Revenge! by Robert Barr (page 2)

work very well, too. Old Landlord Lenz had the utmost contempt for this occupation, as a practical man should, but he was astonished one day when a passing traveller offered an incredible sum for one of the pictures that stood on the hall table. Standish was not to be found, but the old man, quite willing to do his guest a good turn, sold the picture. The young man, instead of being overjoyed at his luck, told the landlord, with the calm cheek of an artist, that he would overlook the matter this time, but it must not occur again. He had sold the picture, added Standish, for about one-third its real value. There was something in the quiet assurance of the youth that more than his words convinced old Lenz of the truth of his statement. Manner has much to do with getting a well-told lie believed. The inn-keeper’s respect for the young man went up to the highest attainable point, and he had seen so many artists, too. But if such prices were obtained for a picture dashed off in a few hours, the hotel business wasn’t in it as a money- making venture.

It must be confessed that it was a great shock to young Standish when he found that the fairy-like Tina was the daughter of the gross old stupid keeper of the inn. It would have been so nice if she had happened to be a princess, and the fact would have worked in well with the marble terrace overlooking the lake. It seemed out of keeping entirely that she should be any relation to old money-making Lenz. Of course he had no more idea of marrying the girl than he had of buying the lake of Como and draining it; still, it was such a pity that she was not a countess at least; there were so many of them in Italy too, surely one might have been spared for that _pension_ when a man had to stay eight days to get the lowest rates. Nevertheless, Tina did make a pretty water-colour sketch. But a man who begins sliding down a hill such as there is around Como, never can tell exactly where he is going to bring up. He may stop halfway, or he may go head first into the lake. If it were to be set down here that within a certain space of time Standish did not care one continental objurgation whether Tina was a princess or a char-woman, the statement would simply not be believed, because we all know that Englishmen are a cold, calculating race of men, with long side whiskers and a veil round their hats when they travel.

It is serious when a young fellow sketches in water-colours a charming sylph-like girl in various entrancing attitudes; it is disastrous when she teaches him a soft flowing language like the Italian; but it is absolute destruction when he teaches her the English tongue and watches her pretty lips strive to surround words never intended for the vocal resources of a foreigner. As all these influences were brought to bear on Walter Standish, what chance did the young fellow have? Absolutely as little as has the un-roped man who misses his footing on the Matterhorn.

And Tina? Poor little girl, she was getting paid back with a vengeance for all the heart-aches she had caused–Italian, German, or Swiss variety. She fell helplessly in love with the stalwart Englishman, and realised that she had never known before what the word meant. Bitterly did she regret the sham battles of the heart that she had hitherto engaged in. Standish took it so entirely for granted that he was the first to touch her lips (in fact she admitted as much herself) that she was in daily, hourly terror lest he should learn the truth. Meanwhile Pietro unburdened his neglected soul of strange oily imprecations that might have sounded to the uneducated ear of Standish like mellifluous benedictions, notwithstanding the progress he was making in Italian under Tina’s tuition. However, Pietro had one panacea for all his woes, and that he proceeded to sharpen carefully.

One evening Standish was floating dreamily through the purple haze, thinking about Tina of course, and wondering how her piquant archness and Southern beauty would strike his sober people at home. Tina was very quick and adaptable, and he had no doubt she could act to perfection any part he assigned to her, so he was in doubt whether to introduce her as a remote connexion of the reigning family of Italy, or merely as a countess in her own right. It would be quite easy to ennoble the long line of hotel-keepers by the addition of “di” or “de” or some such syllable to the family name. He must look up the right combination of letters; he knew it began with “d.” Then the _pension_ could become dimly “A castle on the Italian lakes, you know”; in fact, he would close up the _pension_ as soon as he had the power, or change it to a palace. He knew that most of the castles in the Tyrol and many of the palaces of Italy had become boarding- houses, so why not reverse the process? He was sure that certain furnishing houses in London could do it, probably on the hire system. He knew a fashionable morning paper that was in the habit of publishing personal items at so much a line, and he thought the following would read well and be worth its cost:–

“Mr. Walter Standish, of St. John’s Wood, and his wife, the Comtessa di Lenza, are spending the summer in the lady’s ancestral home, the Palazzio di Lenza, on the lake of Como.”

This bright vision pleased him for a moment, until he thought it would be just his luck for some acquaintance to happen along who remembered the Palazzio Lenza when it was the Pension Lenz–rates on application. He wished a landslide would carry buildings, grounds, and everything else away to some unrecognisable spot a few hundred feet down the mountain.

Thus it was that young Standish floated along with his head in the clouds, swinging his cane in the air, when suddenly he was brought sharply down to earth again. A figure darted out from behind a tree, an instinct rather than reason caused the artist to guard himself by throwing up his left arm. He caught the knife thrust in the fleshy part of it, and the pain was like the red-hot sting of a gigantic wasp. It flashed through his brain then that the term cold steel was a misnomer. The next moment his right hand had brought down the heavy knob of his stout stick on the curly head of the Italian, and Pietro fell like a log at his feet. Standish set his teeth, and as gently as possible drew the stiletto from his arm, wiping its blade on the clothes of the prostrate man. He thought it better to soil Pietro’s suit than his own, which was newer and cleaner; besides, he held, perhaps with justice, that the Italian being the aggressor should bear any disadvantages arising from the attack. Finally, feeling wet at the elbow, he put the stiletto in his pocket and hurried off to the hotel.

[Illustration: WIPING ITS BLADE ON THE CLOTHES OF THE PROSTRATE MAN]

Tina fell back against the wall with a cry at the sight of the blood. She would have fainted, but something told her that she would be well advised to keep her senses about her at that moment.

“I can’t imagine why he should attack me,” said Standish, as he bared his arm to be bandaged. “I never saw him before, and I have had no quarrel with any one. It could not have been robbery, for I was too near the hotel. I cannot understand it.”

“Oh,” began old Lenz, “it’s easy enough to account for it. He–“

Tina darted one look at her father that went through him as the blade had gone through the outstretched arm. His mouth closed like a steel trap.

“Please go for Doctor Zandorf, papa,” she said sweetly, and the old man went. “These Italians,” she continued to Standish, “are always quarrelling. The villain mistook you for some one else in the dusk.”

“Ah, that’s it, very likely. If the rascal has returned to his senses, he probably regrets having waked up the wrong passenger.”

When the authorities searched for Pietro they found that he had disappeared as absolutely as though Standish had knocked him through into China. When he came to himself and rubbed his head, he saw the blood on the road, and he knew his stroke had gone home somewhere. The missing knife would be evidence against him, so he thought it safer to get on the Austrian side of the fence. Thus he vanished over the Stelvio pass, and found horses to drive on the other side.

The period during which Standish loafed around that lovely garden with his arm in a sling, waited upon assiduously and tenderly by Tina, will always be one of the golden remembrances of the Englishman’s life. It was too good to last for ever, and so they were married when it came to an end. The old man would still have preferred a Swiss innkeeper for a son-in-law, yet the Englishman was better than the beggarly Italian, and possibly better than the German who had occupied a place in Tina’s regards before the son of sunny Italy appeared on the scene. That is one trouble in the continental hotel business; there is such a bewildering mixture of nationalities.

Standish thought it best not to go back to England at once, as he had not quite settled to his own satisfaction how the _pension_ was to be eliminated from the affair and transformed into a palace. He knew a lovely and elevated castle in the Tyrol near Meran where they accepted passers-by in an unobtrusive sort of way, and there, he resolved, they would make their plans. So the old man gave them a great set-out with which to go over the pass, privately charging the driver to endeavour to get a return fare from Meran so as to, partly at least, cover the outlay. The carriage was drawn by five horses, one on each side of the pole and three in front. They rested the first night at Bormeo, and started early next day for over the pass, expecting to dine at Franzenshoehe within sight of the snowy Ortler.

