CHAPTER V.

RECORDS THE APPEARANCE OF THREE GLASS EYES

To be told in a most solemn fashion that you are married when you know you are single is a fate more often the subject of jest than of experience in real life. To be brought face to face, however, with the actual marriage certificate which seems to prove in a most explicit fashion that you were married five years ago, is a disclosure so terrifying in its possibilities that a man may be well excused for breaking down completely under the strain.

Certainly for two or three hours after they left the barrister’s flat in Emperor’s Gate Arthur Hudson seemed a complete wreck. In vain Paul Renishaw told him that a mere piece of paper was not the best evidence to be found in the world--that an upright life would always stand higher than a couple of perjured witnesses--that it needed but a word to his friends to have rallied about him a mass of conflicting evidence that would assuredly put Ventris Blake and his scheme to complete extinction.

Somehow Arthur was filled with a great forboding that he was in no sense at an end of his knowledge of the millionaire’s villainies. “Mark my words,” said he, “Ventris Blake has not sprung this mine upon me simply to ruin me. For good or for ill he has conceived a wild and insane passion for Winifred Pontifex; and he will not rest until he succeeds in entangling her within the net he has so cleverly woven about me.”

“What if he does?” asked Paul, with that stout and loyal commonsense of his. “Winifred knows what a scoundrel he is, and she is no more likely to falter in her love for you than she is to yield to Vera Langford’s persuasion to give him just the mere colour of encouragement. No, I don’t think at this point you need trouble very much on that score. Just rouse yourself, and let us be practical, and consider the bearing of our present dangers. The real trouble is this--we don’t quite see how the attack will come upon us. Of course, it would be a fine thing for me if I could sit down right here and write one of our own sensational accounts of that terrible interview at Emperor’s Gate for _The Moon_. It would be talked about from one end of England to the other; and it would arouse and alarm all your friends. But I am not quite sure whether at this point it would be wise to do this.”

“It would certainly put Ventris Blake on the alert,” remarked Arthur slowly. “I don’t myself see why we should let out a fact before we are compelled.”

“On the whole,” pursued Paul, “I think it would be well if you and I work very slowly and very steadily in the dark. Directly we make any fuss we shall find all our movements and enquiries hampered. The police, for instance, would pounce upon the disclosures, and before we could stir a step they would be telegraphing and working all over the country anxious, in default of anybody better, to affix the guilt of that poor woman’s murder upon yourself. Well now, we don’t want any interference like that; we don’t want them to shadow every move we make, and to be as wise, if not wiser, than ourselves. No, on the whole it would be better to leave the police to look after Mr. Ventris Blake.”

For some minutes the two men sat in Hudson’s rooms in Kensington Gore and thought deeply. Then, after another quick and eager discussion, they arrived at certain very important decisions.

In the first place, they decided that it would be best for Paul to get special leave of absence from _The Moon_ by telegraph, and to go down by one of the first trains to Peterborough where he could investigate the facts of Arthur’s supposed marriage for himself. Unfortunately, the names of the two witnesses on the certificate “Israel Sawdry” and “Rebecca Charlton” afforded absolutely no indication of their position or their residence. More than that, it was not likely that the Registrar would be of much serious assistance; but Paul took one of Arthur’s photographs to show this official, and promised that he would spare neither pains nor expense in his search for facts about the murdered woman who had, it will be remembered, given her address as Meissonier Studios, Peterborough.

In the second place, it was agreed that Arthur should do nothing at this point to direct public attention to matters. The part he was to assume was that of the passive accused--but he also arranged to go down very early to Queen Victoria Street, and, if possible, to discover the reason why Ventris Blake had taken that mysterious garret at the top of No. 375.

“There is some tremendous mystery attached to the taking of that room, I am certain,” declared Arthur, as he passed in review the extraordinarily painstaking search which the millionaire had conducted before he secured the exact kind of room he required. “For my own part, I do not believe it turns on the death of his wife, but rather, on some particular conspiracy he has engineered against me. Perhaps, if that is so, the caretaker may be able to throw some light on his manœuvres.”

