A
TRAITOR'S WOOING

By

HEADON HILL

Author of "Her Splendid Sin," "The Hidden Victim,"
"A Race with Ruin," etc. etc.
ILLUSTRATED
LONDON
WARD LOCK & CO. LTD
1909

"'Is that all you have to say to me?' asked Violet quietly."
(Page 168)
A Traitor's Wooing [Frontispiece]

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE AVENGERS.

The Tribune.—Mr. Headon Hill's new book, "The Avengers," has not a dull line, and one's pulse is kept on the jig all the time. He deserves the highest admiration for the consistent way in which he has avoided the slightest suspicion of probability.

The Liverpool Courier.—We can strongly recommend the story. It is one of the best things Mr. Hill has done.

The Dundee Advertiser.—"The Avengers" maintains the highest reputation of Mr. Headon Hill as a novelist. The story is crowded with incident, and, unlike many novels of its class, commands the closest interest of the reader from start to finish.

MILLIONS OF MISCHIEF.

The Globe.—Ingenuity could no further go; and besides its ingenuity the story can boast of some clever and effective writing.

The Stage.—Not even the late Guy Boothby imagined anything more magnificently preposterous than the motive of Mr. Headon Hill's "Millions of Mischief."

Morning Leader.—Mr. Hill has woven a clever and dramatic plot. He has seldom put greater finish into his work, and the result is a striking and vigorous book.

HER SPLENDID SIN.

The Perthshire Courier.—Headon Hill is a master hand at devising and unravelling mysteries. He always gives us good reading with plenty of thrilling incident. He has never told an intensely absorbing story with more dramatic directness than this one. The story is admirably written, the interest never flagging.

The Northern Whig.—Her Splendid Sin stands for sensationalism of a decidedly striking sort. The novel is written with vigour and is based on ideas which go to the making of a rattling good story.

The Dundee Courier.—The reader is hurried breathless from one exciting situation to another, till in the end the nefarious schemes of a syndicate of villains are checkmated, and virtue is rewarded. The book is written in the author's best style.

UNMASKED AT LAST.

The Morning Leader.—Mr. Headon Hill is a past master of thrills and, like Mr. Holmes, causes us almost to believe that the most innocent professions are really dangerous.

The Christian World.—The various sensations are very cleverly devised and Mr. Headon Hill knows how to hold one's attention. The motor car race, which is the closing episode of a well conceived plot, is full of sport, from start to finish.

The Liverpool Courier.—The Author has never told an intensely absorbing story with more dramatic directness, and none who once dip into its pages can lay it down willingly until the last chapter has been read.

A RACE WITH RUIN.

The Morning Advertiser.—A book by Headon Hill may always be relied on to provide good reading with plenty of incident. In "A Race with Ruin" he fully maintains his reputation, and readers will not be disappointed in their expectation of finding a good, stirring story with an admirable and well-worked out plot.

The Leicester Post.—It is an admirable sporting story, and should not only enhance the reputation of its Author, but materially enlarge the circle of his readers. The plot is deftly planned, and not only soon arouses interest, but broadens and deepens it until the close.

THE HIDDEN VICTIM.

The Morning Leader.—A fine story of blackmail and plotting. "The Hidden Victim" abounds in unusual and surprising situations.

The Northern Whig.—Mr. Headon Hill handles his chosen topics with great facility and a commendable degree of craftsmanship. In this novel there is an amazing series of entanglements.

The Liverpool Courier.—It is quite equal to anything the writer has done. The plot is skilfully devised to carry a weighty load of exciting episode. The narrative goes forward breathlessly and holds the attention.

RADFORD SHONE.

The Leicester Post.—Radford Shone is another very welcome volume from an accomplished pen. The exploits at once rivet attention and hold it spellbound to the end. Once begun it will be eagerly read right through to the end.

The Standard.—This novelist has a real genius for the constructional stories. He knows to a hair's-breadth the best theme to select, and almost unerringly what details to omit. His power of invention is remarkable.

CONTENTS

A TRAITOR'S WOOING

CHAPTER I

TWO VILLAINS AND THE HEROINE

"Your Highness will find your opportunity now; Miss Maynard is for the moment alone," Mr. Travers Nugent whispered to his companion.

A guttural "Ah!" was the only answer as the individual addressed left the speaker's side and made his way through the crush towards a tall girl who had just dismissed her partner in the last dance. The ball-room at Brabazon House was almost inconveniently crowded on the occasion of this, the first great function of the London season, and progress was a little difficult. A gleam of satisfaction crept into Mr. Nugent's steadily following eyes when at length the Maharajah stood bowing before the fair young Englishwoman.

The Indian Prince, a notable figure by reason of the jewelled turban that crowned his otherwise orthodox European evening dress, gave his arm to the girl, who greeted him with a pleasant smile of recognition, and together the pair strolled out through one of the French windows into the vast tropical winter-garden for which Brabazon House is celebrated. The dusky face of the Maharajah as it disappeared from view wore an expression of ecstatic rapture that caused Mr. Nugent's thin lips to curl in the ghost of a sneer.

"His Highness won't look like that when he comes back," the watcher muttered under his breath, as he leaned against a pillar and composed himself to wait. Mr. Travers Nugent spent much of his life in waiting—with the consolation of knowing that there was generally a big stake to wait for. He was a well-built man of middle age and height, wearing a long, fair moustache that at first sight gave him rather a distinguished air—an impression that was, however, negatived for any student of character by a hint of shiftiness in the close-set blue eyes.

A bachelor of good family, and of no visible occupation, Travers Nugent moved easily in the orbit of West End society. He occupied a luxurious flat in Jermyn Street, and rented besides a pretty cottage in Devonshire, to which he retired after the fatigues of the season. He had a host of acquaintances, but very few intimates, and even to these latter the source of his income was a mystery. He was vaguely supposed to have inherited a small patrimony from an adventurous uncle who had died in America, and to whom he sometimes jocularly referred as his "avuncular oof-bird." As a matter of fact, there was a substratum of truth in this, to the extent of about a hundred a year, but as Mr. Nugent usually spent £2,000 in that period some other explanation was needed.

