens, they must not be allowed to leave London 
 together. Good night, Mr. Hannaway." 
 
 The marquis had touched the bell, and a servant was 
 waiting to show his guest out. Hannaway made his adieu 
 and left, wholly unable to realize the success of his mis- 
 sion. The marchioness had given him her fingers and a 
 very gracious smile. Lord Ellingham had bidden him 
 good night with the utmost good-will. There was not a 
 sign of tragedy in either of their faces. And less than a 
 mile away Jacques Leblun was already crouching for the 
 spring ! 
 
 Christine, almost invisible beneath a heavy black 
 traveling-veil, came hurriedly along the platform, followed 
 by her maid. In front of the open carriage-door stood 
 Ambrose, moody and perturbed; yet underneath his 
 darkened face some other part of the man seemed sud- 
 denly on fire. He had lost that look of tender humility 
 which had always shone in his eyes as he followed her 
 every movement. He had struck his great blow. Was it
 
 PASSERS-BY 289 
 
 for this he had been waiting, he wondered, through all the 
 years ? She was coming back to him, and yet in his heart 
 he knew very well that it was all a mirage, an apple of 
 Sodom to his eager hand. She was coming because he had 
 worked upon her fears, but she was coming with a new 
 loathing in her heart for him. He knew very well that the 
 barriers over which he had sometimes fancied himself gaz- 
 ing now reached to the skies. 
 
 He stepped forward to meet her, but at that moment 
 Lord Ellingham, who had just issued from the booking- 
 office, intervened. He laid his hand upon Christine's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " My dear Christine ! " he said reproachfully. 
 
 She shrank back, as though terrified at his touch. Am- 
 brose stood quite still. The lightning shot from his eyes. 
 Lord Ellingham, who had no notion of making a scene, 
 glanced carelessly around and nodded to Ambrose. 
 
 "My dear Christine," be continued, "this little ex- 
 cursion of yours cannot be allowed to take place. Mr. 
 Drake will excuse me, I am sure," he continued, turning 
 toward Ambrose, "if I point out to him its impossibility." 
 
 She clutched at his arm. "You don't understand," she 
 murmured. "Don't make him angry." 
 
 "Oh, but I understand very well," Lord Ellingham an- 
 swered indulgently. "He is going to a little wizened- 
 faced man named Jacques Leblun, and he is going to tell 
 
 19
 
 290 PASSERS-BY 
 
 him all about me, if you do not go. That is also foolish. I 
 have hurried down here excuse my reminding you of it, 
 but I hate to breakfast before ten o'clock on purpose 
 to assure you that Mr. Jacques Leblun already knows 
 everything that your friend could tell him." 
 
 "Is that true?" she whispered. 
 
 "Absolutely," Lord Ellingham answered. "Your friend 
 can carry out his amiable intentions without a moment's 
 delay, and he will yet find himself too late. He knows 
 nothing about me that is not already known to Leblun. 
 On the other hand," the marquis continued, turning to 
 Ambrose, "there is a little matter of four million francs." 
 
 "Not mine!" Ambrose gasped. "Not for me! For 
 years I have starved rather than touch one penny of that 
 money. It is in her name. I am only her guardian. It is 
 there waiting for her." 
 
 "I do not doubt your amiable intentions," Lord Elling- 
 ham said smoothly, "but you must not imagine for a mo- 
 ment that I could allow my stepdaughter to profit by them. 
 I have made many mistakes in trying to keep secret from 
 my wife, from the world, from every one, events of which 
 I have every reason to feel ashamed. That is over. I am 
 going to take Christine back to my house, and when you, 
 sir, are in a different frame of mind I shall be glad to see 
 and talk with you, for, after all, Christine is very much in 
 your debt"
 
 PASSERS-BY 291 
 
 The guard came hurrying up. " Take your seats, please," 
 he ordered. 
 
 "You, perhaps," Lord Ellington continued, "may think 
 it worth while to continue your journey. The carriage is 
 waiting outside for you, Christine." 
 
 He turned away, with his arm drawn slightly through 
 Christine's. There seemed to be nothing at all unusual in 
 the little scene. Even Ambrose spoke no word in protest 
 
 "Take those things out," he ordered the porter. "1 
 shall go by the next train." 
 
 Christine and Lord Ellingham passed out in silence to 
 the carriage which was waiting.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVn 
 
 HANNAWAY, later in the day, came face to face with 
 the man who was most in his thoughts, on the steps 
 of the Altona Hotel. He stopped short 
 
 "Mr. Leblun !" he exclaimed. 
 
 Leblun greeted him courteously. Hannaway drew him 
 a little to one side. "Could you spare me five minutes?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "With pleasure," Leblun answered. "Five hours, if 
 you wish. I am one of the most idle men breathing." 
 
 They turned back into the lounge, and Hannaway led 
 the way to two easy chairs, drawn a little apart. 
 
 "Mr. Leblun," he said, "I want to speak to you, if you 
 will allow me, concerning the matter which brought you 
 to England ; concerning the matter, in fact, which we were 
 discussing the other night." 
 
 Leblun slowly inclined his head. "I remember per- 
 fectly," he said. 
 
 "We need not beat about the bush," Hannaway de- 
 clared earnestly. "You came to England to discover the 
 identity of a certain person, and I am very sure that you 
 have discovered it"
 
 PASSERS-BY 293 
 
 Leblun smiled. "You flatter me, Mr. Hannaway," he 
 said. "Well, I will admit that I do not often start upon a 
 search without bringing it to a successful conclusion. This, 
 I fancy, will be no exception; but there, one must not 
 boast." 
 
 " Mr. Leblun," Hannaway said, " I know very well that 
 as a solver of mysteries, a tracker down of criminals, you 
 have had no equal in this generation. You set yourself a 
 task, and you have accomplished it. Your hand is even 
 now stretched out to strike. For one moment I want to 
 ask you to consider. Look a little beyond the immediate 
 result which you have achieved. Do you think that your 
 success in this instance is worth while?" 
 