It was late in the season and the weather was slightly uncertain, but they had a lovely Italian forenoon for going up the wonderful, zigzag road on the western side of the pass. At the top there was a slight sprinkling of snow, and clouds hung over the lofty Ortler group of peaks. As they got lower down a steady persistent rain set in, and they were glad to get to the shelter and warmth of the oblong stone inn at Franzenshoehe, where a good dinner awaited them. After dinner the weather cleared somewhat, but the clouds still obscured the tops of the mountains, and the roads were slippery. Standish regretted this, for he wanted to show his bride the splendid scenery of the next five miles where the road zigzags down to Trefoi, each elbow of the dizzy thoroughfare overhanging the most awful precipices. It was a dangerous bit of road, and even with only two horses, requires a cool and courageous driver with a steady head. They were the sole guests at the inn, and it needed no practised eye to see that they were a newly married couple. The news spread abroad, and every lounger about the place watched them get into their carriage and drive away, one hind wheel of the carriage sliding on its skid, and all breaks on.

At the first turning Standish started, for the carriage went around it with dangerous speed. The whip cracked, too, like a succession of pistol shots, which was unusual going down the mountain. He said nothing to alarm his bride, but thought that the driver had taken on more wine than was good for him at the inn. At the second turn the wheel actually slid against and bumped the stone post that was the sole guard from the fearful precipice below. The sound and shock sent a cold chill up the back of Standish, for he knew the road well and there were worse places to come. His arm was around his wife, and he withdrew it gently so as not to alarm her. As he did so she looked up and shrieked. Following her glance to the front window of their closed carriage, where the back of the driver is usually to be seen, he saw pressed against the glass the distorted face of a demon. The driver was kneeling on his seat instead of sitting on it, and was peering in at them, the reins drawn over his shoulder, and his back to the horses. It seemed to Standish that the light of insanity gleamed from his eyes, but Tina saw in them the revengeful glare of the _vendetti_; the rage of the disappointed lover.

“My God! that’s not our driver,” cried Standish, who did not recognise the man who had once endeavoured to kill him. He sprang up and tried to open the front window, but the driver yelled out–

“Open that window if you dare, and I’ll drive you over here before you get halfway down. Sit still, and I take you as far as the Weisse Knott. That’s where you are going over. There you’ll have a drop of a mile (_un miglio_).”

“Turn to your horses, you scoundrel,” shouted Standish, “or I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“The horses know the way, Signor Inglese, and all our bones are going to be broken, yours and your sweet bride’s as well as mine.”

The driver took the whip and fired off a fusilade of cracks overhead, beside them, and under them. The horses dashed madly down the slope, almost sending the carriage over at the next turn. Standish looked at his wife. She had apparently fainted, but in reality had merely closed her eyes to shut out the horrible sight of Pietro’s face. Standish thrust his arm out of the open window, unfastened the door, and at the risk of his neck jumped out. Tina shrieked when she opened her eyes and found herself alone. Pietro now pushed in the frame of the front window and it dropped out of sight, leaving him face to face with her, with no glass between them. “Now that your fine Inglese is gone, Tina, we are going to be married; you promised it, you know.”

“You coward,” she hissed; “I’d rather die his wife than live yours.”

“You’re plucky, little Tina, you always were. But he left you. I wouldn’t have left you. I won’t leave you. We’ll be married at the chapel of the Three Holy Springs, a mile below the Weisse Knott; we’ll fly, through the air to it, Tina, and our bed will be at the foot of the Madatseh Glacier. We will go over together near where the man threw his wife down. They have marked the spot with a marble slab, but they will put a bigger one for us, Tina, for there’s two of us.”

Tina crouched in the corner of the carriage and watched the face of the Italian as if she were fascinated. She wanted to jump out as her husband had done, but she was afraid to move, feeling certain that if she attempted to escape Pietro would pounce down upon her. He looked like some wild beast crouching for a spring. All at once she saw something drop from the sky on the footboard of the carriage. Then she heard her husband’s voice ring out–

“Here, you young fool, we’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

The next moment Pietro fell to the road, propelled by a vigorous kick. His position lent itself to treatment of that kind. The carriage gave a bump as it passed over Pietro’s leg, and then Tina thinks that she fainted in earnest, for the next thing she knew the carriage was standing still, and Standish was rubbing her hands and calling her pleasant names. She smiled wanly at him.

“How in the world did you catch up to the carriage and it going so fast?” she asked, a woman’s curiosity prompting her first words.

“Oh, the villain forgot about the short cuts. As I warned him, he ought to have paid more attention to what was going on outside. I’m going back now to have a talk with him. He’s lying on the road at the upper end of this slope.”

Tina was instantly herself again.

“No, dearest,” she said caressingly; “you mustn’t go back. He probably has a knife.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“No, but I am, and you mustn’t leave me.”

“I would like to tie him up in a hard knot and take him down to civilisation bumping behind the carriage as luggage. I think he’s the fellow who knifed me, and I want to find out what his game is.”

Here Tina unfortunately began to faint again. She asked for wine in a far-off voice, and Standish at once forgot all about the demon driver. He mounted the box and took the reins himself. He got wine at the little cabin of the Weisse Knott, a mile or two farther down. Tina, who had revived amazingly, probably on account of the motion of the carriage, shuddered as she looked into the awful gulf and saw five tiny toy houses in the gloom nearly a mile below.

“That,” said Standish, “is the chapel of the Three Holy Springs. We will go there to-night, if you like, from Trefoi.”

“No, no!” cried Tina, shivering. “Let us get out of the mountains at once.”

At Trefoi they found their own driver awaiting them.

“What the devil are you doing here, and how did you get here?” hotly inquired Standish.

“By the short cuts,” replied the bewildered man. “Pietro, one of master’s old drivers, wanted–I don’t know why–to drive you as far as Trefoi. Where is he, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Standish. “We saw nothing of him. He must have been pushed off the box by the madman. Here, jump up and let us get on.”

Tina breathed again. That crisis was over.

They live very happily together, for Tina is a very tactful little woman.

THE HOUR AND THE MAN.

Prince Lotarno rose slowly to his feet, casting one malignant glance at the prisoner before him.

“You have heard,” he said, “what is alleged against you. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

The captured brigand laughed.

“The time for talk is past,” he cried. “This has been a fine farce of a fair trial. You need not have wasted so much time over what you call evidence. I knew my doom when I fell into your hands. I killed your brother; you will kill me. You have proven that I am a murderer and a robber; I could prove the same of you if you were bound hand and foot in my camp as I am bound in your castle. It is useless for me to tell you that I did not know he was your brother, else it would not have happened, for the small robber always respects the larger and more powerful thief. When a wolf is down, the other wolves devour him. I am down, and you will have my head cut off, or my body drawn asunder in your courtyard, whichever pleases your Excellency best. It is the fortune of war, and I do not complain. When I say that I am sorry I killed your brother, I merely mean I am sorry you were not the man who stood in his shoes when the shot was fired. You, having more men than I had, have scattered my followers and captured me. You may do with me what you please. My consolation is that the killing me will not bring to life the man who is shot, therefore conclude the farce that has dragged through so many weary hours. Pronounce my sentence. I am ready.”

There was a moment’s silence after the brigand had ceased speaking. Then the Prince said, in low tones, but in a voice that made itself heard in every part of the judgment-hall–

“Your sentence is that on the fifteenth of January you shall be taken from your cell at four o’clock, conducted to the room of execution, and there beheaded.”

The Prince hesitated for a moment as he concluded the sentence, and seemed about to add something more, but apparently he remembered that a report of the trial was to go before the King, whose representative was present, and he was particularly desirous that nothing should go on the records which savoured of old-time malignity; for it was well known that his Majesty had a particular aversion to the ancient forms of torture that had obtained heretofore in his kingdom. Recollecting this, the Prince sat down.

The brigand laughed again. His sentence was evidently not so gruesome as he had expected. He was a man who had lived all his life in the mountains, and he had had no means of knowing that more merciful measures had been introduced into the policy of the Government.

“I will keep the appointment,” he said jauntily, “unless I have a more pressing engagement.”

The brigand was led away to his cell. “I hope,” said the Prince, “that you noted the defiant attitude of the prisoner.”