He could have furnished one readily, had he been so minded. He lived, and lived well, upon the best asset with which kindly Nature can endow a man not otherwise provided for—a clever, subtle brain, prompt to seize every chance that may come to it, and, failing such fortuitous aid, equally prompt to manufacture the chances for itself. To put it plainly, Travers Nugent lived upon his wits. A soldier of fortune, he belonged to the commissioned ranks of the great predatory army which sacrifices nothing to scruple, to compassion, or to honour. As cruel and as secret as the grave, he made a very good thing of it, and on its profits fed several unholy vices which no one knew that he possessed.

For the last three months he had been acting as self-appointed bear-leader to the arrogant Indian prince who had gone out into the winter garden with the loveliest of all the budding débutantes of the year upon his arm. There are many ways in which a not too scrupulous man of the world can be of use to an Oriental potentate whose civilization is only skin deep, and Travers Nugent had already established many claims upon the exalted visitor's gratitude.

His prophecy was quickly verified. Black thunder lowering on his swarthy brows, the Maharajah of Sindkhote came back through the window into the ball-room, and he came alone. Another dance was in progress now, but the Eastern barbarian, under the veneer of Western polish, had broken loose. Like one demented, yet with some remnants of savage dignity clinging to him, he strode straight across the floor to where Nugent still leaned against the pillar. The amused dancers who had to steer clear of his imperious path forgave much for the priceless jewels in his turban.

"Come away before I kill some one, Nugent," he said in a furious undertone. "Come round to my rooms at once. I must consult you on a matter of the utmost importance, in which I need your help."

Travers Nugent's help was always at the disposal of those who were willing, or could be forced, to pay for it. With the adroit tact for which he was noted he contrived to get the excited prince out of Brabazon House without a scene, forbearing to question him till a motor car had borne them swiftly to the great hotel where the Maharajah was staying. But as soon as they were alone in the dining-room of the suite which his patron for the time being rented there escaped him the two words—

"She refused?"

Bhagwan Singh, Maharajah of Sindkhote, walked unsteadily to the sideboard and poured out half a tumbler of neat brandy. He drank it at a gulp, and then turned to his European mentor, restored to the outward semblance of his customary Oriental calm. A good-looking man with a pale olive complexion, jet black moustache and features of the full-faced Eastern type, he was by no means ill-favoured, though in his lazy eyes there were infinite possibilities of malevolent cruelty.

"Sit down, my dear Nugent, and talk," he said, tossing a gold cigarette-case across the table. "Yes, she not only refused my offer of marriage, but laughed at me—treated me, the descendant of a hundred kings, as a joke. By God! I could have killed her twenty minutes ago, as she stood smiling disdainfully at me among the palms. But that brandy has steadied me for a better way. She shall be mine yet, though not as Maharanee now. I will have my way with her, and then she shall sweep out the harem."

"That is rather a tall order, Prince," rejoined Nugent, watching the other narrowly. "You will never accomplish that unless you kidnap her, and to convey an unwilling maiden from England to India presents, to my prosaic mind, a good many initial difficulties."

"Difficulties? Yes, but I will give you twenty thousand pounds to help me to surmount them. And I do not even ask you to devise the scheme for humbling this proud Englishwoman to the dust. When you told me that Violet Maynard would laugh me to scorn I did not believe you, but all the same I, Bhagwan Singh, prepared a plan for meeting the contingency. It depends, however, on one point. Has the girl a lover already?"

"No; I can reassure you as to that. She has admirers, of course—with her attractions that goes without saying. But she is perfectly heart-whole—so far," was Nugent's reply.

"Then success is certain, for I will provide her with a lover," the Maharajah rejoined, evidently expecting an outburst of surprise at the apparent paradox.

But his cunning eyes searched Travers Nugent's face in vain for signs of any such emotions. It was not that astute gentleman's way to show his inmost feelings, which at the moment were an intense curiosity to learn what was expected of him in return for the enormous bribe. It was characteristic of him that it was in his most indifferent manner that he said:—

"You are altogether too subtle for me, Maharajah, and I cannot think that you are quite serious. If you have finished poking fun at a jaded man about town, I think I'll go home to bed."

He half rose, as if to suit the action to the word, and that was the precise moment when the Hindoo once for all assumed the lead in the infamous partnership that was to bind them. And Bhagwan Singh gained and kept that mastery by the simple but efficacious expedient of throwing off all semblance of the equality on which they had muck-raked London together. In a blaze of haughty contempt he let his jackal see that he was understood and appreciated at his proper value.

"You are never jaded when there is plunder in view, and you have no intention of going from here till you have heard the proposal to which you will sit still and listen," said Bhagwan Singh, waving him with a commanding gesture back to his chair. "It comes natural to those of Royal blood, Mr. Nugent, to estimate truly those who serve them, and I know that you are a useful but expensive tool, as willing to be bought as I am to buy you. You have taught me some of your slang. I will act on the square with you if you will act on the square with me. If I pay you £20,000, and show you how to do it, will you, without any personal risk to yourself, aid me in achieving the desire of my heart?"

In a matter of business, and when there were no witnesses, there was not much pride about Travers Nugent. He tacitly waived his position as friend of the prince, and became his subordinate by replying:

"I should like to hear your plan before I commit myself, your Highness."

Now the project which the Maharajah of Sindkhote, after further recourse to the brandy decanter, proceeded to unfold, if put forward by any ordinary man, would have seemed on the face of it too wildly preposterous to be entertained for a moment. But Travers Nugent was aware that his patron's wealth was almost boundless, and that the lavish expenditure he was prepared to incur would discount most of the obstacles to the amazing abduction contemplated.