 "Worth while?" Leblun repeated thoughtfully. "I 
 fear that you will have to be a little more explicit." 
 
 "You have it in your power," Hannaway continued, 
 "to create a huge scandal and bring a lasting disgrace 
 upon a man whose sins, after all, were the sins of youth, 
 and who in a different position has lived a worthy life. 
 Why not pause? Is it worth while to denounce him? 
 What does it mean, after all? He was mixed up with 
 some daring robberies, but the part he took in them was 
 always the part where the risk was greatest. He carried 
 his life in his hands more than once. I never heard of 
 him, in those days and I knew something of them I 
 never heard of him, I say, robbing the poor, or cheating,
 
 294 PASSERS-BY 
 
 or joining with Marcel in that wretched baccarat. He was 
 an adventurer, but if there can be a proper spirit in which 
 one may become a criminal he certainly had it. Since 
 those days he has atoned. Justice does not demand his 
 punishment. Why should you ? You are the only one who 
 knows, unless you have already acquainted Scotland 
 Yard you and that wretch Marcel, whose word would go 
 for nothing. You have behind you a great career. I be- 
 lieve that none of your achievements would be more 
 splendid, more notable than the present one, if " 
 
 "If?" Leblun asked softly. 
 
 "If you left for Paris by, say, the two-twenty train this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Leblun's face was immovable. He showed no signs of 
 approval or of sympathy. From his little silver case he 
 drew a cigarette and puffed blue smoke out into the room. 
 "You are a sentimentalist, Mr. Hannaway," he said. 
 
 "The world which takes no heed of sentiment," Hanna- 
 way answered, " is fast drifting onto the rocks. The man 
 who governs his life with no thought of sentiment is a 
 machine, not a human being. The great rules of life are 
 but a shining background for brilliant exceptions. This 
 is one, Mr. Leblun. Be merciful. You are great enough. 
 Your reputation will be undimmed, even if you have the 
 courage to announce your present search a failure. You 
 will never regret it"
 
 PASSERS-BY 295 
 
 Leblun flicked the ash from his cigarette. "You are 
 even more than a sentimentalist, I see, my dear friend/' 
 he said. "Frankly, I do not understand you. I may be 
 a man, or I may be a machine, but what I work for I ac- 
 complish. If a man has sinned against the laws of society, 
 God or his conscience may forgive him, but it is not the 
 privilege of any part of the human system to ignore his 
 misdoings. Crime and its punishment are as certain as 
 the swing of the pendulum. It is not vanity alone which 
 inspires me when I tell you that I would as soon cut off 
 this right hand as let the Marquis of Ellingham remain 
 untouched." 
 
 "But this," Hannaway declared, "is not reasonable." 
 Leblun shrugged his shoulders. "My dear friend," he 
 said, "it depends upon the point of view. I have called 
 you a sentimentalist. More or less you are one. I myself 
 look at me." He threw out his hands with a little 
 typical gesture. " I am fifty-nine years old, hard, withered, 
 with scant power of enjoyment in any shape or form. I 
 have no relatives, no wife, no child. The man who passes 
 by in the street is no more to me than the snail that crosses 
 my path. I do not care for him. He does not care for me. 
 If he were crushed under foot I would turn my head lest I 
 should look upon an unpleasant sight. Apart from that I 
 would not care. Thirty-nine years I have been a hunter 
 of men. Do you think that at the end of that time there
 
 296 PASSERS-BY 
 
 b a single chord left in my being which could respond to 
 so clumsy a touch as yours ? If Lord Ellingham were three 
 times a marquis, if he were three times married, if his 
 punishment were to be death, it would not trouble me. It 
 might even add to the zest with which I bring my search 
 to a successful termination. To tell you the truth, the 
 matter would have been arranged before now, but that I 
 wished to do it single-handed. My English friends are too 
 curious. They would rob me, if they could, of this last, 
 my crowning success." 
 
 Hannaway knew then that his appeal was worse than 
 useless. The man before had been a sealed book to him. 
 There might have been joints between his armor, acces- 
 sible to such an appeal as he had made. He knew now 
 that there were none. He knew that nothing he could say 
 or do could stop the inevitable. He rose slowly to his feet 
 "I can see that your mind is made up, Mr. Leblun," he 
 said. "If you are really such a person as you profess to 
 be I am quite sure that nothing I could say would be 
 likely to move you." 
 
 Leblun smiled mockingly. "My young friend," he 
 said, " that is the most sensible thing I have had the pleas- 
 ure of hearing you say." 
 
 Hannaway went up to his rooms with a heavy heart. 
 He stood for several minutes looking out of his window,
 
 PASSERS-BY 297 
 
 down upon the stone-flagged passage below, into which, 
 only a few months ago, that weary little group had 
 turned. He saw them again now: Christine, her hands 
 behind her back, her head upturned, her lips parted, sing- 
 ing with effortless and weary monotony. He saw the bent 
 figure whose hands thumped the worn keys. He saw the 
 wizened-faced monkey gazing around, his brows puckered, 
 all the pathos of generations of silence shining in his dark 
 eyes. He had found her again, indeed, but she came to 
 him under the cloud of tragedy. 
 
 The telephone bell rang, breaking in upon his thoughts. 
 He took up the receiver and listened. He heard some one 
 from the office in the hotel speak sharply: "You are 
 through to Mr. Hannaway's apartment. Speak up, 
 please." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then a strange voice 
 asked, "Is that Mr. Hannaway?" 
 
 "I am Gilbert Hannaway," he answered. "Who wants 
 me?" 
 
 "I do," came the loud reply. "I want you, or any one 
 else who will sit and drink with me, and talk. I, Ambrose 
 Drake. I am waiting for you. Come ! Come here, and 
 you shall have all the brandy you can drink. Last time it 
 was you who paid. To-day I will be host. Get a han- 
 som. Come quickly." 
 
 "It is Ambrose Drake?" Hannaway asked.
 
 298 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "Who else?" the voice growled. 
 
 "Where are you ?" Hannaway asked. 
 