“At all events, old chap,” put in Paul, “you can claim, as landlords’ agent, to inspect the premises whenever you think fit. If you take my advice, you will seize an opportunity of doing this when Mr. Blake and his assistant are absent. Then don’t have too nice a sense of honour about the accident that you are in a stranger’s room. Just institute a most careful search--and understand that if you don’t expose this man he will ruin you.”

Dawn was climbing up the wall as Paul uttered this farewell injunction, and realising that if they were to be prepared for the troubles of the morrow, they must have some rest, the two men turned into their rooms and were soon fast asleep.

Blessed by a good conscience, Arthur did not, like Vera Langford, toss restlessly to and fro, but soon dropped into a deep and peaceful slumber, which it needed all Paul’s efforts to break when Arthur’s man came for the third time and declared that the trap was ready to take them to King’s Cross to catch the early train for Peterborough.

No sooner, however, had Arthur seen Paul safely started on his journey North than he turned his horse’s head in the direction of Cheapside. The fresh clear morning air had revived his spirits, and nobody who saw him spring from his trap and hurry into his counting house, would have guessed how terrible a load of shame and trouble was pressing upon him. Indeed, he went through the routine work of his letters with his old promptness and precision. In due course too, the agreement with Ventris Blake for the tenancy of the Queen Victoria Street garret, came before him, but there it must be admitted he did hesitate for a little while, and asked himself anxiously whether he should sign it and settle it, or whether it would not be wiser even at this last moment to repudiate his bargain.

For fully ten minutes indeed, he toyed with the idea. Some strong impelling power of custom drove him almost irresistably forward to do as he had promised. At the same time another intuition within him clamoured for expression. “Stop,” it seemed to urge him. “Or, you will regret this contract. It is quite true that you do not know for what this mysterious room is intended, but do not the suggestive circumstances in which it was taken warn you that it is not meant for good?”

Finally he did a weak thing--he compromised. One moment he bent down and signed the agreement with a bold defiant flourish. Another moment--telling his secretary that he must make no more appointments for him that day--he seized his hat and went off to inspect the interior of No. 375 for himself.

The premises in question proved to be one of those large towering blocks of buildings which are situated a few yards distant from the Salvation Army Head Quarters, and opposite the Civil Service Stores. The first three floors were occupied by a dealer in gas stoves; the fourth and fifth by two firms of Commission Agents in the Nottingham Lace trade; and the sixth, the top, contained the odd shaped room that had exercised so potent a fascination upon Ventris Blake.

Now excited, Arthur toiled up the different flights of steps until at length he reached to the top where he found himself faced by four doors, all of which seemed tightly locked and only one suggested any sign of human habitation--and in the woodwork of that was inlet a small electric bell.

In answer to his summons, however, the caretaker appeared--a small, thick-set man of about fifty with shifty blue eyes and a mass of red whiskers and cheeks puffed out and reddened by lack of exercise and drink. His manner was surly if not actually defiant, and for some time, Arthur had difficulty in making any headway with him at all.

At first, like most of the uneducated class from which he sprang, this man affected complete ignorance. He did not know that one of the garrets had been taken. He had not heard the name of any Mr. Ventris Blake. The gentleman in front of him might be the agent, Mr. Arthur Hudson, who employed him. He didn’t say he was--and he didn’t say he wasn’t. He had never seen Mr. Hudson himself, and if he listened to every fairy story that was told him by every stranger that came there, his place wouldn’t hold him another five minutes.

Finally, Arthur lost patience, “Look here,” he said very sternly, “I don’t come here to waste words with men of your stamp. Either you do as I tell you, and shew me round these rooms pretty sharp, or I’ll clear you out of these rooms and your berth here before the day is finished. I tell you frankly, I don’t like the obstacles you are putting in my path. You have made me distinctly suspicious. Now, just make up your mind pretty sharp what you are going to do. Here is my card. You can see for yourself who I am. It is your own fault that you don’t recognise my face. I remember yours perfectly well, and I can assure you it will be a good time before I forget it, so just hurry up and decide.”