Bhagwan Singh, it transpired, had in his service as commander of his native body-guard a young Englishman who had been compelled by his extravagant follies to leave the British regiment in which he had formerly held a commission. He had incurred such debts in India that he would have been unable to leave that country even if he had possessed the price of a passage home, and, being thus stranded and penniless, he had accepted a mere pittance to drill the semi-barbarous matchlockmen of Sindkhote.

"He is mine body and soul, and the wretch is nearly desperate with home-sickness and misery," the Maharajah went on, warming as he saw that he had gripped Nugent's attention. "There are no Europeans for him to associate with in Sindkhote, and before his fall he was the most popular young officer at Simla and Calcutta—a good dancer, a crack shot and a grand polo player. He is as strong and as handsome as one of the ancient gods, and all the ladies adored him. I propose to return to India by the next mail boat, and I shall send him home to England, so that Violet Maynard may fall in love with him."

"What good is that going to do you?" asked Nugent, though his agile mind was already grasping the germ of the idea.

"It will be the task of this Leslie Chermside to induce Miss Maynard to elope with him on a fast steamer, ostensibly his own yacht, which I will furnish you with the funds to charter," the Maharajah continued. "It will be for you to select the crew and make all the arrangements, as well as secretly supervising Chermside's courtship and diplomatically working old Maynard so as to drive his daughter to consent to elope. Once on board, the rest will be easy, provided the embarkation is skilfully managed. She will make all speed round the Cape for Sindkhote, which is a maritime state, and the thing is done."

"And my twenty thousand will be paid—when?"

"It will be placed to your credit the day Violet Maynard sets foot in my dominions. In any case, you will at once be supplied with the necessary money for preliminary expenses."

Nugent rapidly reflected. Win or lose the main stake, there should be some pretty pickings out of those preliminary expenses, and it ought not to be difficult in the event of failure so to cover up his own connection with the dastardly project as to escape unpleasant consequences for himself. It was a tempting prospect, but there was a flaw in the scheme from the point of view of one who would have sold his best friend for a song.

"You are sure of this fellow Chermside?" he said. "He won't play fast and loose with you, and chuck the whole job as soon as he gets quit of India and his embarrassments there?"

Bhagwan Singh's sensual lips creased in a cruel smile. "My dear Nugent," he said, "Mr. Leslie Chermside will not really be quit of his Indian debts till he has served my purpose. I shall buy them up, and hold them over him as a bond of good faith. If he shows signs of kicking over the traces it will be for you to put on the screw—in your own way. Not that I anticipate anything of the sort from one who has sunk as low as he has, and I shall further secure his loyalty by the promise of a small pension contingent on his success."

Travers Nugent hesitated no longer. "Here is my hand on it," he exclaimed with an admiration that was not wholly feigned. "It would be flying in the face of Providence to stand out of a campaign planned on such masterly lines. Your Highness has supplied the strategy; I will devise the tactics."

CHAPTER II

"A SCREW LOOSE SOMEWHERE"

A smiling expanse of summer sea; hedges ablaze with wild flowers; the distant moorland one vast carpet of purple heather; and near at hand, dotted up and down on either side of a gently sloping coombe, some scores of pretty houses set in gardens of almost tropical luxuriance. Towards the lower end of the hill the private residences yielded pride of place to a little main street of more commercial aspect, which terminated in an unpretentious esplanade backed by a row of lodging-houses fronting the beach.

Westward from this spot the red cliffs shelved steadily upward till they culminated a mile and a half away in the Flagstaff Hill, a bold headland so called from the coastguard signal station thereon. Eastward of the esplanade, but hidden from it by a slight eminence, lay the marsh, formerly a broad estuary through which the river, then navigable for several miles inland, had emptied into the sea. In these later days the once broad river's mouth has become a mere stream by the action of a great storm which many years ago hurled a mighty dam of pebbles across all but a few yards of the outlet.

But the banks of the older watercourse remain, their steep red sides all verdure-clad and scored with cavities, hardly to be dignified as caves, concealed in the trailing undergrowth.

Such was the general configuration of the little town of Ottermouth in South Devon, for no fault of its own not quite a first-class seaside resort as yet, but slowly and surely worming its way into the affections of those who had discovered it. There was no pier, and therefore there were but few "trippers." But in the curious blend of brand-new brick villas and old-world houses of "cob" there dwelt men of varying fortunes, who in their time had helped to make history, and who had chosen this peaceful spot on the Devon coast as the one in which to end their strenuous days.

In one house you would have found a grey-headed veteran who rode into the valley of death at Balaclava; from another there strolled out on to the cliff front every morning to turn his dimmed eyes seaward one of the fast dwindling band who defended the Residency at Lucknow. And there were others of a younger generation, though also with finished careers, who had had their share in the Empire-building of the last half-century. There was, too, a sprinkling of rich business men, who only came to Ottermouth in the summer time to refresh themselves after toil in great cities.

In such an earthly paradise, where no one but the clergyman and the doctor ever pretended to do any work, there was naturally a club—as cosy and well-managed a rendezvous of the kind as could be found in many more populous resorts. The permanent members were all proud of it, and in their jealousy for its good repute were apt to regard stray visitors admitted to temporary membership with cold criticism till they had proved their title to more cordial consideration.

The club was the last building on the seaward side of the main street—a commanding position whence its windows on one side raked the esplanade, while those at the rear looked out to sea. About noon on a morning towards the middle of August three gentlemen were lounging in the general room, smoking and chatting in desultory fashion over the latest atrocities in Punch.

To them suddenly entered the club steward, who approached a tall, sun-burnt young man sitting a little apart from the others with the announcement: "There is some one who would like to see you, sir, at the door. I asked him into the hall, but he preferred to wait outside."

"Didn't he give his name?"

"No, sir; but I think he's a gentleman who has been staying at the Plume Hotel for the last week. I've seen him going in and out."