 "At the same place," came the quick answer. "There 
 is no other. There is no place in London like it. The 
 seats are all cushions, it is warm and light, and the brandy 
 man, it is like fire ! You know where. You have been 
 here with me before." 
 
 Hannaway hesitated. "What do you want with me?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I want you, and you had better come," was the an- 
 swer. "I have something to say to you, and I must have 
 some one to drink with me or I shall go mad. Come, I 
 say. Come, cornel" 
 
 Hannaway looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece. 
 All day long he had been waiting for a message from 
 Cavendish Square. None had come. Perhaps he was 
 better away for a little time. 
 
 "I will be there in ten minutes," he said. 
 
 He heard the man at the other end chuckle as he re- 
 placed the receiver. Then he put on his coat and hat and 
 descended to the street
 
 CHAPTER XXXV111 
 
 " fTT^HERE is but one friend in life for a man, one friend 
 _1_ only," Ambrose declared, his eyes fixed covet- 
 ously upon the glass he held out before him. " Women are 
 faithful sometimes, money comes and goes, this remains." 
 
 He sipped at his tumbler with the air of one deliberately 
 testing the quality of its contents. Then he set it down 
 and looked steadily at Hannaway, who sat by his side. 
 
 "You," he said, "have not learned yet to appreciate the 
 joy of numbed senses, of artificial life. Why should you ?" 
 he added, half dreamily. "You are young and straight, 
 handsome, I suppose. The woman you love will be faith- 
 ful to you for a time, at least. Men do not look strangely 
 at you in the streets. You are a reasonable part of the 
 great wheel of We. The hidden joys are not for you. You 
 mean something." 
 
 Hannaway shrugged his shoulders. "Why did you send 
 for me?" he asked curiously. 
 
 Ambrose was silent. He was still wearing the blue serge 
 clothes, the correct collar and tie, with which he had 
 started the morning, but the clothes were splashed with 
 mud, the tie was disarranged, the collar crumpled. His
 
 300 PASSERS-BY 
 
 eyes were bloodshot, his face was patchy. Hannaway had 
 the idea that he had been sitting there for many hours. 
 
 "Why did I send for you ?" Ambrose muttered. "Why, 
 because there are times when I must talk to somebody, 
 even if it be only Chicot, or one of those louts who hang 
 about the bar. I must talk to some one or I shall go mad. 
 To-night," he continued, passing his hand across his fore- 
 head, " there is a band here. I feel it pressing, pressing all 
 the time. Sometimes there is a singing in my ears, then a 
 quiet. I can hear the wind blowing in the poplar trees, 
 and I can feel the music of the organ growing again be- 
 neath my fingers. I can hear her step as she came up the 
 aisle, a truant child, dark eyed, eyes bright with daring, 
 but softened a little with the joy of the music. She was 
 gay in those days, gay indeed." 
 
 Hannaway passed his cigar-case across the little table, 
 but the hunchback shook his head. 
 
 "No!" he said. "If I smoke, I cannot drink so long, 
 and smoking does nothing for me. Did you know her 
 mother? he asked abruptly. 
 
 " I saw her once or twice," Hannaway answered. 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "She went wrong," he said. 
 "She was at heart an evil woman. That poor English- 
 man over there was after all but a tool in their hands, her 
 brother Marcel's and hers. They made him marry her. 
 He was desperate, and he did not care what he did. They
 
 PASSERS-BY 301 
 
 thought he was an Englishman, and rich. But they were 
 wrong. He too was a pauper in those days." 
 
 "They were bad days for him," Hannaway said 
 thoughtfully. "You know, I suppose, what is going 
 to happen?" 
 
 A fire flashed in Ambrose's eyes. "I know," he an- 
 swered, "and I am glad. He has taken her away from me. 
 He must pay the price. Leblun is waiting and watching. 
 Leblun knows. Soon he will strike. Oh, I am glad I 
 She will be sorry soon that she did not trust me. I would 
 have saved him, I would have saved him somehow." 
 
 "Not even you could have done that," Hannaway 
 answered. "Besides Leblun, there is Marcel, in prison, 
 to be brought before the magistrates to-morrow and sent 
 back to France." 
 
 The dwarf laughed. "You do not read your news- 
 papers," he said. "Marcel was arrested last night, but 
 it was a corpse that they dragged into the cells. He took 
 poison as they led him into the office at Scotland Yard. 
 He lived for an hour or so, but he never opened his lips." 
 
 Hannaway stared at the other, incredulous, amazed. 
 Ambrose reached out his hand and caught hold of an even- 
 ing paper. 
 
 "Read for yourself," he said. "It is all there. They 
 kept it dark until this morning. It was in all the twelve 
 o'clock editions."
 
 302 PASSERS-BY 
 
 Hannaway read with a little thrill. It was as Ambrose 
 had said. 
 
 "What else was there for him to do?" Ambrose con- 
 tinued. " He had many years of his sentence still to serve, 
 and he had murdered Pierre. There was no escape for 
 him. He was a man of evil temper, and he was half mad 
 with the desire for money, crazed with it. Four million 
 francs were missing," he went on, "four million francs, 
 gathered together by that little band of thieves, waiting 
 to be divided. Marcel had hidden the money. He risked 
 everything in coming here to search for it. And when he 
 came it was gone. Some one cleverer than he had been 
 before him. You look at me, Gilbert Hannaway. You 
 look at me as though you would ask a question. Bah ! 
 What does it matter? For four years that four million 
 francs has been in a bank in France, accumulating slowly 
 and surely for her. It was in her name. I never meant to 
 touch it. I never should have touched it. But she left me. 
 Then nothing mattered. I determined at last to make it 
 the means to win her back. As you know, I failed. Where 
 is she now? Do you know that?" 
 
 Hannaway nodded. " I think she is with her stepfather," 
 he said. 
 
 "She went there willingly?" 
 
 "Of course," Hannaway answered. "After all, he has 
 been very good to her. He was penniless himself when he
 
 PASSERS-BY 303 
 
 fled, but as soon as the money came he set lawyers to try 
 to find her." 
 