“I have not failed to do so, your Excellency,” replied the ambassador.

“I think,” said the Prince, “that under the circumstances, his treatment has been most merciful.”

“I am certain, your Excellency,” said the ambassador, “that his Majesty will be of the same opinion. For such a miscreant, beheading is too easy a death.”

The Prince was pleased to know that the opinion of the ambassador coincided so entirely with his own.

The brigand Toza was taken to a cell in the northern tower, where, by climbing on a bench, he could get a view of the profound valley at the mouth of which the castle was situated. He well knew its impregnable position, commanding as it did, the entrance to the valley. He knew also that if he succeeded in escaping from the castle he was hemmed in by mountains practically unscalable, while the mouth of the gorge was so well guarded by the castle that it was impossible to get to the outer world through that gateway. Although he knew the mountains well, he realised that, with his band scattered, many killed, and the others fugitives, he would have a better chance of starving to death in the valley than of escaping out of it. He sat on the bench and thought over the situation. Why had the Prince been so merciful? He had expected torture, whereas he was to meet the easiest death that a man could die. He felt satisfied there was something in this that he could not understand. Perhaps they intended to starve him to death, now that the appearance of a fair trial was over. Things could be done in the dungeon of a castle that the outside world knew nothing of. His fears of starvation were speedily put to an end by the appearance of his gaoler with a better meal than he had had for some time; for during the last week he had wandered a fugitive in the mountains until captured by the Prince’s men, who evidently had orders to bring him in alive. Why then were they so anxious not to kill him in a fair fight if he were now to be merely beheaded?

“What is your name?” asked Toza of his gaoler.

“I am called Paulo,” was the answer.

“Do you know that I am to be beheaded on the fifteenth of the month?”

“I have heard so,” answered the man.

“And do you attend me until that time?”

“I attend you while I am ordered to do so. If you talk much I may be replaced.”

“That, then, is a tip for silence, good Paulo,” said the brigand. “I always treat well those who serve me well; I regret, therefore, that I have no money with me, and so cannot recompense you for good service.”

“That is not necessary,” answered Paulo. “I receive my recompense from the steward.”

“Ah, but the recompense of the steward and the recompense of a brigand chief are two very different things. Are there so many pickings in your position that you are rich, Paulo?”

“No; I am a poor man.”

“Well, under certain circumstances, I could make you rich.”

Paulo’s eyes glistened, but he made no direct reply. Finally he said, in a frightened whisper, “I have tarried too long, I am watched. By- and-by the vigilance will be relaxed, and then we may perhaps talk of riches.”

With that the gaoler took his departure. The brigand laughed softly to himself. “Evidently,” he said, “Paulo is not above the reach of a bribe. We will have further talk on the subject when the watchfulness is relaxed.”

And so it grew to be a question of which should trust the other. The brigand asserted that hidden in the mountains he had gold and jewels, and these he would give to Paulo if he could contrive his escape from the castle.

“Once free of the castle, I can soon make my way out of the valley,” said the brigand.

“I am not so sure of that,” answered Paulo. “The castle is well guarded, and when it is discovered that you have escaped, the alarm- bell will be rung, and after that not a mouse can leave the valley without the soldiers knowing it.”

The brigand pondered on the situation for some time, and at last said, “I know the mountains well.”

“Yes;” said Paulo, “but you are one man, and the soldiers of the Prince are many. Perhaps,” he added, “if it were made worth my while, I could show you that I know the mountains even better than you do.”

“What do you mean?” asked the brigand, in an excited whisper.

“Do you know the tunnel?” inquired Paulo, with an anxious glance towards the door.

“What tunnel? I never heard of any.”

“But it exists, nevertheless; a tunnel through the mountains to the world outside.”

“A tunnel through the mountains? Nonsense!” cried the brigand. “I should have known of it if one existed. The work would be too great to accomplish.”

“It was made long before your day, or mine either. If the castle had fallen, then those who were inside could escape through the tunnel. Few know of the entrance; it is near the waterfall up the valley, and is covered with brushwood. What will you give me to place you at the entrance of that tunnel?”

The brigand looked at Paulo sternly for a few moments, then he answered slowly, “Everything I possess.”

“And how much is that?” asked Paulo.

“It is more than you will ever earn by serving the Prince.”

“Will you tell me where it is before I help you to escape from the castle and lead you to the tunnel?”

“Yes,” said Toza.

“Will you tell me now?”

“No; bring me a paper to-morrow, and I will draw a plan showing you how to get it.”

[Illustration: “I WILL DRAW A PLAN”]

When his gaoler appeared, the day after Toza had given the plan, the brigand asked eagerly, “Did you find the treasure?”

“I did,” said Paulo quietly.

“And will you keep your word?–will you get me out of the castle?”

“I will get you out of the castle and lead you to the entrance of the tunnel, but after that you must look to yourself.”

“Certainly,” said Toza, “that was the bargain. Once out of this accursed valley, I can defy all the princes in Christendom. Have you a rope?”

“We shall need none,” said the gaoler. “I will come for you at midnight, and take you out of the castle by the secret passage; then your escape will not be noticed until morning.”

At midnight his gaoler came and led Toza through many a tortuous passage, the two men pausing now and then, holding their breaths anxiously as they came to an open court through which a guard paced. At last they were outside of the castle at one hour past midnight.

The brigand drew a long breath of relief when he was once again out in the free air.

“Where is your tunnel?” he asked, in a somewhat distrustful whisper of his guide.

“Hush!” was the low answer. “It is only a short distance from the castle, but every inch is guarded, and we cannot go direct; we must make for the other side of the valley and come to it from the north.”

“What!” cried Toza in amazement, “traverse the whole valley for a tunnel a few yards away?”

“It is the only safe plan,” said Paulo. “If you wish to go by the direct way, I must leave you to your own devices.”

“I am in your hands,” said the brigand with a sigh. “Take me where you will, so long as you lead me to the entrance of the tunnel.”

They passed down and down around the heights on which the castle stood, and crossed the purling little river by means of stepping-stones. Once Toza fell into the water, but was rescued by his guide. There was still no alarm from the castle as daylight began to break. As it grew more light they both crawled into a cave which had a low opening difficult to find, and there Paulo gave the brigand his breakfast, which he took from a little bag slung by a strap across his shoulder.

“What are we going to do for food if we are to be days between here and the tunnel?” asked Toza.

“Oh, I have arranged for that, and a quantity of food has been placed where we are most likely to want it. I will get it while you sleep.”

“But if you are captured, what am I to do?” asked Toza. “Can you not tell me now how to find the tunnel, as I told you how to find the treasure?”

Paulo pondered over this for a moment, and then said, “Yes; I think it would be the safer way. You must follow the stream until you reach the place where the torrent from the east joins it. Among the hills there is a waterfall, and halfway up the precipice on a shelf of rock there are sticks and bushes. Clear them away, and you will find the entrance to the tunnel. Go through the tunnel until you come to a door, which is bolted on this side. When you have passed through, you will see the end of your journey.”

Shortly after daybreak the big bell of the castle began to toll, and before noon the soldiers were beating the bushes all around them. They were so close that the two men could hear their voices from their hiding-place, where they lay in their wet clothes, breathlessly expecting every moment to be discovered.

The conversation of two soldiers, who were nearest them, nearly caused the hearts of the hiding listeners to stop beating.

“Is there not a cave near here?” asked one. “Let us search for it!”

“Nonsense,” said the other. “I tell you that they could not have come this far already.”

“Why could they not have escaped when the guard changed at midnight?” insisted the first speaker.

“Because Paulo was seen crossing the courtyard at midnight, and they could have had no other chance of getting away until just before daybreak.”

This answer seemed to satisfy his comrade, and the search was given up just as they were about to come upon the fugitives. It was a narrow escape, and, brave as the robber was, he looked pale, while Paulo was in a state of collapse.

Many times during the nights and days that followed, the brigand and his guide almost fell into the hands of the minions of the Prince. Exposure, privation, semi-starvation, and, worse than all, the alternate wrenchings of hope and fear, began to tell upon the stalwart frame of the brigand. Some days and nights of cold winter rain added to their misery. They dare not seek shelter, for every habitable place was watched.