The tall young man reared his flannel-clad limbs from the depths of his comfortable chair, and went out, a half-stifled expression of annoyance escaping him. He had no sooner disappeared than one of the two remaining members, who had been leaning against the mantelpiece, with his back to the fireless grate, strolled over to one of the French windows overlooking the esplanade. He was an elderly man, very well groomed as to his person and clothes, and with a pair of alert, all-devouring eyes set in an ascetic face. Mr. Vernon Mallory had put in forty years at the Foreign Office and was now, in honourable retirement, reaping the reward of much useful work. He was known as a shrewd observer and a keen judge of character. It was now his pleasure, as it had once been his business, to know all things about all men.

"Chermside did not appear to be best pleased at the interruption," Mr. Mallory remarked. "Ah, there he goes, with the disturber of his peace, towards the marsh. I can understand his annoyance, for the man who called him out is a most unsavoury-looking person."

The other member, a fresh, clean-shaven youngster of not more than three-and-twenty, got up and joined his senior at the window.

"Who and what is this Mr. Leslie Chermside, anyhow?" he asked, after a prolonged stare at the two receding figures. "I rather like the chap, somehow, and yet there is a sort of shy constraint about him that is not altogether satisfactory."

"He arrived a month ago, bringing an introduction to our worthy honorary secretary from Nugent, on the strength of which he became a temporary member," Mr. Mallory replied, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Lieutenant Reginald Beauchamp, at present commanding a "destroyer" stationed at Plymouth, but spending his leave with his mother, was prone to merriment at all times and seasons. There was a dryness in the elder gentleman's tone which caused him to chuckle.

"You were never keen on Travers Nugent, I know," he said. "But you have not answered my question about Chermside with your customary enlightenment, Mr. Mallory. I asked who and what he is. My mother tells me that he has been making strong running with a pretty girl—Miss Maynard, I think, the name was—whose people have taken the Manor House for the summer. You see, I only turned up last night for a short respite from my little tin ship, so I'm all agog for the local gossip."

At that moment the subject of their discussion and the man who had called for him disappeared from view, having rounded the corner of the slight eminence. The pair had struck into the footpath which would lead them along the marsh under the nearer bank of the vanished estuary. Mr. Mallory turned away from the window with an enigmatic smile for his young naval friend.

"I cannot tell you what Mr. Chermside is," he said when he had produced his cigar-case and selected a weed. "But the official Army lists—not the ones that are quite up to date, mind you—record what he was. There seems to be an unexplained gulf between the termination of his military career and his presence in our midst. A hiatus, so to speak, of nearly two years since he was an officer in the 24th Lancers undoubtedly exists. His own account of himself is that he has recently come into money, and that he is playing about here while awaiting the arrival of a steam yacht on which he means to take an extended cruise. Beyond that, both my opinion and my scanty information coincide with yours. He strikes one as unobjectionable but reserved, and he has certainly been dangling after the daughter of old Maynard, who has rented the Manor House furnished for the season."

"What is Maynard?" demanded Reggie Beauchamp with persistent interest.

"A millionaire maker of screws in Birmingham."

"Then it would be queer if there was a loose screw somewhere about his daughter's admirer," Reggie rejoined, and with a boyish laugh for his own jest he strolled off to the billiard-room in quest of a game.

In the meanwhile Leslie Chermside and his companion had reached the seclusion of the marshland path, at the same time plunging into a more private conversation than was advisable on the frequented sea-front. On their immediate left rose the tree-covered side, almost a miniature cliff, of the ancient river-bed; to the right of them there stretched to the opposite bank a quarter of a mile away the osiers and reeds that carpeted the mud-flats. There was no one to see or hear.

It did not need the presentation of a visiting card with his name on it to disclose Mr. Levi Levison's nationality. The moment he opened his mouth to speak he stood revealed as a Hebrew of the Hebrews, and even before then, for apart from his lisping utterance he had all the bodily peculiarities of his race. The full red lips, the beaky nose, and the large conciliatory eyes that seemed to veil so much, could have belonged to no one but a Jew. His clothes were flashy, but none too clean. In age he was probably about thirty.

"I don't want to be harsh, but s'help me, Mr. Chermside, I ain't got any option in the matter," he was saying. "I've bought up your Indian debts in the ordinary courthe of business, and I can't afford to lose on the transaction. Here are the papers that you wanted to see. You'll find they're all ship-shape enough. And you must pardon my remarking that when you agreed to—er—act for the Maharajah in a certain delicate matter I suppothe you intended to keep faith with him."

Chermside took the proffered papers, glanced through and returned them. "Oh, yes; I intended to keep faith right enough," he replied rather wearily. "And I haven't said that I don't mean to do so, have I?"

"No, you'd hardly be such a juggins as that," Mr. Levison leered, exasperatingly. "But I've been here a week, Mr. Chermside, and kept my eyes and ears open. I can find that things from his Highness's point of view are 'anging fire. What's a poor struggling feller to do? I bought up your little indiscretions in the Shining East, you see, on the understanding that his Highness, who sold them to me, would redeem them at a hundred per cent. advance on what I paid, directly you carried out his wishes; but that if not I was to put the screw on in the ordinary courthe of business. It wouldn't be nice for you to be therved with writs and things—judgment summonses they'd soon blossom into—just when you're enjoying yourself in a pretty place like this."

Mr. Levison rolled his dark eyes over the picturesque landscape as if he had no thought but for the beauties of Nature.

Leslie Chermside made no reply, but paced on with downcast gaze.

"You see, I'm a little bit in the know," Levison went on, after a furtive glance at his tall companion's bronzed face. "Mr. Travers Nugent came down by the late train last night, and I've had a chat with him this morning up at that sweet little place of his—'The Hut,' he calls it. The steamer is lying at Portland, not thirty miles away, only waiting for you to throw your handkerchief to the girl, which, from what I've seen, she'll pick up fast enough. And, though expense is no object, it don't do to keep a crew of fifty toughs in harbour wondering why they don't start on a cruise that's to end in a pile of dollars for all of them."