 " He was not over-anxious," Ambrose muttered. "There 
 was a time I know of when he fled from England to escape 
 from her." 
 
 "It was from the past he wanted to escape, not from 
 her," Hannaway answered. "With her came you, and 
 perhaps others, who would have recognized him. I am 
 sorry for him. He has made a splendid reformation, only 
 to be hunted down by that brute Lcblun." 
 
 Drake raised his glass and drank slowly, with closed 
 eyes. " Men must live and die," he said, setting his empty 
 tumbler down. " We are but cattle, after all. The Mar- 
 quis of Ellingham will spend to-night or to-morrow night 
 in a prison cell, perhaps. What does it matter ? He and 
 half a dozen more may find it terrible enough. For the 
 rest, it will be but a thrilling little episode in their morning 
 paper. We must learn to regard these things as others do. 
 They are trifles." 
 
 "It is no trifle to Christine," Hannaway said. "She 
 feels somehow that it is her own fault. Certainly, it is 
 through her that they have tracked him down." 
 
 "What does she care for him?" Ambrose muttered. 
 " She has little enough of heart. In a month she will have 
 forgotten." 
 
 Hannaway shook his head. "Christine has changed,"
 
 304 PASSERS-BY 
 
 he said. " I thought her heartless myself. I do not think 
 so now. I believe she would give everything she possesses 
 to save him." 
 
 Ambrose called to the waiter. " More drinks," he said. 
 "More brandy. I have fresh food for thought here. I 
 must drink with it. Brandy and hot water. The bottle ! 
 Good!" 
 
 He helped himself with steady fingers. Once more the 
 fierce content stole into his face. "After all," he muttered, 
 "we beat about the bars of our lives. What am I, a poor 
 broken-limbed creature, the sport of boys in the street, 
 the object of shuddering pity to passers-by? Who am I, 
 to look for life as you others, to crave for happiness? 
 Even in the days when I was satisfied and content because 
 she was near and because she depended upon me, even 
 then underneath it all there was the black cloud. She 
 was not happy. She was miserable all the time, dissatis- 
 fied, discontented, hating her coarse clothes, hating her 
 simple food. Sometimes I realized it. Sometimes I could 
 have cursed whatever power gave me a body like this and 
 a brain to realize what I was losing in life." 
 
 He drew Chicot from his pocket. Chicot sat up and 
 blinked, looking inquiringly at his master, who called for 
 biscuits. 
 
 "Chicot, little one," he said, as he fed him, "thou at 
 least art faithful, and it is because I feed thee. See him,"
 
 PASSERS-BY 305 
 
 he added, turning suddenly to Hannaway. "His eyes are 
 bright with gratitude. He looks at me without a shudder. 
 I am his master. Mine is the hand that beats or feeds 
 him. It is something to have a living creature of any sort 
 dependent upon one. It is something." 
 
 He drank again, deeply. Hannaway glanced at the clock. 
 
 "Soon," he said, "it will be closing time. You had 
 better come away now. Where are you staying? I will 
 take you home if you like." 
 
 "I shall not move from here," Ambrose answered 
 gruffly, "until I am pushed out. Where I go afterward 
 is no concern of any one save myself. But I assure you that 
 I shall not leave here until I must. As for you, go when 
 you please. I had a fancy to talk with you, and you came. 
 I am grateful, but I have no more to say to you. I think 
 I would rather be alone." 
 
 Hannaway put his hand in his pocket, but Ambrose, 
 with a laugh, threw upon the table a handful of sovereigns. 
 " Money ! " he said. " Do you want money ? I have played 
 for ha'pence myself, but all the time I knew that if I cared 
 to raise my hand I could bring gold down from the clouds. 
 But what is the use of it? Tell me, man," he shouted, 
 striking the table, " will it buy a woman's love for a crea- 
 ture such as I am ? No ! You know it will not. Don't 
 hesitate to say so. Nor will it buy Chicot's love. Money ! 
 
 What is it worth?" 
 
 20
 
 306 PASSERS-BY 
 
 "I should advise you," Hannaway said, "to put that 
 back in your pocket. This is not the most reputable 
 neighborhood in the world, and a man with gold like that 
 might easily be robbed or worse." 
 
 Ambrose laughed. "No harm," he said, "comes to 
 those who are reckless. Death or a bed ! If both were 
 there I scarcely know which I would choose. If you 
 want money help yourself. If not, leave me to pay my 
 bill, and go." 
 
 Hannaway rose to his feet. "There is one thing," he 
 said, "which I had it in my mind to say when I came. 
 Perhaps I should be truthful, and say that it was the 
 reason I accepted your invitation. If Leblun should call 
 upon you to help him, if you should be summoned as a 
 witness against Lord Ellingham, remember that after all 
 he is Christine's guardian, that he has been kind to her, 
 and that his sufferings are hers." 
 
 Ambrose's eyes seemed to narrow and brighten at the 
 same time, till they shone like points of fire. "I know," 
 he answered impatiently. "I know."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 JACQUES LEBLUN rose early on the following morn- 
 ing, and made a careful toilet. There was no evi- 
 dence in his hard, withered face of any special gratifica- 
 tion, yet so far as he was capable of feeling emotion he felt 
 it as he donned his carefully brushed clothes and tied a 
 newly purchased tie. To-day was to witness the close of a 
 career which he had every right to consider memorable. 
 To-day, with this final and dramatic triumph, he was to 
 make his exit from the profession which he had adorned 
 and create a gap in the ranks of his order which he was 
 complacently sure would never be filled. With the love 
 of secrecy innate in the man, he had kept his triumph to 
 himself, kept it even from the authorities on the other 
 side. He wished to startle everybody with a coup, a little 
 theatrical, perhaps, but so brilliant that for days he saw 
 himself almost a popular hero. Who else could have 
 drawn together these threads till he held them all securely 
 in his hands ? No one else knew what he knew. He had 
 worked alone and secretly. Marcel had died before he 
 had had time to give away his secret. There was no one 
 else left who could solve the mystery which still hung
 
 308 PASSERS-BY 
 
 around the personality of that man who had escaped 
 from the house in the Place Noire one November night. 
 He himself was about to solve it It was a wonderful 
 day, this. 
 