The man snarled for a few seconds longer, but, directly Arthur looked angry, it was clear that he was beaten. Taking down a bunch of keys from the wall he consented to shew Arthur over the room Ventris Blake had taken. Curiously enough, the millionaire had already gone in possession of it. His things had actually arrived and been arranged an hour previous, and hearing this Arthur resolved on a bold move. He took the keys from the hands of the caretaker and dispatched the man to his office to await his return. Thus, freed from all observation, he advanced to his promised examination of the garret in question--but as he threw open the door, even he was astounded at the extraordinary transformation Ventris Blake had wrought in the appearance of the room.

Contrary to his expectations, Ventris Blake had made no effort whatever to use the place as an office or a storehouse. As a matter of fact indeed, he seemed to have done his best to destroy entirely the original character of the room; and the result was that the first impression that Arthur got on crossing the threshold was of passing into another world, remote altogether from London--to a world of early Victorian time, into a curiously shaped old drawing-room, at the period when drawing-rooms were stiff and scented and full of quaint dimity hangings and furniture that was solid enough no doubt but never exhibited any pretence to comfort.

“What on earth has the man done this extraordinary thing for?” he cried aloud in his astonishment. Then quickly recovering himself, he stepped swiftly round the apartment till suddenly his eyes were caught and held by the most extraordinary object in the whole of the apartment. This was a huge shield of black velvet fixed on the wall above the fireplace, from which, by a cunning arrangement of the lights in the casement, there gleamed three huge half-human eyes of glass, so life-like indeed, that they seemed to dominate and radiate across the entire length of the room.

“Good heavens,” he muttered, half paralysed with horror at this fearful object. “Although I know they are made by the hand of man, I am half afraid to look at them, they are so startling, so lifelike.”

In spite of himself he fell back a step, covering his eyes with his hands. Even as he did so, however, he became conscious of another presence in the room besides his own. Looking round fearfully and hurriedly, he was astounded to see behind him the man he hated most in the world--Ventris Blake.

With a keen sense of chivalry, that was strangely out of place in dealing with so polished a trickster, Arthur however did not attempt to make capital out of this visit. Most other men would, by a skilful series of questions and manœuvres, have sought to elucidate the meaning and the object of that grim startling device on the huge black shield over the mantlepiece.

Arthur, on the contrary, affected that he had no interest in his surroundings, and contented himself by giving the millionaire a curt nod and the explanation that he had merely come to see that everything was in order for Blake’s tenancy to begin. Then, with another curt nod, he passed quite calmly out of the room, leaving, it must be confessed, Ventris Blake somewhat puzzled by his gentlemanly reticence.

No sooner, however, had he got back to his private room in Cheapside, than he rang the bell and directed that the caretaker of No. 375 should be brought before him. A moment later, the man entered, his temper in no sense improved by the time he had been detained in the outer office, without a word of explanation; and here Arthur made the greatest mistake in tactics that he ever made in his life.

Instead of trying to manage this man--of making him feel that he had done a certain amount of wrong which only good behaviour in the future could wipe out--that in order to win his way back, he must be loyal, courteous and exact in the future--he took the tone of a justly aggrieved master. Unhappily, the fellow had none of the feelings of a servant, and instantly he hated Arthur like poison, whereas tact might have turned him into a most valuable detective.

“I suppose,” Arthur began, “you know you were very rude to me when I called at your rooms this morning! Obviously, I can’t have this kind of thing in an important set of offices like those at No. 375. You must, therefore, move at once down to that new block of flats that we are building at Hammersmith. Go back at once, and be ready to start at four o’clock, when the cart will call for your things.” And thinking the matter was settled, he bent down and started to write--but the man stood his ground.

“Well now, Mr. Hudson,” he began in a tone that was meant to be nasty, very nasty indeed, “suppose I don’t choose to career off to a forsaken jerry-built hole like that beautiful property of yours at Hammersmith, how then?”

Arthur’s brow clouded. “You will be turned out.”

The man coughed, then advanced to the grate and spat viciously in the fire. “Oh! and I shall be turned out shall I.”

“You will be turned out,” repeated Arthur firmly.