When daylight overtook them on their last night’s crawl through the valley, they were within a short distance of the waterfall, whose low roar now came soothingly down to them.

“Never mind the daylight,” said Toza; “let us push on and reach the tunnel.”

“I can go no farther,” moaned Paulo; “I am exhausted.”

“Nonsense,” cried Toza; “it is but a short distance.”

“The distance is greater than you think; besides, we are in full view of the castle. Would you risk everything now that the game is nearly won? You must not forget that the stake is your head; and remember what day this is.”

“What day is it?” asked the brigand, turning on his guide.

“It is the fifteenth of January, the day on which you were to be executed.”

Toza caught his breath sharply. Danger and want had made a coward of him and he shuddered now, which he had not done when he was on his trial and condemned to death.

“How do you know it is the fifteenth?” he asked at last.

Paulo held up his stick, notched after the method of Robinson Crusoe.

“I am not so strong as you are, and if you will let me rest here until the afternoon, I am willing to make a last effort, and try to reach the entrance of the tunnel.”

“Very well,” said Toza shortly.

As they lay there that forenoon neither could sleep. The noise of the waterfall was music to the ears of both; their long toilsome journey was almost over.

[Illustration: HE THREW ASIDE BUSHES, BRAMBLES AND LOGS]

“What did you do with the gold that you found in the mountains?” asked Toza suddenly.

Paulo was taken unawares, and answered, without thinking, “I left it where it was. I will get it after.”

The brigand said nothing, but that remark condemned Paulo to death. Toza resolved to murder him as soon as they were well out of the tunnel, and get the gold himself.

They left their hiding-place shortly before twelve o’clock, but their progress was so slow, crawling, as they had to do, up the steep side of the mountain, under cover of bushes and trees, that it was well after three when they came to the waterfall, which they crossed, as best they could, on stones and logs.

“There,” said Toza, shaking himself, “that is our last wetting. Now for the tunnel!”

The rocky sides of the waterfall hid them from view of the castle, but Paulo called the brigand’s attention to the fact that they could be easily seen from the other side of the valley.

“It doesn’t matter now,” said Toza; “lead the way as quickly as you can to the mouth of the cavern.”

Paulo scrambled on until he reached a shelf about halfway up the cataract; he threw aside bushes, brambles, and logs, speedily disclosing a hole large enough to admit a man.

“You go first,” said Paulo, standing aside.

“No,” answered Toza; “you know the way, and must go first. You cannot think that I wish to harm you–I am completely unarmed.

“Nevertheless,” said Paulo, “I shall not go first. I did not like the way you looked at me when I told you the gold was still in the hills. I admit that I distrust you.”

“Oh, very well,” laughed Toza, “it doesn’t really matter.” And he crawled into the hole in the rock, Paulo following him.

Before long the tunnel enlarged so that a man could stand upright.

“Stop!” said Paulo; “there is the door near here.”

“Yes,” said the robber, “I remember that you spoke of a door,” adding, however, “What is it for, and why is it locked?”

“It is bolted on this side,” answered Paulo, “and we shall have no difficulty in opening it.”

“What is it for?” repeated the brigand.

“It is to prevent the current of air running through the tunnel and blowing away the obstruction at this end,” said the guide.

“Here it is,” said Toza, as he felt down its edge for the bolt.

The bolt drew back easily, and the door opened. The next instant the brigand was pushed rudely into a room, and he heard the bolt thrust back into its place almost simultaneously with the noise of the closing door. For a moment his eyes were dazzled by the light. He was in an apartment blazing with torches held by a dozen men standing about.

In the centre of the room was a block covered with black cloth, and beside it stood a masked executioner resting the corner of a gleaming axe on the black draped block, with his hands crossed over the end of the axe’s handle.

The Prince stood there surrounded by his ministers. Above his head was a clock, with the minute hand pointed to the hour of four.

“You are just in time!” said the Prince grimly; “we are waiting for you!”

“AND THE RIGOUR OF THE GAME.”

Old Mr. Saunders went home with bowed head and angry brow. He had not known that Dick was in the habit of coming in late, but he had now no doubt of the fact. He himself went to bed early and slept soundly, as a man with a good conscience is entitled to do. But the boy’s mother must have known the hours he kept, yet she had said nothing; this made the matter all the blacker. The father felt that mother and son were leagued against him. He had been too lenient; now he would go to the root of things. The young man would speedily change his ways or take the consequences. There would be no half measures.

Poor old Mrs. Saunders saw, the moment her husband came in, that there was a storm brewing, and a wild fear arose in her heart that her boy was the cause. The first words of the old man settled the question.

“What time did Richard come in last night?”

“I–I don’t know,” she hesitated. “Shuffling” her husband always called it. She had been a buffer between father and son since Dick was a child.

“Why don’t you know? Who let him in?”

She sighed. The secret had long weighed upon her, and she felt it would come out at some hapless moment.

“He has a key,” she said at last.

The old man glared in speechless amazement. In his angriest mood he had never suspected anything so bad as this.

“A key! How long has he had a key?”

“About six months. He did not want to disturb us.”

“He is very thoughtful! Where does he spend his nights?”

“I don’t know. He told me he belongs to a club, where he takes some kind of exercise.”

“Did he tell you he exercised with cards? Did he say it was a gambling club?”

“I don’t believe it is; I am sure Dick doesn’t gamble. Dick is a good boy, father.”

“A precious lot you know about it, evidently. Do you think his employer, banker Hammond, has any idea his clerk belongs to a gambling club?”

“I am sure I don’t know. Is there any thing wrong? Has any one been speaking to you about Dick?”

“Yes; and not to his credit.”

“Oh dear!” cried the mother in anguish. “Was it Mr. Hammond?”

“I have never spoken to Hammond in my life,” said the old man, relenting a little when he saw how troubled his wife was. “No, I propose to stop this club business before it gets to the banker’s ears that one of his clerks is a nightly attendant there. You will see Richard when he comes home this evening; tell him I wish to have a word or two with him to-night. He is to wait for me here. I will be in shortly after he has had his supper.”

“You will not be harsh with him, father. Remember, he is a young man now, so please advise and do not threaten. Angry words can do no good.”

“I will do my duty,” said the old man, uncompromisingly.

Gentle Mrs. Saunders sighed–for she well knew the phrase about duty. It was a sure prelude to domestic trouble. When the old gentleman undertook to do his duty, he nailed his flag to the mast.

“See that he waits for me to-night,” was the parting shot as the old man closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Saunders had had her share of trouble in this world, as every woman must who lives with a cantankerous man. When she could save her son a harsh word, or even a blow, she was content to take either uncomplainingly. The old man’s severity had put him out of touch with his son. Dick sullenly resented his boyhood of continual fear. During recent years, when fear had gradually diminished and finally disappeared, he was somewhat troubled to find that the natural affection, which a son should have for his father, had vanished with it. He had, on several occasions, made half-hearted attempts at a better understanding, but these attempts had unfortunately fallen on inopportune moments, when the old man was not particularly gracious toward the world in general, and latterly there had been silence between the two. The young man avoided his father as much as possible; he would not have remained at home, had it not been for his mother. Her steady, unwavering affection for him, her belief in him, and the remembrance of how she had stood up for him, especially when he was in the wrong, had bound her to him with bonds soft as silk and strong as steel. He often felt it would be a pleasure to go wrong, merely to refute his father’s ideas regarding the way a child should be brought up. Yet Dick had a sort of admiration for the old man, whose many good qualities were somewhat overshadowed by his brutal temper.

When Richard came home that evening he had his supper alone, as was usual with him. Mrs. Saunders drew her chair near the table, and while the meal went on she talked of many things, but avoided the subject uppermost in her mind, which she postponed until the last moment. Perhaps after all she would not need to ask him to stay; he might remain of his own accord. She watched him narrowly as she talked, and saw with alarm that there was anxiety in his face. Some care was worrying him, and she yearned to have him confide his trouble to her. And yet she talked and talked of other things. She noticed that he made but a poor pretence of eating, and that he allowed her to talk while he made few replies, and those absent-mindedly. At last he pushed back his chair with a laugh that sounded forced.