 He descended to the barber's shop, was shaved, and 
 after critically examining his hair decided to have it cut. 
 He sent for his hat and had it ironed while he waited. 
 Then, as he was in the act of issuing from the hotel, a 
 hansom drew up, and a small familiar figure descended 
 from it. It was Ambrose who stood hat in hand upon the 
 pavement. 
 
 "Monsieur Leblun," he said, "can I have a moment's 
 conversation with you?" 
 
 The great detective hesitated. He guessed very well 
 why this man was seeking him out. He had of course 
 brought him information wholly superfluous, information 
 for which he would probably require payment. Yet, 
 after all, he was a necessary witness in the prosecution. 
 His good-will was worth securing. Then again, it was 
 very seldom indeed that Leblun refused to listen to any- 
 thing which anybody might have to say. He responded, 
 therefore, with courtesy to Ambrose's request. 
 
 "I can spare a few minutes," he said. "I was just 
 going out. Perhaps we could drive a little way together ?" 
 
 Ambrose shook his head. "My voice," he said, "is not 
 strong. I cannot talk in all this roar. If you will give me
 
 PASSERS-BY 309 
 
 five minutes in your room I think I can promise that you 
 will find my information worth while." 
 
 Leblun turned back to the elevator and rang the bell. 
 Together they mounted to the eighth story. Leblun drew 
 his key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and they en- 
 tered the little suite of rooms. Ambrose nodded as he 
 looked around. 
 
 "Very charming!" he remarked. "Very nice rooms, 
 Monsieur Leblun." 
 
 "I find them convenient," Leblun answered, his eyes 
 fixed upon his companion. "Will you sit down? Or 
 perhaps what you have to say will scarcely take long 
 enough to render it worth while?" 
 
 "I come," Ambrose said, "from the house of the Mar- 
 quis of Ellingham." 
 
 Leblun bowed. " Indeed ! " he said. 
 
 "They were kind enough," he continued, "to receive 
 me. I was shown into the breakfast-room. Lord Elling- 
 ham sat there dictating letters to his secretary. His wife 
 was by his side. She was holding his hand when I went 
 in. Mademoiselle Christine you may remember her, 
 perhaps, she too was in the room." 
 
 " Most interesting ! " Leblun murmured. 
 
 "They were kind to me," Ambrose continued, "but it 
 was not difficult for one who notices things, like yourself, 
 Monsieur Leblun, or, in a smaller way, myself it was
 
 310 PASSERS-BY 
 
 not difficult, I say, to realize that they were living in the 
 shadow of some fear. The marchioness a very beauti- 
 ful woman that was pale, and there were rings under 
 her eyes. She looked always at her husband, as though 
 she feared to lose him. Lord Ellingham himself seemed 
 like a man whose thoughts are in another world. Chris- 
 tine, my dear companion Christine, was crying." 
 
 "All this," Leblun remarked politely, "interests me 
 exceedingly. A little family group, suffering, perhaps, 
 from fear of some impending trouble. Still, I scarcely 
 see you will excuse me, I know but I scarcely see 
 why the recital of it has procured for me the pleasure of 
 this visit ? " 
 
 "The fear of impending trouble," Ambrose repeated. 
 "That is good. The fear is there, and the trouble is 
 there. Monsieur Leblun, they sit there and they listen for 
 your footsteps. They listen for your ring. They listen 
 for a servant to throw open the door and announce, 
 'Monsieur Leblun!'" 
 
 The detective nodded gravely. "It was in my mind," 
 he admitted cautiously, "to pay a visit to the household 
 you mention." 
 
 Ambrose nodded. "Five years ago," he said, "that 
 man Ellingham was a criminal, not a vicious one ever, yet 
 certainly a criminal. Retribution comes to him a little 
 late."
 
 PASSERS-BY 311 
 
 The detective bowed. All the time he was watching 
 his companion. He was not sure what this visit might 
 portend. 
 
 "I am one of those," Ambrose continued, "who may 
 be called lookers-on at this game of life. I have no part 
 or share in it. Kicks and buffets of fortune I have known, 
 hunger and thirst I have known, but the joys which come 
 to other men pass me by. Therefore, Monsieur Leblun, 
 I have never known what it is to have a heart. I am like 
 you. I can watch suffering without flinching. I can see 
 other men in agony, and it either amuses or bores me, ac- 
 cording to my humor. You too, Monsieur Leblun, are 
 like that." 
 
 "Perhaps," Leblun assented, a little impatiently. "But 
 I presume that it was not to discuss my characteristics that 
 you paid me this visit?" 
 
 "Not in the least," Ambrose answered. "There was 
 a little proposition I wished to make. It may sound 
 ridiculous to you. I trust that when it is made you will 
 not think too scornfully of me. But, indeed, there were 
 days, before I was as you see me now, when the girl 
 Christine was a child in short frocks there were days, 
 I say, which I have not altogether forgotten, when she was 
 in a sense a part of my life. I will not weary you with 
 details. I will only say that when her mother was led 
 away in Paris into becoming the associate of gamblers and
 
 312 PASSERS-BY 
 
 thieves, when Christine escaped from that house for fear 
 of unutterable things, it was to me she came. For years 
 we crept about the world together. Somehow or other a 
 slight weakness seems to have developed itself in my 
 nature. If I could I would do her a kindness." 
 
 Leblun had ceased even his polite interjections. He 
 glanced meaningly at the clock and back again quickly 
 at his visitor. 
 
 "This morning," Ambrose continued, "she threw her- 
 self on her knees before me, she even raised her lips to 
 mine. We were alone for a moment. She had come into 
 the hall with me, and she had drawn me into another 
 room. Do you know what it was that she begged of me, 
 Monsieur Leblun?" 
 
 The detective shook his head slowly. "It is not for me 
 to imagine," he answered coldly. 
 
 "She asked me to come to you, to beg you to stay your 
 hand," Ambrose said thoughtfully. "A strange errand, 
 you will think, yet I offer you a consideration." 
 