“Then I will be turned out. Indeed, I would like to be turned out now I know what a kind of gentleman you are--who simply wants to get rid of a clean, honest caretaker, like the Missis and myself, so that you can get hold of my rooms and act the part of a spy and eavesdropper on a rich and openhanded gent like Mr. Ventris Blake. You think, of course, I didn’t see through your ikey little trick, but I did first time--and, I tell you to your face, you ain’t no class.”

Long before this tirade was finished, Arthur had sprung to his feet, his face crimson with passion. To be absolutely fair to him, he had absolutely no idea of keeping any watch on Ventris Blake’s movements, and his first impulse was to take this beer-sodden rascal by the scruff of the neck and kick him down the passage. Happily, he remembered the squalid row that would follow, and the disgrace of an appearance at the Mansion House, on a charge of common assault, particularly at this serious crisis in his affairs: and wisely, he refrained from soiling his hands.

“You blackguard,” he said, with a quick shrug of the shoulders, “tell me your name, and I will have your money sent to you.”

The man snorted, “My name’s as good as yours any day, Mr. Arthur Hudson,” he growled. “Better, as you may discover, one of these days, and much sooner than you imagine. Indeed, I shouldn’t be surprised, if you hadn’t to come to me, and beg me to forgive you your rude remarks this afternoon. But I shan’t--I shan’t,” and he banged his fist vigorously on the table.

Arthur took this threat as a mere piece of drunken bravado, and persisted in his demand. “Tell me your name,” he enquired again.

“George Charlton,” the fellow answered: and into his eyes there came a look of strange cunning and satisfaction.

Charlton! Somewhere in the dim recesses of Arthur’s memory, a faint recollection stirred, as though this name possessed some odd significance to him--but not until he put the next question did the hideous truth break upon him.

“Charlton,” he repeated slowly, trying in vain to remember the lost connection. “Let me see, I have heard your name before, in other circumstances, haven’t I! What is the name of the Charwoman--your wife?”

“Rebecca Charlton,” the man faltered, and enraged though he was with Arthur, even he dare not look in his face.

_Rebecca Charlton!_ All at once the real importance of this name burst upon Arthur’s mind like a lightning flash; and he could have cursed his folly, in thus early, making an enemy of one whose hostility might prove so deadly to him. For Rebecca Charlton was no other than the witness of his alleged marriage! Her name appeared plainly on the copy of the certificate, which Ventris Blake had shewn to Russell Langford at the flat that fatal night at Emperor’s Gate, and which, no doubt, would be produced when the real circumstances of that murder at Scarborough came before the magistrate.

Realising the uselessness of appealing to a drink-stained creature like this, however, Arthur mastered his agitation, and nodding his head in the direction of the door, he told the man to go, and never appear on his premises again.

For a moment, the fellow hesitated. He opened his mouth, as though he would speak--and say something, even more surprising than he had done. Then, all at once, he checked himself; the old crafty look came back into his face; and, with a smile of derision, he stepped out and disappeared from sight.

For two or three minutes after he had left, Arthur paced up and down his room, and thought deeply. Dearly he would have liked to recall the whole of that conversation with George Charlton, but he saw at once that it was too late, and so, like a wise man, he did not waste time in useless regrets, but tried to discover the best way to repair his blunder. One duty certainly stood out clear, above all others. He must keep in touch with this man and this man’s wife; and finally, he, perhaps, took the best course that was available to any man in the same bewildering set of circumstances--he sat down and wrote as under, to a famous firm of private detectives, that chanced to have offices near his own:--

Dear Sirs,--(he began) please send an officer to shadow two caretakers named Charlton, at No. 375, Queen Victoria Street. They will leave their position early this afternoon; and I am particularly anxious to find out where they move to, who they see, what they do, and any particulars of their past lives you can put your hands on. Pray do not spare any expense in presenting a full and exhaustive report daily, of their proceedings, visitors and conversations, and treat each one of them as equally important to the issues I have in hand. With compliments,

Yours faithfully, Arthur Hudson.

A moment later, this note was despatched to its destination, and Arthur found himself free to consider what was, perhaps, the most puzzling of all that morning’s adventures--the mystery of The Three Glass Eyes.