“Well, mother,” he said, “what is it? Is there a row on, or is it merely looming in the horizon? Has the Lord of Creation–“

“Hush, Dick, you mustn’t talk in that way. There is nothing much the matter, I hope? I want to speak with you about your club.”

Dick looked sharply at his mother for a moment, then he said: “Well, what does father want to know about the club? Does he wish to join?”

“I didn’t say your father–“

“No, you didn’t say it; but, my dear mother, you are as transparent as glass. I can see right through you and away beyond. Now, somebody has been talking to father about the club, and he is on the war-path. Well, what does he want to know?”

“He said it was a gambling club.”

“Right for once.”

“Oh, Dick, is it?”

“Certainly it is. Most clubs are gambling clubs and drinking clubs. I don’t suppose the True Blues gamble more than others, but I’ll bet they don’t gamble any less.”

“Oh, Dick, Dick, I’m sorry to hear that. And, Dick, my darling boy, do you–“

“Do I gamble, mother? No, I don’t. I know you’ll believe me, though the old man won’t. But it’s true, nevertheless. I can’t afford it, for it takes money to gamble, and I’m not as rich as old Hammond yet.”

“Oh yes, Dick dear, and that reminds me. Another thing your father feared was that Mr. Hammond might come to know you were a member of the club. It might hurt your prospects in the bank,” she added, not wishing to frighten the boy with the threat of the dismissal she felt sure would follow the revelation.

Dick threw back his head and roared. For the first time that evening the lines of care left his brow. Then seeing his mother’s look of incomprehension, he sobered down, repressing his mirth with some difficulty.

“Mother,” he said at last, “things have changed since father was a boy; I’m afraid he hardly appreciates how much. The old terrifying relations between employer and employee do not exist now–at least, that is my experience.”

“Still if Mr. Hammond came to know that you spent your evenings at–“

“Mother, listen to me a moment. Mr. Julius Hammond proposed me for membership in the club–my employer! I should never have thought of joining if it hadn’t been for him. You remember my last raise in salary? You thought it was for merit, of course, and father thought it was luck. Well, it was neither–or both, perhaps. Now, this is confidential and to yourself only. I wouldn’t tell it to any one else. Hammond called me into his private office one afternoon when the bank was closed, and said, ‘Saunders, I want you to join the Athletic Club; I’ll propose you.’ I was amazed and told him I couldn’t afford it. ‘Yes, you can,’ he answered. ‘I’m going to raise your salary double the amount of entrance fee and annual. If you don’t join I’ll cut it down.’ So I joined. I think I should have been a fool if I hadn’t.”

“Dick, I never heard of such a thing! What in the world did he want you to join for?”

“Well, mother,” said Dick, looking at his watch, “that’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you some other evening. I haven’t time to-night. I must be off.”

“Oh, Dick, don’t go to-night. Please stay at home, for my sake.”

Dick smoothed his mother’s grey hair and kissed her on the forehead. Then he said: “Won’t to-morrow night do as well, mother? I can’t stay to-night. I have an appointment at the club.”

“Telegraph to them and put it off. Stay for my sake to-night, Dick. I never asked you before.”

The look of anxiety came into his face again.

“Mother, it is impossible, really it is. Please don’t ask me again. Anyhow, I know it is father who wants me to stay, not you. I presume he’s on the duty tack. I think what he has to say will keep till to- morrow night. If he must work off some of his sentiments on gambling, let him place his efforts where they are needed–let him tackle Jule Hammond, but not during business hours.”

“You surely don’t mean to say that a respected business man–a banker like Mr. Hammond–gambles?”

“Don’t I? Why, Hammond’s a plunger from Plungerville, if you know what that means. From nine to three he is the strictest and best business man in the city. If you spoke to him then of the True Blue Athletic Club he wouldn’t know what you were talking about. But after three o’clock he’ll take any odds you like to offer, from matching pennies to backing an unknown horse.”

Mrs. Saunders sighed. It was a wicked world into which her boy had to go to earn his living, evidently.

“And now, mother, I really must be off. I’ll stay at home to-morrow night and take my scolding like a man. Good-night.”

He kissed her and hurried away before she could say anything more, leaving her sitting there with folded hands to await, with her customary patience and just a trifle of apprehension, the coming of her husband. There was no mistaking the heavy footfall. Mrs. Saunders smiled sadly as she heard it, remembering that Dick had said once that, even if he were safe within the gates of Paradise, the sound of his father’s footsteps would make the chills run up his backbone. She had reproved the levity of the remark at the time, but she often thought of it, especially when she knew there was trouble ahead–as there usually was.

“Where’s Richard? Isn’t he home yet?” were the old man’s first words.

“He has been home, but he had to go out again. He had an appointment.”

“Did you tell him I wanted to speak with him?”

“Yes, and he said he would stay home to-morrow night.”

“Did he know what I said to-night?”

“I’m not sure that I told him you–if he is not in by that time I will go to his club and have my talk with him there.”

Old Mr. Saunders sat grimly down with his hat still on, and crossed his hands over the knob of his stout walking-stick, watching the clock that ticked slowly against the wall. Under these distressing circumstances the old woman lost her presence of mind and did the very thing she should not have done. She should have agreed with him, but instead of that she opposed the plan and so made it inevitable. It would be a cruel thing, she said, to shame their son before his friends, to make him a laughing-stock among his acquaintances. Whatever was to be said could be said as well to-morrow night as to-night, and that in their own home, where, at least, no stranger would overhear. As the old man made no answer but silently watched the clock, she became almost indignant with him. She felt she was culpable in entertaining even the suspicion of such a feeling against her lawful husband, but it did seem to her that he was not acting judiciously towards Dick. She hoped to turn his resentment from their son to herself, and would have welcomed any outburst directed against her alone. In this excited state, being brought, as it were, to bay, she had the temerity to say–

“You are wrong about one thing, and you may also be wrong in thinking Dick–in–in what you think about Dick.”

The old man darted one lowering look at her, and though she trembled, she welcomed the glance as indicating the success of her red herring.

“What was I wrong about?”

“You were wrong–Mr. Hammond knows Dick is a member of the club. He is a member himself and he insisted Dick should join. That’s why he raised his salary.”

“A likely story! Who told you that?”

“Dick told me himself.”

“And you believed it, of course!” Saunders in a sneering, cynical sort of way and resumed his scrutiny of the clock. The old woman gave up the fight and began to weep silently, hoping, but in vain, to hear the light step of her son approaching the door. The clock struck the hour; the old man rose without a word, drew his hat further over his brow, and left the house.

Up to the last moment Mrs. Saunders hardly believed her husband would carry out his threat. Now, when she realised he was determined, she had one wild thought of flying to the club and warning her son. A moment’s consideration put that idea out of the question. She called the serving-maid, who came, as it seemed to the anxious woman, with exasperating deliberation.

“Jane,” she cried, “do you know where the Athletic Club is? Do you know where Centre Street is?”

Jane knew neither club nor locality.

“I want a message taken there to Dick, and it must go quickly. Don’t you think you could run there.”

“It would be quicker to telegraph, ma’am,” said Jane, who was not anxious to run anywhere. “There’s telegraph paper in Mr. Richard’s room, and the office is just round the corner.”

“That’s it, Jane; I’m glad you thought of it. Get me a telegraph form. Do make haste.”

She wrote with a trembling hand, as plainly as she could, so that her son might have no difficulty in reading:–

“_Richard Saunders, Athletic Club, Centre Street._

“Your father is coming to see you. He will be at the club before half-an-hour.”

“There is no need to sign it; he will know his mother’s writing,” said Mrs. Saunders, as she handed the message and the money to Jane; and Jane made no comment, for she knew as little of telegraphing as did her mistress. Then the old woman, having done her best, prayed that the telegram might arrive before her husband; and her prayer was answered, for electricity is more speedy than an old man’s legs.