A spasm crossed Chermside's face, and he dug the nails of his right hand into the palm as though he restrained some emotion with difficulty. "There was no time limit mentioned in my engagement with the Maharajah," he said hoarsely. "Nor did his Highness inform me that he had had my debts assigned to him. He gave me to understand that he had paid them."

Levison emitted a tantalizing laugh. "That's where the wily Hindoo had you on toast," he rejoined. "A wise precaution in case you should for any reason throw him over, as it begins to look as if you meant to. Your little affair with the lady seems to blow hot and cold, Mr. Chermside, which is why I'm pressing you a bit. Not that I'm 'ard-'earted by any means. Take till to-morrow night to think it over, and then, if you can give me a definite assurance that it will be all right in a week or so, I'll 'old my 'and."

Leslie Chermside breathed a sigh of relief. "Very well," he said, "by that time I may have news for you. Where shall we meet? It had better be somewhere where there is no risk of our being overheard."

The Jew glanced round the lonely landscape. Even at mid-day the marsh was deserted in favour of the superior attractions of the shore, the golf links, and the tennis field.

"We couldn't better this," he said. "There'll be a moon up, and there won't be a soul about at ten o'clock."

"That will suit excellently. I will meet you here at ten o'clock to-morrow night," replied Chermside. "And now as I am going on to lunch at the Manor House——"

"You will be glad to get rid of yours truly," Mr. Levison interrupted. "Righto! Mr. Chermside. I'll go back the way we came, hoping that you will enjoy a sumptuous meal, and afterwards get a chance to put in some vicarious courtship. So long."

He turned on his heel, waving a be-ringed hand of insanitary aspect, and Leslie Chermside strode forward along the grassy footpath. His brows were knitted in a frown, and from time to time he shook his broad shoulders as though to free himself from an influence that oppressed the natural vigour of his strong frame.

He was well aware that he stood at the parting of the ways, with the disadvantage of not knowing where either of the two roads open to him would lead, except that they pointed to dishonour and misery. It was nearly three months now since he had been summoned to the Maharajah's presence in the tawdry palace at Sindkhote, and had been offered by his employer a way of escape from the bonds that held him in exile, in a position little better than that of a tinselled head flunkey—an appanage of Bhagwan Singh's barbaric splendour.

The task set him had been revolting enough; it had filled him with loathing for the gross libertine who was his tempter; but, homesick for England and wretched in the miserable life he was leading, he had in reckless humour yielded, hating himself while doing so even more than the sardonic prince who was sending him home to England to commit such an outrage on an Englishwoman. After all, he had told himself, he didn't know the girl. Very likely she had brought her fate on herself by flirting with Bhagwan Singh in London. So he pledged himself to the foul errand, and sailed by the next mail-boat with a letter of introduction to Travers Nugent.

On his presenting it, Nugent had apprised him of the progress already made in the plot, and it was by no means inconsiderable. The Manor House at Ottermouth being to let furnished for the summer, it had not been difficult for the Maharajah's astute agent, who had a cottage in the little resort, to persuade Mr. Montague Maynard to take it. Indeed, the prospect of having the brilliant Travers Nugent as a neighbour during his holiday was in itself sufficient inducement to the wealthy screw manufacturer to fall into the trap. All that remained for the present was for Chermside to go down and commence operations by laying siege to Violet Maynard's heart, Nugent promising to follow later, when he had perfected the arrangements for manning and victualling the swift turbine steamer he had chartered.

In sullen mood, and with rage in his heart against the cruel fate that had made a blackguard of him, Chermside had set out on his despicable mission. And from the very moment he had looked into Violet Maynard's pure eyes his purpose had begun to weaken, giving place to a greater horror of himself and the vile thing he had consented to do. If, in the depths of his misery out yonder, he had considered the matter at all, he had considered it in the shadowy abstract, as a means of escape from the hell-upon-earth exile he was enduring. But here in England, and in touch with the charming personality of his intended victim, the scales were lifted from his moral vision, and he was left face to face with the enormity of his contemplated offence.

Yet his honour, if the word could be used in such a connexion, "rooted in dishonour stood," for he had pledged himself for what he believed to be valuable consideration to go through with the iniquity. For the first few days of his stay in Ottermouth he adhered rigidly to his contract. He presented the letters of introduction with which Travers Nugent had furnished him, and freely accepted Montague Maynard's lavish hospitality. He posed as a gallant gentleman, and paid attentions to Violet which the gossips of the links and the tennis field described as "marked." And then as suddenly as he had apparently caught fire he apparently cooled. The spurious, perverted sense of duty which for a week or two kept him loyal to his tempter was shattered by a stronger force that would not be denied.

Violet's friendship, frankly given as to an equal properly accredited, her winsome ways, the careless abandon of a girl who trusted and evidently liked him, had conquered his heart.

Leslie Chermside was honestly in love with the woman whom he was pledged to entrap for delivery like a bale of goods to that sinister Oriental satyr, waiting in the palace at Sindkhote seven thousand miles away for the fulfilment of his mission. By the irony of fate, his love for the girl whom he had been hired to destroy was the first true passion of his life, and by the same strange kink in fortune's chain the first effect was to cause him to repress all semblance of love.

How could he do otherwise, when by no possibility could the suit of such a penniless wastrel as himself be crowned with success? And as to continuing his attentions on behalf of Bhagwan Singh—well, he felt that he would cheerfully give many years of his life to wipe that vile episode from the page of his memory. So for the past week he had just drifted, avoiding any approach to more intimate relations, but loth to leave altogether the shrine at which it had been balm to his bruised heart to worship.

And now in some shape the end must come to the bitter-sweet interlude. The appearance of the Jew Levison on the scene left no room for doubt that if he refused to proceed with the Maharajah's dirty work, he would not be allowed to strut in false feathers much longer.

"I can have but one answer for that swine to-morrow night, and then he will take measures to wreak upon me Bhagwan Singh's revenge," he told himself, as he quitted the marshland and struck into the road that presently brought him to the lodge gates of the Manor House.