Why, he asked himself again and again, until his brain seemed to reel under the problem, did Ventris Blake ever erect such a weird looking object as that in a garret in the very heart of London? To all intents and purposes it had no meaning, no use, no value. Yet, there it was, pregnant with mystery and suggestion, so prominently placed, as though the whole scheme of the room had been designed to throw it into baleful, sinister relief.

Once, he was disposed to think, that the device formed a medium by which Ventris Blake could mesmerise any persons that looked upon it. The next second he recognised this theory as absurd, for the successful mesmerist uses his own powers, and does not trust to the medium of manufactured force. Another time, he got the idea that that terrible looking shield might serve to frighten nervous women--then, he had to ask himself, why should nervous women be frightened at all, when there are any number of ruffians ready for hire in London for this kind of loathsome service. Besides, why should the room be specially fitted up in that early Victorian fashion, if the furniture had not also some peculiar significance--if Ventris Blake had not intended even the chairs and the tables and the hangings, to play some part in this weird drama of his, the key to which seemed to disappear entirely the more eagerly it was sought.

Eventually, he had to confess himself absolutely beaten at that point, and to own that after all Charlton may have been right in his suggestion, that if he wanted to know what Ventris Blake was doing in that particular room, he would have to act the part of spy upon him, although that character was one for which he had no manner of qualifications.

“I will wait until Paul Renishaw returns from Peterborough,” poor Arthur decided at last, distracted beyond measure by his reflections. “Perhaps his enquiries to-day, may make all this fuss of mine absolutely needless. Perhaps, he may even find that this supposed marriage of mine with Ventris Blake’s wife, was some silly drunken freak of some ‘friends’ I have long since forgotten, and was never properly worked off upon me at the time it was intended it should be. After all, let me be quite fair, I have great faith in Paul, and I am certain that if anybody can ferret out the heart of this mystery, he will do so for me.”

And he let his mind dwell pleasantly on the idea of Paul’s cleverness and the circumstances that once one of the heads of Scotland Yard had complimented his friend’s cleverness in working up the details of a mysterious murder in Whitechapel, and had declared that Paul would be an ornament to any detective force. Reassured by these reflections, he turned to his work again with a light heart. Somehow, no day seems so dark when we think that the evening may bring relief.

Poor Arthur! Little did he know the forces of ill that were arrayed against him, or the many dark, weary, heart-breaking days he would have to pass through, ere the whole of the circumstances of that supposed marriage of his at Peterborough came to be known. Little did he realise that a man of millions, unscrupulous like Blake, was not accustomed to work clumsily in affairs where his worst passions were concerned, or to build up houses of crime to hold his enemies, at the first touch on which they would fall to pieces.

Poor Arthur! let him hug his fond delusions as long as the fate that was pressing him so hard would permit. Soon, all too soon, he was to discover how bitter life can be for the best and the wisest in certain dark crisis which no good power on earth seems able to avert.

Alas! he was this time to receive a fresh blow to his peace of mind, only an hour later, when a clerk came in hurriedly and announced “Miss Winifred Pontifex.”

This was the first time that Winifred had visited him since they had become engaged, and as he knew she disliked the idea of a call at the office very much, he realised that only some terrible and unexpected difficulty had driven her to adopt this course.

“I have left,” she now muttered to him brokenly, as she crept into his room like some creature sorely wounded--all the joyousness gone from her young fair face, and in place of the glad, smiling look that had hitherto appeared part of her bright sunny nature, she carried an expression of sadness so poignant, that it was hard to believe that she had ever lived and loved with such touching and complete devotion.

Pieced together, the facts she had to relate were sad enough to break down any spirit, even of a girl so fresh and trustful as Winifred Pontifex. At first, it was true, she refused to tell him the whole of them for fear that she should wound him beyond recall, at a time when he needed all his own enthusiasm and power to enable him to carry safely his own load that had of late grown so intolerable. But, as he took her hands in his, with that characteristic, quick, impetuous movement of his, and looked into her eyes with so much courage and pain, all her reserve seemed to ebb from her--and in place of a girl wounded almost to death, beneath a blow of shame and defeat, there appeared a sad-faced resourceful girl, in whose eyes shone the light of a brave, unselfish, upbearing love. Then--and only then--Winifred spoke to him from the bottom of her heart.