Meanwhile Mr. Saunders strode along from the suburb to the city. His stout stick struck the stone pavement with a sharp click that sounded in the still, frosty, night air almost like a pistol shot. He would show both his wife and his son that he was not too old to be master in his own house. He talked angrily to himself as he went along, and was wroth to find his anger lessening as he neared his destination. Anger must be very just to hold its own during a brisk walk in evening air that is cool and sweet.

Mr. Saunders was somewhat abashed to find the club building a much more imposing edifice than he had expected. There was no low, groggy appearance about the True Blue Athletic Club. It was brilliantly lit from basement to attic. A group of men, with hands in pockets, stood on the kerb as if waiting for something. There was an air of occasion about the place. The old man inquired of one of the loafers if that was the Athletic Club.

“Yes, it is,” was the answer; “are you going in?”

“I intend to.”

“Are you a member?”

“No.”

“Got an invitation?”

“No.”

“Then I suspect you won’t go in. We’ve tried every dodge ourselves.”

The possibility of not getting in had never occurred to the old gentleman, and the thought that his son, safe within the sacred precincts of a club, might defy him, flogged his flagging anger and aroused his dogged determination.

“I’ll try, at least,” he said, going up the stone steps.

The men watched him with a smile on their lips. They saw him push the electric button, whereupon the door opened slightly. There was a brief, unheard parley; then the door swung wide open, and, when Mr. Saunders entered, it shut again.

“Well, I’m blest!” said the man on the kerb; “I wonder how the old duffer worked it. I wish I had asked him.” None of the rest made airy comment; they were struck dumb with amazement at the success of the old gentleman, who had even to ask if that were the club.

When the porter opened the door he repeated one of the questions asked a moment before by the man on the kerb. “Have you an invitation, sir?”

“No,” answered the old man, deftly placing his stick so that the barely opened door could not be closed until it was withdrawn. “No! I want to see my son, Richard Saunders. Is he inside?”

The porter instantly threw open the door.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “They’re expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way, sir.”

The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception. There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.

“Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here.”

“But–stop a moment. I don’t want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the banker?”

“Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him know at once.”

The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator. Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were interspersed here and there. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal of black marble, and upon it rested a huge silver vase encrusted with ornamentation. The old man did not know that this elaborate specimen of the silversmith’s art was referred to as the “Cup.” Some one had hung a placard on it, bearing, in crudely scrawled letters the words:–

“Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever Fare thee well.”

While the old man was wondering what all this meant, the curtain suddenly parted and there entered an elderly gentleman somewhat jauntily attired in evening dress with a rose at his buttonhole. Saunders instantly recognised him as the banker, and he felt a resentment at what he considered his foppish appearance, realising almost at the same moment the rustiness of his own clothes, an everyday suit, not too expensive even when new.

“How are you, Mr. Saunders?” cried the banker, cordially extending his hand. “I am very pleased indeed to meet you. We got your telegram, but thought it best not to give it to Dick. I took the liberty of opening it myself. You see we can’t be too careful about these little details. I told the porter to look after you and let me know the moment you came. Of course you are very anxious about your boy.”

“I am,” said the old man firmly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Certainly, certainly. So are we all, and I presume I’m the most anxious man of the lot. Now what you want to know is how he is getting along?”

“Yes; I want to know the truth.”

“Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He’s been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am.”

“Do you mean to tell me so?”

“Yes. There is no use deluding ourselves. Frankly, I have no hope for him. There is not one chance in ten thousand of his recovering his lost ground.”

The old man caught his breath, and leaned on his cane for support. He realised now the hollowness of his previous anger. He had never for a moment believed the boy was going to the bad. Down underneath his crustiness was a deep love for his son and a strong faith in him. He had allowed his old habit of domineering to get the better of him, and now in searching after a phantom he had suddenly come upon a ghastly reality.

“Look here,” said the banker, noticing his agitation, “have a drink of our Special Scotch with me. It is the best there is to be had for money. We always take off our hats when we speak of the Special in this club. Then we’ll go and see how things are moving.”

As he turned to order the liquor he noticed for the first time the placard on the cup.

“Now, who the dickens put that there?” he cried angrily. “There’s no use in giving up before you’re thrashed.” Saying which, he took off the placard, tore it up, and threw it into the waste basket.

“Does Richard drink?” asked the old man huskily, remembering the eulogy on the Special.

“Bless you, no. Nor smoke either. No, nor gamble, which is more extraordinary. No, it’s all right for old fellows like you and me to indulge in the Special–bless it–but a young man who needs to keep his nerves in order, has to live like a monk. I imagine it’s a love affair. Of course, there’s no use asking you: you would be the last one to know. When he came in to-night I saw he was worried over something. I asked him what it was, but he declared there was nothing wrong. Here’s the liquor. You’ll find that it reaches the spot.”

The old man gulped down some of the celebrated “Special,” then he said–

“Is it true that you induced my son to join this club?”

“Certainly. I heard what he could do from a man I had confidence in, and I said to myself, We must have young Saunders for a member.”

“Then don’t you think you are largely to blame?”

“Oh, if you like to put it that way; yes. Still I’m the chief loser. I lose ten thousand by him.”

“Good God!” cried the stricken father.

The banker looked at the old man a little nervously, as if he feared his head was not exactly right. Then he said: “Of course you will be anxious to see how the thing ends. Come in with me, but be careful the boy doesn’t catch sight of you. It might rattle him. I’ll get you a place at the back, where you can see without being seen.”

They rose, and the banker led the way on tiptoe between the curtains into a large room filled with silent men earnestly watching a player at a billiard table in the centre of the apartment. Temporary seats had been built around the walls, tier above tier, and every place was taken. Saunders noticed his son standing near the table in his shirt- sleeves, with his cue butt downward on the ground. His face was pale and his lips compressed as he watched his opponent’s play like a man fascinated. Evidently his back was against the wall, and he was fighting a hopeless fight, but was grit to the last.

Old Saunders only faintly understood the situation, but his whole sympathy went out to his boy, and he felt an instinctive hatred of the confident opponent who was knocking the balls about with a reckless accuracy which was evidently bringing dismay to the hearts of at least half the onlookers.

All at once there was a burst of applause, and the player stood up straight with a laugh.

“By Jove!” cried the banker, “he’s missed. Didn’t put enough stick behind it. That comes of being too blamed sure. Shouldn’t wonder but there is going to be a turn of luck. Perhaps you’ll prove a mascot, Mr. Saunders.”

He placed the old man on an elevated seat at the back. There was a buzz of talk as young Saunders stood there chalking his cue, apparently loth to begin.

Hammond mixed among the crowd, and spoke eagerly now to one, now to another. Old Saunders said to the man next him–

“What is it all about? Is this an important match?”

“Important! You bet it is. I suppose there’s more money on this game than was ever put on a billiard match before. Why, Jule Hammond alone has ten thousand on Saunders.”

The old man gave a quivering sigh of relief. He was beginning to understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a defalcation.

“Yes,” continued the other, “it’s the great match for the cup. There’s been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man of the High Fliers’ Club. He’s a good one. Saunders won the cup for this club last year, so they can’t kick much if they lose it now. They’ve never had a man to touch Saunders in this club since it began. I doubt if there’s another amateur like him in this country. He’s a man to be proud of, although he seemed to go to pieces to-night. They’ll all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he don’t make anything one way or another. I believe it’s the high betting that’s made him so anxious and spoiled his play.”

“Hush, hush!” was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was certain to go out when his turn came again.

Saunders played very carefully, taking no risks, and his father watched him with absorbed, breathless interest. Though he knew nothing of the game he soon began to see how points were made. The boy never looked up from the green cloth and the balls. He stepped around the table to his different positions without hurry, and yet without undue tardiness. All eyes were fastened on his play, and there was not a sound in the large room but the ever-recurring click-click of the balls. The father marvelled at the almost magical command the player had over the ivory spheres. They came and went, rebounded and struck, seemingly because he willed this result or that. There was a dexterity of touch, and accurate measurement of force, a correct estimate of angles, a truth of the eye, and a muscular control that left the old man amazed that the combination of all these delicate niceties were concentrated in one person, and that person his own son.