CHAPTER III

PRESAGE OF STORM

Ottermouth Manor was a place of importance in the county, and was only let furnished because its noble owner possessed so many other seats in different parts of the kingdom that for the moment he had no use for it. It is a practical age, and no one is so highly placed that he cannot without loss of dignity turn the nimble sixpence. The genial peer who had recently inherited the Manor, together with most of the ground-rents of the surrounding district, was no exception to the rule, and he had no objection to having his great rambling mansion and its appurtenances "kept up" at some one else's expense.

The consequence was that Mr. Montague Maynard found himself housed for the summer almost en prince. Not that he was unaccustomed to luxury. Both in his splendid modern villa at Harborne, whence a thousand pound Mercedes car rushed him daily to his office in Birmingham, and at his London house in Park Lane, where he spent six weeks in the spring, he wanted for nothing that money can do for the assuagement of the sordid side of a commercial magnate's life. But at neither of those palatial abodes could he enjoy the sense of space, the glamour of feudal importance, and the pretence at majestic isolation which were included in the heavy rental he paid for the privilege of occupying Ottermouth Manor House.

It was approached on one side by a long carriage-drive under an avenue of ancient elms, and halfway up this Leslie Chermside saw three people advancing towards him—a rather incongruous trio. No need for him to look twice at the tall girl in the simple white blouse swinging along with the graceful vigour of youth a little behind the other two. The sight of her set his pulses beating, for it was Violet Maynard herself, and Leslie felt sick with remorse at the glad smile of recognition she gave him. The remaining pair in this strangely-assorted party consisted of a diminutive old lady severely dressed in black, and of a foreign-looking man wearing ragged blue cotton trousers, who slouched along barefooted, carrying over his shoulder a stick from which depended several strings of onions.

The old lady appeared to be driving the foreigner before her at the point of her sunshade, while Violet entered an occasional half-laughing protest against her proceedings.

Chermside raised his hat as he drew near, and with a torrent of abuse and a final prod of her sunshade, the owner of the latter abandoned the pursuit, the two ladies turning to walk back to the house with the invited guest.

"No wonder you are astonished at Aunt Sarah's behaviour, Mr. Chermside," said Violet gaily. "She has been frightening that poor French onion-seller out of his wits and warning him off the premises for some reason that I have been unable to prevail on her to disclose."

"I am quite sure that Miss Dymmock would be actuated by no reason but a good one," Chermside replied politely. "I will wager that she had received strong provocation, and that the castigation I was privileged to witness was thoroughly deserved."

The little old lady, who was rapidly regaining her temper, cast a grateful glance at the speaker. At the commencement of their as yet short acquaintance she had taken a genuine liking for the handsome young soldier, and she had the firmest faith in her intuitions. Miss Sarah Dymmock was a personage to be reckoned with in the Maynard household. The aunt of Violet's mother, Montague Maynard's late wife, she had brought the girl up from childhood, and had incidentally governed the screw manufacturer's establishment with a rod of iron. Having a large fortune in her own right, and being suspected of a carefully-veiled kindness, her many eccentricities were forgiven her by those who knew her best.

"That's right, Mr. Chermside; I like a man who can stick up for an ugly old woman," she chuckled. "It's a pity a gallant gentleman of your sort didn't come my way when I was a lass, for I might have been a great-grandmother, instead of only great-aunt, to an impudent chit of a girl who has no respect for age—and venerableness. Well, I am venerable, ain't I?" she added, stopping and stamping her foot at Violet's merry laugh.

"Oh, yes, dearest Auntie; you are more than that—you are truly terrible at times," said the girl.

"I mean to be," Miss Dymmock continued austerely, resuming her progress. "As to my reason for chasing that monkey-faced Frenchy out of the grounds, I shall say nothing—nothing at all till I have laid the facts before Mr. Travers Nugent, who is, I believe, to join us at lunch. I don't like Travers Nugent, mind you. But he is a man of the world, and I value his opinion as such. Personally, I wouldn't trust him with a shilling."

This was evidently the old lady's last word on the subject, but the rather awkward silence that ensued was due chiefly to the manner of her allusion to Nugent. Violet was rendered uncomfortable by her outspoken bluntness, because she knew that Leslie Chermside owed his presence amongst them to the introduction he had brought from the man so openly disparaged. And Leslie was ill at ease from the immediate prospect of having to meet one whom he had hitherto regarded as his partner in infamy, but from whom in his awakened repentance it would be his duty to dissociate himself at the earliest possible moment.

During the two or three days he had spent in London on his arrival from India he had neither been repelled nor attracted by the smooth-spoken gentleman who had taken him in tow. Beyond the brief discussion necessary to the elaboration of their arrangements Nugent had been far too wary to indulge in useless harping on the scheme in hand. It was not his cue to emphasize the heartless villainy of their compact. Indeed, he dismissed the moral aspect of the affair in a slurred and utterly mendacious justification, hinting that Violet Maynard had only herself to thank for having played fast and loose with the Maharajah. He even suggested that she had been really partial to the handsome Oriental, and would speedily become reconciled.

The black business being thus by mutual consent relegated to the background, Nugent had laid himself out to be a pleasant host without allowing it to be seen that he was making a minute study of the young man upon whom his own bribe would so largely depend. Leslie had not thought very much about him, except as one of the figures in what seemed more like a bad dream than reality.

But now all that was changed, and the personality of Bhagwan Singh's English wire-puller had for him a sinister significance. He had no doubt that the Cockney Jew Levison was acting in collusion with the more cultured scoundrel, and he wondered how the latter would take his revolt. Not kindly, that was fairly certain; but Leslie could not see how Nugent could injure him beyond inflicting the cunningly-provided punishment of financial ruin which he was powerless to resist. He could not expose the conspiracy without confessing his own part in it, and he felt that he would cheerfully prefer death to so abasing himself in Violet's eyes. At present his intention was to bask in the sunshine of fictitious happiness for one more day and then vanish to South America, New Zealand—anywhere where a pair of strong arms could provide him with bread.