 "A consideration of four million francs, I presume?" 
 the detective remarked. 
 
 "Monsieur Leblun," Ambrose replied, with a little 
 bow, "you are marvelous. Those others who rushed 
 about so clumsily, seeking for the money, they did not 
 guess that a man who lived in rags, a poor creature like 
 me, might know where that money was. But I do. and it
 
 PASSERS-BY 313 
 
 is yours if you abandon that visit to the Marquis of 
 Ellingham." 
 
 Jacques Leblun looked coldly upon his visitor. His 
 face did not change a muscle, but he came a little forward, 
 advancing toward the door. "Ambrose Drake," he said, 
 "I looked upon you as a man of some intelligence, yet you 
 come here and you offer me a bribe of stolen money, 
 which I know perfectly well how to become possessed of 
 to-morrow. There are various little documents which I 
 am sending to headquarters to-night. In them, I may 
 tell you without any breach of confidence now, the little 
 matter of your four million francs is fully dealt with." 
 
 Ambrose sighed. "I fear, then," he said, "that my 
 intervention is useless." 
 
 "Absolutely!" Leblun answered, with the first note of 
 actual impatience in his tone. "There is no bribe in this 
 world, nor any persuasion, which could save Lord El- 
 lingham." 
 
 "Except this!" Ambrose answered, with a sudden 
 spring. 
 
 Jacques Leblun lay quite still upon the floor, and there 
 was very little to show that he was dead. His face was 
 pallid, and his lips were a little twisted in that last effort to 
 shout for help. So truly had Ambrose driven home his 
 knife that there was scarcely a drop of blood to be seen
 
 314 PASSERS-BY 
 
 upon his chest- Nevertheless, a great career had ended. 
 In a sense, his words had been prophetic. The career of 
 which he had been so proud had terminated that day. 
 
 Ambrose stood for a moment breathing quickly, trem- 
 bling a little with the effort which he had used. Then he 
 stepped over the prostrate body and made his way to the 
 writing-table. There were five letters there, all stamped 
 and addressed one to the chief of police in Paris, one to 
 Scotland Yard, another to the Minister of Justice in France. 
 One by one he threw them into the still smoldering fire, 
 lit matches, watched them consumed, raked over the 
 ashes, put more coal upon the fire. Then, without hesita- 
 tion, he searched the man's pockets, destroyed every paper 
 he could find, transferred the pocket-book, with its wad of 
 bank-notes, to his own pocket. He searched the room 
 for more papers. There were none. His task was 
 ended! 
 
 There was a knock at the door. Silence for a moment, 
 and then the sound of a key. Only just in time, Ambrose 
 shot the bolt and then stepped back. The knock was re- 
 peated, more loudly still. There was whispering outside, 
 the knocking grew louder and more persistent. Ambrose 
 gave one more look around the room. Then he walked 
 to the window and threw up the sash. Far below were 
 the tops of the trees in the Embankment gardens. Beyond 
 was the Thames, unusually brilliant in the stream of clear
 
 PASSERS-BY 315 
 
 winter sunshine. A soft wind was blowing. The sky was 
 almost blue. Ambrose closed his eyes. 
 
 "Let me forget," he murmured. "I want to think of 
 the poplar trees, and the organ, and the little girl who 
 stole down through the meadows, across the river, up the 
 path, up the stone-flagged aisle. Yes, I hear her feet 1 " 
 
 The knocking at the door became a thunder. Once 
 more Ambrose closed his eyes. 
 
 "Christine!" he said. "Christine!" 
 
 His left wrist stiffened upon the window-sill. 
 
 " Christine ! " he murmured once more, and disappeared.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " "IV ff USIC and starlight, the laughter of fair women, 
 
 i--i. the company of those we love!" Lord Elling- 
 ham exclaimed, raising his glass. "What is there left in 
 life for which we could ask?" 
 
 "Nothing," Gilbert Hannaway declared, with convic- 
 tion. "If this is a toast, I drink to it." 
 
 They were a partie carree, dining out of doors in the 
 courtyard of an ancient but fashionable Parisian hotel. 
 The round table at which they sat was brilliant with silver, 
 beautiful cut glass, and drooping clusters of scarlet flowers. 
 A few yards away the water from a dainty fountain fell 
 with a soft insistent splash into a marble basin. A band 
 was playing quiet music in some hidden retreat. All 
 around them were other little parties of diners; beyond, 
 the high gray walls which screened the hotel gardens from 
 observation. Chicot, fat and sleek, but with his face more 
 wrinkled than ever, reclined upon a chair, regarding with 
 disdain a small gold bracelet on his arm. 
 
 "It is beautiful," the marchioness murmured, "and yet 
 in a way it is a little unnatural. From the silence, the 
 breeze in the trees, the open skies, we should be buried
 
 PASSERS-BY 317 
 
 somewhere in the country, surrounded by woods and 
 meadows and hills. And here we are in the heart of Paris. 
 Scarcely a quarter of a mile away is the Boulevard. One 
 can even hear the roar if one listens." 
 
 "One need not listen," Christine remarked, smiling. 
 "As for me, I think that I have heard enough of the tumult 
 of cities to last me all my life. I am looking forward to 
 spending the rest of it in the quiet places." 
 
 " It is fortunate," Hannaway whispered in her ear, " that 
 my home is in the country." 
 
 The marchioness leaned toward her husband. "You 
 have told me nothing," she murmured, "about your 
 interview." 
 
 He smiled. "There is very little to be told," he said. 
 "I was received by the chief of police, and introduced to 
 two members of the government. We talked intimately 
 for more than an hour. I learned from them, among other 
 things, that Leblun had never communicated to them any 
 of his suspicions. They had absolutely no idea as to the 
 identity of the person for whom he was searching in 
 London." 
 
 She shivered a little. " It was dangerous, was it not, to 
 open the subject at all?" she asked. 
 
 "It was dangerous, perhaps," he answered, "but I was 
 very anxious to turn down that page and seal it fast. I 
 am more than ever glad now that I determined to do so.
 