“It has been but a sad and a weary time at Emperor’s Gate since I bade you good-bye last night,” she explained, crossing her hands nun-like on her lap and looking far into the fire. “The shadow of a great impalpable terror seems to have brooded over us, so that at times, I have felt some terrible avalanche of woe would fall upon us. And yet,” she went on, still more slowly, “I had no idea it would come upon us like this.”

Once again she sighed, and then, catching the deepening look of anxiety, which Arthur tried in vain to repress, she roused herself with an effort, and went on with her story: “Of course, Vera came to me almost immediately after I went to my room last night, too distracted to see or to speak to anybody that might chance to call. Somehow, I felt that it was only right that I should confide to her all that had happened to us since that terrible man Ventris Blake had come to the flat and had shown Uncle that sham marriage certificate. In one way, of course, she was very sweet to me--she bent down and she played with the ornaments upon my neck and kept murmuring ‘Oh, you poor thing, you poor thing.’ None the less, I saw that her mind was not really fixed on what we were talking about, and so I quickly gave up trying to make her understand all that you and I felt about this vile and treacherous accusation, and I just contented myself by expressing to her how intolerable it was you, who had led such a good and upright life, should be suddenly plunged into a whirlpool of crime and treacheries.”

“Never mind me, darling,” said Arthur gently, “after all, a man isn’t much good if he can’t take a bit of trouble now and then and find his way through it the better and stronger for the experience. Just tell me about yourself, you know, dearest, it is really you that matter just now, and not me at all.”

A word of protest rose to Winifred’s lips, but then, seeing that she was straining Arthur’s anxiety by her reticence, she pressed the palms of her hands more tightly together and proceeded. “Well, it was just as I expected. Directly I gave Vera an opening, she slipped away, with a careless kiss, and a vague suggestion that if I really cared for you, all things of course, must come right in the end. Poor Vera! If I really cared. Sometimes Arthur, do you know, I often really wonder, whether Vera’s heart has ever been really touched yet! I know she has fallen under the domination of that man Jules Prendergast, but I don’t somehow think that infatuations for actors of that type are really love at all; and if they were, wouldn’t Vera understand now that it only needs trouble and danger to make true lovers cling together more closely.”

For a second the lovers’ eyes exchanged a look of eager, irresistible confidence, and once again, Winifred took up the thread of the tale.

“The real trouble occurred this morning, when I came down to breakfast. Vera had been out on some curious errand and had returned hot and excited--so hot and excited indeed, that we had not been in the room five minutes together, before the change in her thoughts about us, burst on me like a torrent. ‘So,’ said she, with an ever-rising inflection of scorn, ‘you still mean to stick to this married man that wooed you under the pretence he was single, do you?’ And as I rose to my feet, overcome with confusion, she went on with ever increasing bitterness to declare, that she was ashamed of my weakness and want of proper pride, and finished by calling on me, if I valued my good name and self-respect, to write and give you up there and then, and never to see your face again.

“Oh, dearest,” stammered Winifred, tears now falling unchecked over her clasped hands on her knees. “I really cannot bear to tell you all the wicked things she said about you--about me--about us both. Do let me hurry over this awful scene. Do believe that the things she said were so cruel, so false, so heartless that I felt I could not stay in the flat another day, and that whatever flight might mean, misery, poverty, almost disgrace, I must go, otherwise, I knew, I would have died for sheer shame that such words should be spoken unchallenged, about you.”

“I am sure, dearest, whatever you did was right,” said Arthur stoutly. “Nevertheless, there must be some strong reason for this very sudden change of front, don’t you think--this alteration from affection to harshness, this rapid movement from sympathy to intolerance.”

“No doubt,” agreed Winifred, with a grave shake of the head. “Indeed, when I came to think the conversation over, I got a strong impression that she must have been to see Ventris Blake, and he had put her up to this as a part of some diabolical scheme of his own, although of course, this is only intuition. I don’t possess an atom of proof.”