The opportunity for revolt was on him sooner than he expected. When they reached the Manor House Mr. Maynard was at the hall door in the act of welcoming Nugent, who had arrived in his car, entering the park by the north lodge. The brilliant man-about-town turned to the ladies with effusion, receiving a courteous greeting from Violet and a sniff from Aunt Sarah, who, however, as she passed into the hall deigned to fling back at him: "You are as full of mischief as a ripe cheese is of maggots. I am going to take your opinion on a piece of mischief presently."

Mr. Maynard, a stout, florid man of sixty, gave a great guffaw. "The old girl always had her knife into you, Nugent," he roared, "but, like all the rest of 'em, she can't do without you. Maggots in cheese! Lord love me, what'll she say next."

He turned away to direct the chauffeur to the stable-yard, and Chermside drew Nugent aside, saying, in a rapid whisper—

"I am not going on with the damned thing!"

Travers Nugent, if he felt surprise, did not show it; nor was there any annoyance in his gently-murmured question: "You have counted the cost, I presume? You understand what defection will entail?"

"Oh, yes; that beast Levison has taken care of that," replied Chermside. "I am to meet him to-morrow night on the marsh at ten o'clock to give him my final answer. But that was only to secure a day's respite, and—and take leave of my friends. My mind is quite made up. I shall withdraw, and let him do his worst."

Again there was no trace of disappointment in Nugent's reception of this definite retirement. For an instant his right hand caressed his long, fair moustache, while his cold blue eyes rested meditatively on the slightly-flushed face of the recalcitrant, but the only note in his voice was one of unselfish concern as he said——

"I am afraid you will find it very unpleasant, but I suppose that if you have scruples you are right to act on them."

There was no time for more, for Montague Maynard, having seen to the bestowal of the car and the chauffeur, came bustling back and conducted his two guests to the dining-room, where the ladies joined them at the luncheon table. Chermside managed to secure a seat next Violet, but in such a small party there was no chance for intimate conversation. On the whole, he was glad of it, for after to-day—to-morrow at latest—it was improbable that he would ever see again the girl upon whom he would have inflicted such deadly wrong. Even now, in the midst of lightest chatter, she stabbed him over and over again with the frank confidence in her trusting eyes. He felt with a shudder that if he had pursued his fell mission to the end it would have been crowned with a horrible success.

Already his punishment had begun; he loved the woman whom he would have destroyed, and in a few hours he must say good-bye to her for ever. Yes, he was thankful that Aunt Sarah's quips and cranks, and Travers Nugent's scintillating small-talk rattled like musketry fire to the exclusion of all else.

Once or twice he stole a look at the man to whom Bhagwan Singh had accredited him—natty in his grey summer tweeds, perfectly self-possessed and brimming over with tit-bits of harmless society gossip. Nugent's eyes were not prone to laughter, but his lips were, and they were laughing almost unceasingly now. Leslie Chermside wondered if this was altogether natural, or was it a pose designed to cover deeper emotions? The man had undoubtedly received a set-back in the last half-hour in the displacement of a programme that must have cost him much intricate scheming. The chartering of that steamer lying at Portland ready for her prey, and the engagement of a crew sufficiently unscrupulous, could have been no light work. How was it, then, that Nugent could accept with complacency the overthrow of the plan? Had he still hopes of success by some devious method at present carefully concealed?

Leslie comforted himself that that could not be. The steamer might rot at her moorings and the crew mutiny before any signal for her movement should come from him, and he would take good care before he vanished into the unknown that the same game should not be played with some pawn less susceptible than himself. He would anonymously warn Mr. Maynard of the Maharajah's design to kidnap his daughter, doing it in such a way that he should not be identified with the first abortive attempt. He clung desperately to the hope that he might remain a congenial memory to the unsuspecting girl at his side.

As soon as the butler and his satellites had served coffee and retired, Miss Sarah Dymmock straightened herself in her chair, and, with a bird-like glance and a shake of her grey curls, prodded her finger at Nugent.

"Now, you high priest of intrigue, I will consult your judgment," was her startling commencement. "The question is, was I right or wrong to eject from the grounds of this mansion an unwashed foreigner whom I caught using violent and insulting language to the French maid whose services I share with my great-niece?"

"When I came upon the scene it was Auntie who was using violent and insulting language to the unwashed foreigner," Violet remarked demurely.

"Silence, minx," the old lady retorted. "I found the maid, Louise Aubin, in tears in the shrubbery walk, with the creature bullying and threatening her. She explained that the fellow, who is one of the onion-sellers from a French lugger recently arrived at Exmouth full of similar vermin, knew her at her home in Normandy, and was, in fact, her lover there. On discovering her here by accident while disposing of his wares, he wanted to renew the old relations, and has been hanging about for the last month with that intention. He has found out that during the last week Louise has been coquetting with some summer visitor staying in the town. She did not mention this second Lothario's name, but I gathered that he was putting up at the Plume Hotel."

"Ah!" said Nugent, who had been listening politely, "that does not tell us much, for I was informed this morning that the Plume is full to overflowing just now. Well, dear lady, I cannot presume to criticise your drastic measures. It seems to me to depend on Mademoiselle Aubin's inclinations. If she prefers the Frenchman, you have acted somewhat severely; if the gentleman at the Plume is the favoured swain, you have played the good mistress in protecting your servant from a nuisance."

Aunt Sarah, quaintly valuing the opinion of the man she disliked, nodded reflectively. "I'll find out which she likes best," she said. "It won't be the foreigner, I think, she being a girl of sense. She'd be as silly as Violet would have been if she'd accepted that blackamoor who had the impudence to propose to her at the beginning of the London season."

Montague Maynard let off one of his mighty bellows. "That was cheek if you like," he said, "though my little girl very soon sent him off with a flea in his ear. But you are forgetting, Aunt Sarah, that the boot was on the other leg in the case that made the Maharajah of Sindkhote the laughing-stock of London. The onion-seller is a compatriot of his inamorata. By the way, Nugent—you were pretty thick with his Highness—how did he take his knock-out?"