 318 PASSERS-BY 
 
 We avoided, of course, anything in the nature of direct 
 statements. The case I put to them was a supposititious 
 one, but I am quite sure that they understood. The resti- 
 tution of the four million francs made everything exceed- 
 ingly easy." 
 
 "You will never be troubled again?" she said 
 softly. 
 
 "Never again," he answered. "I have the word of one 
 of the greatest men in this country." 
 
 "And poor Christine," she said, "has lost her fortune." 
 
 "Christine," he declared, "will have to come to me for 
 a dowry." 
 
 Christine sighed and stroked Chicot. "I am afraid," 
 she said, " that it will never be necessary." 
 
 "Let me relieve you of all fears," Hannaway said. "I 
 am so urgent a suitor that I declare at once that the matter 
 of a dowry does not interest me." 
 
 The marquis laid his hand upon his shoulder. "You 
 are the son-in-law for me," he declared. "What with an 
 extravagant wife and my falling rents, it will be a godsend 
 to have some one from whom I can borrow money. Now 
 ivhat are you people going to do ? Margaret and I are due 
 at the embassy. In fact we are rather overdue now. Do 
 you want to send for tickets for the theater?" 
 
 Christine shook her head. "We are going to drive in 
 the Bois," she said. "I am going to sit hand in hand with
 
 PASSERS-BY 319 
 
 Gilbert, and I am going to try to make up my mind 
 whether it will ever be possible for me to marry him." 
 
 "We shall see you later, then," the marquis remarked. 
 "You are ready, Margaret?" 
 
 They left the table together and made their way toward 
 the hotel entrance, a very notable couple. The mar- 
 chioness, with the figure of a girl, the carriage of an em- 
 press, and the toilet of a Parisian, excited the admiration 
 of every one. The marquis, too, slender, distinguished 
 looking, seerned years younger than a few months back. 
 His servant was waiting in the foyer with his coat and 
 hat. The marchioness turned toward the elevator. 
 
 " I told Hortense," she said, " that I would come up for 
 my things. She was so afraid that the breeze in the gar- 
 den would disarrange my coiffure. Francis." 
 
 "My dear?" he answered. 
 
 "You don't think," she asked, "that Christine regrets 
 the loss of her fortune?" 
 
 "Not in the least," he answered gravely. "You must 
 remember that though it has lain for all these years banked 
 in her name she knows whence it came. There was no 
 course open to her but to return it." 
 
 "I wonder," she murmured, "what that strange little 
 man would have said?" 
 
 "I think," the marquis answered, "that he would have 
 approved. Half mad though he was, there was one thing
 
 320 PASSERS-BY 
 
 at least in which he was sincere, and that was his devo- 
 tion to Christine and his desire for her happiness." 
 
 The marchioness nodded thoughtfully. "You are 
 right," she said. "Yes, I am sure that you are 
 right." 
 
 They drove off together a few minutes later, in an elec- 
 tric coupe". Her hand stole into his. 
 
 "This is really the end of it, then, Francis," she said, 
 "the end of our nightmare?" 
 
 "It is finished," he answered. "I suppose an impar- 
 tial person would say that I am very lucky, that I got off 
 very lightly. Yet I did discover that hell is not a mere 
 scriptural parable. I felt the flames, Margaret. I think 
 they have left their mark forever." 
 
 " It is over and done with now," she said softly. 
 
 He raised her fingers to his lips. "It has taught me 
 more than endurance," he said fondly. "I think it has 
 brought us closer together for all the years." 
 
 "For all the years!" she echoed, pressing his hand 
 gently. 
 
 Hannaway would have called for an automobile, but 
 Christine stopped him. 
 
 " No," she said. " I want to be really bourgeois to-night. 
 I want one of those little crazy voitures ordinaires. Once I 
 used to watch the couples drive out in them, up the Champs
 
 PASSERS-BY 321 
 
 Elyse"es, on Sundays, and envy them. I want to see what 
 it feels like." 
 
 He laughed as he handed her in and arranged a mat for 
 Chicot. "Well, there are rubber tires, at any rate," he 
 said. "I warn you, though, that I shall insist upon hold- 
 ing your hand." 
 
 "I should be very much annoyed if you did not," she 
 answered, laughing. "In fact, I believe that when we get 
 right up in the Bois it will be quite the correct thing for 
 you to assume that I need even further support. Gilbert, 
 what a wonderful night! Look at the stars, and look at 
 the lights in front here, on the Place Concorde and up the 
 Champs Elyse"es." 
 
 "It is a wonderful world," he answered. "Wonderful 
 when I realize that we are sitting here side by side, when 
 I remember the long years that I spent, looking every- 
 where, in every street of every city, for you." 
 
 " It is so hard for me to believe that, even now," she re- 
 marked thoughtfully. "What was there about me, in 
 those days, to attract you ? I was sullen and fierce. My 
 temper had been ruined. I was suspicious of everybody." 
 
 He shook his head. "What it was I cannot tell," he an- 
 swered. "Yet it is strange that you did not guess. I used 
 to hang about at the fringe of the crowd when you sang in 
 the Place Madeleine. I used even to follow you and Am- 
 brose to your next place, and stand there again. You 
 
 21
 
 322 PASSERS-BY 
 
 would never talk to me. You seemed always to look me 
 through and through, as though I were some person be- 
 longing to another world, whose five-franc pieces, perhaps, 
 were useful to Chicot and to Ambrose, but whom you your- 
 self regarded with the most supreme and absolute indiffer- 
 ence. Yet yon smiled at me once or twice a wonderful 
 smile it was, Christine." 
 
 She laughed. "Well," she said, "we will not talk of 
 those days. After all, they were terrible. I was never 
 happy, even when we were successful. I wanted every- 
 thing I had not. I was cruel to Ambrose. I was possessed 
 with a rabid and unwholesome craving for luxury." 
 
 "Your life was not natural," he said quietly. "Your 
 very association with so strange a creature as Ambrose 
 Drake was enough to unsettle you." 
 