At last two of the balls lay close together, and the young man, playing very deftly, appeared to be able to keep them in that position as if he might go on scoring indefinitely. He went on in this way for some time, when suddenly the silence was broken by Prognor crying out–

“I don’t call that billiards. It’s baby play.”

Instantly there was an uproar. Saunders grounded his cue on the floor and stood calmly amidst the storm, his eyes fixed on the green cloth. There were shouts of “You were not interrupted,” “That’s for the umpire to decide,” “Play your game, Saunders,” “Don’t be bluffed.” The old man stood up with the rest, and his natural combativeness urged him to take part in the fray and call for fair play. The umpire rose and demanded order. When the tumult had subsided, he sat down. Some of the High Fliers, however, cried, “Decision! Decision!”

“There is nothing to decide,” said the umpire, severely. “Go on with your play, Mr. Saunders.”

Then young Saunders did a thing that took away the breath of his friends. He deliberately struck the balls with his cue ball and scattered them far and wide. A simultaneous sigh seemed to rise from the breasts of the True Blues.

“That is magnificent, but it is not war,” said the man beside old Saunders. “He has no right to throw away a single chance when he is so far behind.”

“Oh, he’s not so far behind. Look at the score,” put in a man on the right.

Saunders carefully nursed the balls up together once more, scored off them for a while, and again he struck them far apart. This he did three times. He apparently seemed bent on showing how completely he had the table under his control. Suddenly a great cheer broke out, and young Saunders rested as before without taking his eyes from the cloth.

“What does that mean?” cried the old man excitedly, with dry lips.

“Why, don’t you see? He’s tied the score. I imagine this is almost an unprecedented run. I believe he’s got Prognor on toast, if you ask me.”

Hammond came up with flushed face, and grasped the old man by the arm with a vigour that made him wince.

“Did you ever see anything grander than that?” he said, under cover of the momentary applause. “I’m willing to lose my ten thousand now without a murmur. You see, you are a mascot after all.”

The old man was too much excited to speak, but he hoped the boy would take no more chances. Again came the click-click of the balls. The father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed.

All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its black marble pedestal. Saunders had won. He took the outstretched hand of his defeated opponent, and the building rang again.

Banker Hammond pushed his way through the congratulating crowd and smote the winner cordially on the shoulder.

“That was a great run, Dick, my boy. The old man was your mascot. Your luck changed the moment he came in. Your father had his eye on you all the time.”

“What!” cried Dick, with a jump.

A flush came over his pale face as he caught his father’s eye, although the old man’s glance was kindly enough.

“I’m very proud of you, my son,” said his father, when at last he reached him. “It takes skill and pluck and nerve to win a contest like that. I’m off now; I want to tell your mother about it.”

“Wait a moment, father, and we’ll walk home together,” said Dick.

THE BROMLEY GIBBERTS STORY.

The room in which John Shorely edited the _Weekly Sponge_ was not luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so unfortunate as to be compelled to work for the _Sponge_ on the cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign publication than waste good money on original contributions. You clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.

Shorely’s theory was that the public was a fool, and didn’t know the difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London proved the fact, he claimed, yet the _Sponge_ frequently bought stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.

Shorely’s table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the great editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with his gaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. The _Sponge_ was not going well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prize schemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer a thousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would look lavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible to collect if a disaster really occurred.

In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced–“Mr. Bromley Gibberts.”

“Tell him I’m busy just now–tell him I’m engaged,” said the editor, while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.

The clerk’s conscience; however, was never burdened with that message, for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.

“That’s all right,” said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, who stood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. “You heard what Mr. Shorely said. He’s engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out.”

The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the key in the lock, and then sat down.

“There,” he said; “now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should think you would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in and interrupt you.”

“I am,” said the editor, shortly.

“Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outer office through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I have come to cheer you up. I’ve brought you a story, my boy.”

Shorely groaned.

“My dear Gibberts,” he said, “we have now–“

“Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to run the paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, you are buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what you need. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money, and can’t pay my price. The _Sponge_ is failing–everybody knows that. Why can’t you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If you practiced an hour a day, and took lessons–from me, for instance–you would be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one after the other.”

The editor laughed bitterly.

“You are complimentary,” he said.

“I’m not. Try again, Shorely. Say I’m a boorish ass.”

“Well, you are.”

“There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about this story, will you–“

“I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don’t mind admitting to you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing. We haven’t the money as you say, so what’s the use of talking?”

Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on the other’s knee. He went on earnestly–

“Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be too late. You will have thrown up the _Sponge._ Your great mistake is trying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can’t be done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thief or an honest man. That’s the first step.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolen property, or for one made up of purely original matter.”

“We have a great deal of original matter in the _Sponge_.”

“Yes, and that’s what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen article in the _Sponge_ which they have read elsewhere. They then believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn’t business, so I want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most remarkable story written in England this year.”

“Oh, they all are,” said Shorely, wearily. “Every story sent to me is a most remarkable story, in the author’s opinion.”

“Look here, Shorely,” cried Gibberts, angrily, “you mustn’t talk to me like that. I’m no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well aware. I don’t need to peddle my goods.”

“Then why do you come here lecturing me?”

“For your own good, Shorely, my boy,” said Gibberts, calming down as rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. “For your own good, and if you don’t take this story, some one else will. It will make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all to save your blessed eyesight.”

Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark. Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to Shorely’s manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the poker and noisily stirred the fire. “For Heaven’s sake, sit down, Gibberts, and be quiet!” cried Shorely, at last.

Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the editor.

“I won’t sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to,” he roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in his eyes.

“Oh, very well, then,” said Shorely, continuing to read the story.

For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.

“Well,” said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, “what do you think of it?”

“It’s a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good,” said the editor, carelessly.

Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.

“Do you mean to say,” he thundered, “that you see nothing in that story different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you wouldn’t know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can’t you see that story is written with a man’s heart’s blood?”

Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his trousers’ pockets.

“It may have been written as you say, although I ought you called my attention a moment ago to its type-written character.”

“Don’t be flippant, Shorely,” said Gibberts, relapsing again into melancholy. “You don’t like the story, then? You didn’t see anything unusual in it–purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?”

“There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It’s absurd.”

Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly. Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long ulster making him look taller than he really was.

“Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that would have kept me from want has–“

“Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You’ve told it to everybody. To me several times.”

“How my cousin cheated me out of–“

“Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved.”

“Oh! I told you that, did I?” said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the other’s familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was finally broken by Gibberts saying–

“So you don’t care about the story?”

“Oh, I don’t say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with an imaginary and sanguinary ending.”

“Oh, you saw that, did you?”

“Yes. How much do you want for it?”

“L50”

“What?” “L50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now.”

“Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the greatest author living for less than L50. Gibberts, you’re crazy.”

Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last shook his head.

“No, Shorely,” he said, with a sigh. “I’m not insane, though, goodness knows, I’ve had enough to drive me mad. I don’t seem to have the luck of some people. I haven’t the talent for going crazy. But to return to the story. You think L50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?”

“The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end.”

“Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!”

Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands together. His face was in a glow of excitement.

“Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it actually taking place. Wouldn’t all England ring with it?”

“Naturally.”

“Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I’m going to commit that so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I’m going down to that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there was justice and right in England, and I’m going to slaughter every one in it. I will leave a letter, saying the story in the _Sponge_ is the true story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be the most-talked-of journal in England–in the world. It will leap instantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth ever before attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth L50,000 rather than L50, and if you don’t buy it at once, some one else will. Now, what do you say?”

“I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as a hatter.”

“Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?”

“No, but I’ll prevent you committing the crime.”

“How?”

“By giving you in charge. By informing on you.”

“You can’t do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believe it could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here, and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is as good as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, which knocks at every man’s door. When I came in, you were wondering what you could do to put the _Sponge_ on its feet. I saw it in your attitude. Now, what do you say?”