“Certainly, there is some treachery somewhere,” observed Arthur, who, unfortunately, could not realise to what depth a distracted but hot-headed girl will descend for the sake of a worthless lover. “I know of course, Vera did not like me, but I had no idea she was not fairly well disposed towards me, and certainly I did not think she would ever act in open hostility to me.”

“Happily,” said Winifred with one of her rare, fleeting smiles, “I chanced to find one friend in distress, and in a person, I have no reason to believe, held me in any particular esteem--no other than Melita, who, perhaps you may remember, is Vera’s maid. In my haste, I got her to put some of my things together, and not knowing where to take them to, I asked her if she knew of some cheap comfortable rooms. Then it was that she gave me a piece of splendid advice. ‘Why waste your money on landladies, miss,’ said she, with a knowing look. ‘Why not look out for a situation, where you would be treated as a lady, given a nice comfortable home, and have twenty or thirty pounds a year for yourself.’ I told her, of course, that I knew of no such opening, but oddly enough, she did, for she happens to go to that fashionable church, St. Sepulchre’s, in Piccadilly, and belongs to a Bible class conducted by the clergyman’s wife, who had happened to mention to her quite casually the other day, that she was in want of a nursery governess for her little girl aged seven.”

“A nursery governess,” repeated Arthur blankly; and even he could not hide a certain look of disappointment.

“Yes, a nursery governess,” repeated Winifred brightly. “If I have to work, I think I would sooner spend my days with a child than with anybody else. As a matter of fact, I jumped at the chance, and taking a hansom, I set off at once to the Vicarage, which adjoins the church, and in less than five minutes I was engaged for the position.”

“That was very quick work, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” admitted Winifred, “only, you see, the clergyman’s wife wasn’t in, I saw the man, the Reverend Duncan Kilroy, and he told me he was sure his wife would like any relation of so famous and trustworthy a lawyer as Russell Langford, and then engaged me to come in on the spot. True, I don’t quite like the clergyman--he is too oily somehow, perhaps a bit familiar, but Melita assured me that Mrs. Kilroy was ‘a perfect angel,’ and certainly the little girl, Monica, was as sweet a little child as I have ever seen.”

“Oh, but this is impossible,” protested Arthur hotly. “When you consider how well provided I am it is preposterous for you to turn yourself into a servant maid for any parson of that sort. Why not let us get married at once--” and then, all at once he stopped again. What right had he to ask any woman to share a name on which rested so terrible a load of suspicion as there did upon his?

Somehow, too, Winifred guessed he had already repented of his rash utterance, for rising from the chair upon which she had been seated, she looked gaily into his face, and tried to rally him. “Do you know, dear, you are not at all grateful for the good things that happen to you? Don’t you understand that this arrangement is much better for you and for me than the one we had agreed to accept at Emperor’s Gate? In St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage I shall at least be free to receive any letters I like from you, and to meet you in the Green Park at least once a week. Do not, therefore, repine. Let us try to look on the bright side of this separation, and trust that somehow things will soon right themselves again, and then in the face of the whole world, and without a single fear, we can become man and wife.”

In an instant, Arthur saw how selfish his objection was, and how ridiculous was the pride that had dictated his opposition. Indeed, pressed forward by his own frank and open nature, he strove eagerly to equal the heights reached by poor Winifred in the prompt sacrifice of herself.

“All right, dearest,” he cried quickly, bending down and kissing her fondly, “I am awfully sorry, I said such a selfish thing like that. Please forget I said it, and believe that I will never say another word like it again.”

A few minutes later he took her to a cab, and directed the driver to convey her to St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage. Then, seeing the clock nearly pointed to the hour of five, he called another hansom and made his way as rapidly as possible to King’s Cross, for he saw that the train by which he had arranged to meet Paul Renishaw on his return from Peterborough, was very shortly due. As it happened, the horse he had hired was a remarkably quick one, and he reached King’s Cross, ten minutes at least, before the time advertised for Paul’s train to arrive.