 She nodded thoughtfully. "I must not think of him," 
 she said. " It makes me sad. And to-night I do not want 
 to be sad. Gilbert, what a stream of people ! Are they all 
 lovers, I wonder?" 
 
 "In Paris," he answered, "the whole world loves. It 
 is in the atmosphere. I too feel it, Christine." 
 
 "We had better turn back," she murmured. 
 
 "There is no turning back," he answered. "I think 
 we have come far enough for me to offer you that other 
 support, Christine, and I think we have come far enough 
 in life for you to give me both these hands, and to tell me
 
 PASSERS-BY 323 
 
 that never again in the world need I go wandering from 
 city to city, striving always to realize a beautiful dream. 
 The dream has become life, Christine! The dream is 
 you!" 
 
 The road was narrow, and the arching trees touched 
 overhead. Their lips met for one long moment. Then 
 she drew him a little toward her with an impulsive gesture. 
 
 "I do not want you to go out to look for any more such 
 dreams," she said. " I am tired of wandering in foreign 
 countries. I am tired of being homeless. I want to belong 
 somewhere, Gilbert." 
 
 A little reckless, he took her in his arms. "You belong 
 to me," he said. "The other days are finished." 
 
 Chicot opened his eyes and looked up at them with a 
 little yawn. Some latent or was it lingering ? instinct 
 of delicacy induced him to turn his head. He looked 
 steadily out into the black shadows of the Bois. His eyes 
 were set, his face was more wrinkled than ever. So the 
 crazy little carriage rumbled on into one of the broader 
 thoroughfares. The coachman cracked his whip, they 
 took their place in the stream of vehicles, the bicycles with 
 illuminated balloons, the swiftly rushing automobiles with 
 their flaring lights. 
 
 THE END
 
 A dashing tale oj love and adventure 
 
 THE 
 KINGDOM OF EARTH 
 
 By ANTHONY PARTRIDGE 
 
 Illustrated by A. B. Wenzell. 12rao. Cloth. $1.50 
 
 The characters are strongly drawn and there is an 
 absorbing love theme. Pittsburg Post. 
 
 Beaches thrilling climaxes and always keeps the reader's 
 interest whetted to a razor's edge. Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 A swinging, > dashing story full of the excitement that 
 keeps the reader on the qui vive. Cincinnati Commercial 
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 With a distinctly novel and ingenious plot, one involving 
 enough of intrigue and adventure to satisfy the most 
 exacting. San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
 Full of adventure, this dashing romance of a European 
 Crown Prince and a talented American girl moves to its 
 climax in baffling mysteries. Baltimore American. 
 
 More virile than the Zenda books and their imitators. 
 . . . Mr. Partridge's central idea is a novel one and he has 
 worked it out skillfully, leading the reader on from chapter 
 to chapter with new complication and mysteries and perils 
 and adventures growing more and more exciting. New 
 York Times. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTOK
 
 An absorbing navel of a great London mystery 
 
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 The story is developed with much cleverness. New 
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 A remarkable novel of fashionable English life. New 
 
 York Bookseller. 
 
 One of the season's most fascinating books. Almost 
 every character is unusual. Cleveland Town Topics. 
 
 A peculiar but fascinating novel. The author wields a 
 powerful pen and this story will produce a profound 
 impression. Buffalo Courier. 
 
 The author offers a diversion quite unparalleled in fiction 
 in the doings of a polite and exclusive circle known as 
 "The Ghosts." Book Review Digest. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
 Mr. Oppenheim's Latest Novel 
 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS 
 PRINCE 
 
 By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM 
 
 Illustrated by Will Foster. Cloth. $1.50 
 
 Mr. Oppenheim's new story is a narrative of mystery 
 and international intrigue that carries the reader breath- 
 less from page to page. It is the tale of the secret and 
 world-startling methods employed by the Emperor of 
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 tain the real reasons for the around-the- world cruise of the 
 American fleet. The American Ambassador in London 
 and the Duke of Denvenham, an influential Englishman, 
 work hand in hand to circumvent the Oriental plot, which 
 proceeds mysteriously to the last page. From the time 
 when Mr. Hamilton Fynes steps from the Lusitania into a 
 special tug, in his mad rush towards London, to the very 
 end, the reader is carried from deep mystery to tense 
 situations, until finally the explanation is reached in a 
 most unexpected and unusual climax. 
 
 No man of this generation has so much facility of ex- 
 pression, so many technical resources, or so fine a power 
 of narration as Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim. Philadelphia 
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 Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of construct- 
 ing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive 
 characters. London Morning Post. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
 By the Author of "Aunt Jane of Kentucky" 
 
 THE 
 
 LAND OF LONG AGO 
 
 By ELIZA CALVERT HALL 
 
 Illustrated by G. PATRICK NELSON and BEULAH STRONG 
 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 
 
 Those who have read "Aunt Jane of Kentucky," of 
 which fourteen large printings have been demanded, 
 will look forward with pleasure to a new volume of Aunt 
 Jane's recollections of Kentucky homes. "Aunt Jane" 
 has become a real personage in American literature. 
 
 "The Land of Long Ago" is a delightful picture of 
 rural life in the Blue Grass country, showing the real 
 charm and spirit of the old time country folk a book 
 full of sentiment and kindliness and high ideals. It 
 cannot fail to appeal to every reader by reason of its 
 sunny humor, its sweetness and sincerity, its entire 
 fidelity to life. 
 
 CHAPTER TITLES 
 
 I. A RIDE TO TOWN. 
 II. THE HOUSE THAT WAS A 
 WEDDING FEE. 
 
 III. THE COURTSHIP OF Miss 
 
 AMARYLLIS. 
 
 IV. AUNT JANE GOES A-Visnv 
 
 BMt 
 
 V. THE MARRIAGE PROB- 
 LEM IN GOSHEN. 
 VI. AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 VII. THE REFORMATION or 
 
 SAM AMOS. 
 VIII. IN WAR TIME. 
 
 IX. THE WATCH MEETING. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
 REK
 
 FACILITY