“I’ll give you L25 for the story on its own merits, although it is a big price, and you need not commit the crime.”

“Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would offer me L12 10_s_. Will you publish it within the month?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Write out the cheque. Don’t cross it. I’ve no bank account.”

When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket- pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. “Good- bye,” he said.

As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.

The _Sponge_ was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the week Gibberts’ story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.

Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson’s opinion was infallible.

“How did _you_ come to get hold of it?” he said to Shorely, with unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.

“Don’t you think I know a good story when I see it?” asked the editor, indignantly.

“It isn’t the general belief of the Club,” replied Johnson, airily; “but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?”

“No; why do you ask?”

“Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I don’t think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind.”

“He told me,” said the new member, with some hesitation–“but really I don’t think I’m justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it in confidence–that he was the rightful heir to a property in–“

“Oh, we all know that story!” cried the Club, unanimously.

“I think it’s the Club whiskey,” said one of the oldest members. “I say, it’s the worst in London.”

“Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee,” put in Johnson. “If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet.”

These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing, McCabe, the business manager of the _Sponge,_ came in.

“What’s the matter with the old sheet this week?” he asked.

“Matter? I don’t understand you.”

“Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith’s for the whole lot. The extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now to run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the press. I never read the _Sponge_ myself, so I thought I would drop in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.

“Better read the paper and find out,” said Shorely.

“I would, if there wasn’t so much of your stuff in it,” retorted McCabe.

Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He had a jubilant “we’ve-done-it-at-last” air that exasperated Shorely, who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.

“He’s not been here to-day,” said Johnson; “but I saw him yesterday, and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand, buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you should look after him.”

Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there found Gibberts’ belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had left.

“Dear Shorely,–I know why you want to see me, but I have so many affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you. However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of flesh, and more.–Yours,

“BROMLEY GIBBERTS.”

Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a hansom, he said–

“Drive to Kidner’s Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15.”

Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at Gibberts’ door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a “man,” and it was the “man” who answered Shorely’s imperious knock.

“Where’s Gibberts?”

“He’s just gone, sir.”

“Gone where?”

“To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He’s going into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn’t to forward his letters, so I haven’t his address.”

“Have you an ‘ABC’?”

“Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in it, sir, before he left.”

Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor, he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he dashed down the stairs again. The “man” did not seem astonished. Queer fish sometimes came to see his master.

“Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?”

The cabman shook his head, as he said–

“I’ll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour.”

The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platform two minutes after the train had gone.

“When is the next train to Channor?” demanded Shorely of a porter.

“Just left, sir.”

“The next train hasn’t just left, you fool. Answer my question.”

“Two hours and twenty minutes, sir,” replied the porter, in a huff.

Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn’t money enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor Station. That, he concluded, was the way out–dangerous, but feasible.

By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw half a crown in the air.

“Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that’s just gone, sir?”

“Yes. Can it be done?”

“It might be done, sir,” said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he committed himself further.

“Here’s half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of hiring a special.”

“Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. It will carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then in seventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is due three minutes before the down train reaches there–if the local is in time,” he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.

While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of the _Sponge_, and once more he read Gibberts’ story on the way down. The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed before the deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overrate the work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.

Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective. The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts’ letter. If he had left it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.

The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing time with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come and gone.

“Did a man in a long ulster get off, and–“

“For Channor Chase, sir?”

“Yes. Has he gone?”

“Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir.”

“How far is it?”

“About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir.”

“Can I get a conveyance?”

“I don’t think so, sir. They didn’t know you were coming, I suppose, or they would have waited; but if you take the road down by the church, you can get there before the cart, sir. It isn’t more than two miles from the church. You’ll find the path a bit dirty, I’m afraid, sir, but not worse than the road. You can’t miss the way, and you can send for your luggage.”

It had been raining, and was still drizzling. A strange path is sometimes difficult to follow, even in broad daylight, but a wet, dark evening adds tremendously to the problem. Shorely was a city man, and quite unused to the eccentricities of country lanes and paths.

He first mistook the gleaming surface of a ditch for the footpath, and only found his mistake when he was up to his waist in water. The rain came on heavily again, and added to his troubles. After wandering through muddy fields for some time, he came to a cottage, where he succeeded in securing a guide to Channor Chase.

The time he had lost wandering in the fields would, Shorely thought, allow the dog-cart to arrive before him, and such he found to be the case. The man who answered Shorely’s imperious summons to the door was surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who looked like a lunatic or a tramp.

“Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?” he asked, without preliminary talk.

“Yes, sir,” answered the man.

“Is he in his room?”

“No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing- room.

“I must see him at once,” gasped Shorely. “It is a matter of life and death. Take me to the drawing-room.”

The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room, and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever are comedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorely entered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen, all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of the _Sponge_ in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.

“I assure you,” he was saying, “that is the only way by which a story of the highest class can be sold to a London editor.”

He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It was a moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in the bedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door.

“By the gods!” he exclaimed, waving his hands. “Speak of the editor, and he appears. In the name of all that’s wonderful, Shorely, how did you come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they ducked you in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how I sold you that story, which is making the fortune of the _Sponge_. Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy.”

“I would like a word with you,” stammered Shorely.

“Then, have it here,” said the novelist. “They all understand the circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story.”

“I warn you,” said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing the company, “that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have come here to prevent it.”

Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly.

“Search me,” he cried. “I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here knows, among my best friends.”

“Goodness!” said one old lady. “You don’t mean to say that Channor Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take place?”

“Of course it is,” cried Gibberts, gleefully. “Didn’t you recognise the local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground, and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget some important detail when telling a story. Don’t go yet,” he said, as Shorely turned away; “but tell your story, then we will have each man’s narrative, after the style of Wilkie Collins.”

But Shorely had had enough, and, in spite of pressing invitations to remain, he departed out into the night, cursing the eccentricities of literary men.

NOT ACCORDING TO THE CODE.

Even a stranger to the big town walking for the first time through London, sees on the sides of the houses many names with which he has long been familiar. His precognition has cost the firms those names represent much money in advertising. The stranger has had the names before him for years in newspapers and magazines, on the hoardings and boards by the railway side, paying little heed to them at the time; yet they have been indelibly impressed on his brain, and when he wishes soap or pills his lips almost automatically frame the words most familiar to them. Thus are the lavish sums spent in advertising justified, and thus are many excellent publications made possible.

When you come to ponder over the matter, it seems strange that there should ever be any real man behind the names so lavishly advertised; that there should be a genuine Smith or Jones whose justly celebrated medicines work such wonders, or whose soap will clean even a guilty conscience. Granting the actual existence of these persons and probing still further into the mystery, can any one imagine that the excellent Smith to whom thousands of former sufferers send entirely unsolicited testimonials, or the admirable Jones whom _prima donnas_ love because his soap preserves their dainty complexions–can any one credit the fact that Smith and Jones have passions like other men, have hatreds, likes and dislikes?

Such a condition of things, incredible as it may appear, exists in London. There are men in the metropolis, utterly unknown personally, whose names are more widely spread over the earth than the names of the greatest novelists, living or dead, and these men have feeling and form like unto ourselves.

There was the firm of Danby and Strong for instance. The name may mean nothing to any reader of these pages, but there was a time when it was well-known and widely advertised, not only in England but over the greater part of the world as well. They did a great business, as every firm that spends a fortune every year in advertising is bound to do. It was in the old paper-collar days. There actually was a time when the majority of men wore paper collars, and, when you come to think of it, the wonder is that the paper-collar trade ever fell away as it did, when you consider with what vile laundries London is and always has been cursed. Take the Danby and Strong collars for instance, advertised as being so similar to linen that only an expert could tell the difference. That was Strong’s invention. Before he invented the Piccadilly collar so-called, paper collars had a brilliant glaze that would not have deceived the most recent arrival from the most remote shire in the country. Strong devised some method by which a slight linen film was put on the paper, adding strength to the collar and giving it the appearance of the genuine Article. You bought a pasteboard box containing a dozen of these collars for something like the price you paid for the washing of half a dozen linen ones. The