Travers Nugent looked across the table at Leslie Chermside through the wealth of hot-house flowers, pondering his reply with greater deliberation than it seemed to demand.

"As you know," he said at length, "the Maharajah left England within a few days of the ball at Brabazon House, where I understood that his discomfiture took place. I saw very little of him in the interval. Like all men worthy of the name who have set out to win a great prize and have met with failure, he was not one to admit defeat."

"Hear that, Vi?" said the screw manufacturer, rising. "His Highness means to come back and have another try next season. There'll be a chance for you to be the pride of the harem yet, if you choose to think better of it."

Violet's laugh, as she also rose to join in the general movement, rang out merrily, proving how lightly she had treated Bhagwan's wooing—how little she realized the smouldering danger that lurked for her in the steamer at Portland, lying ready to snatch her from peaceful Ottermouth to undreamed of horrors in the unspeakable East.

"I hope he won't trouble," she said lightly. "I let him down easy last time, but if it occurs again I shall have to be rude."

Leslie Chermside, following out of the dining-room, felt a prescience of coming peril for the beautiful speaker, and it was apart and separate from the plot in which he was to have taken such an ignoble part. From himself he knew that she would never have aught but loving fealty, and, so far as in him lay, protection. But in Nugent's words, uttered with such seeming carelessness, yet so well considered, there had, he could have sworn, sounded a note of menace, intended to be subtly conveyed to himself, that defeat was not admitted.

And the pity of it was that in a day or two at most he must fly from Ottermouth, unless he remained to be branded by that dirty little Jew as an impostor. In either case, his championship would be a sorry thing to stand between Violet Maynard and the fresh devices he feared were already hatching in Travers Nugent's cunning brain.

CHAPTER IV

NUGENT MOVES A PAWN

Mr. Nugent did not seek further private speech with Leslie Chermside while he remained at the Manor House. He acted in every respect as though he accepted the young man's renunciation as final, and after a saunter through the exquisite gardens with his host, asked that his car might be brought round. Having only reached Ottermouth the previous evening, he explained there were many things that claimed his attention at home.

"All right, dear boy," said Montague Maynard in his loud jolly voice. "Run out and see us whenever you can tear yourself away from golf and the delights of the Ottermouth Club. Old Sarah Dymmock hates you like the devil, but she don't bite so long as people don't want to hurt my little Violet, and she's a good sportswoman. And you're too good a sportsman yourself to mind an old woman's whims."

"I thoroughly understand Miss Dymmock, and I have the most profound regard for her," responded Nugent cordially. "There is never likely to be any serious matter at issue between us, but if there were I should be very sorry to have to cross swords with her."

Yet his thin lips curled in a dreamy smile as he was whirled away in the serviceable little Darracq which had been presented to him by a titled idiot in gratitude for an introduction that had eventually ruined him.

"I hardly think that Miss Sarah Dymmock, useful as she has proved this morning, will loom on the horizon of present interests," he murmured softly to himself when he had directed his chauffeur to drive him home.

During the six minutes which it took to cover the distance from the Manor House into the town Nugent closed his eyes and leaned back, indifferent to the autumn glories of the fair Devon landscape. The fern-girt lanes, with occasional peeps of the blue sea and the red point at the mouth of the river, the golden harvest-fields, the lush orchards with their drooping loads of cider apples, the old cob-built farmsteads—all these flashed past him unheeded as he sat with folded arms wrapped in deepest reverie.

But when the car took the steep dip at the eastern end of the parade, and the road, first on one side only and then on both, became flanked with houses, he braced himself for social amenities. People were about in plenty, mostly known to him, and many of them eager for recognition by the cool-looking gentleman in the car who had the reputation of being a personage in London society. Nearly all the ladies of Ottermouth, at any rate, were proud of their Travers Nugent, and rejoiced greatly that for a month or two in the year he deigned to sojourn in their midst. And the dowdier the ladies and the less he had to do with them the prouder were they.

But the dowdy ladies at Ottermouth were an insignificant minority. Certainly not to be classed in that category was the winsome maiden, dressed in immaculate white flannel and carrying a tennis racquet, to whom Nugent raised his soft grey hat as the car struck into the main street. A vision of dainty, if very youthful, loveliness, Enid Mallory was smart from the crown of her well-poised little head to the soles of her natty shoes. She returned Nugent's bow with a trace of brusqueness, and immediately turned and made a grimace at the clean-shaven young fellow who was with her. Nugent, though not intending to do so, saw the grimace out of the tail of his eye, and frowned slightly when the car had passed.

"Old Mallory's daughter," he murmured. "She has done her hair up and lengthened her dress since last year, and she appears to have been infected with the paternal antipathy. I must not forget that Mr. Vincent Mallory, formerly of the Foreign Office, is a resident in this Arcadian spot. He might, under certain circumstances, become a factor to be reckoned with."

Aloud he said to his chauffeur, who had come down with the car some days in advance: "Dixon, do you know who that young gentleman was who was walking with Miss Mallory?"

"It's Mr. Beauchamp, sir," was the reply. "Son of Mrs. Beauchamp, who lives in Lorne Villas. He's a lieutenant in the Navy, I've heard, commanding a torpedo-boat at Plymouth. He is at home on leave just at present, sir."

"Thank you, Dixon; you are always a mine of information," Nugent said with the suave urbanity he always used towards inferiors.

But under his breath he added, "A curious combination, and one that may be worth watching."

The house in which Mr. Travers Nugent enjoyed his summer leisure lay on the hill beyond the western limits of the town. Though he spoke of it as a cottage, it was really a luxurious bachelor abode, standing in a secluded garden and removed from the main road to Exmouth by a serpentine drive, not, of course, to be compared with the noble avenue at the Manor House, but long enough to separate the owner of The Hut from the madding crowd by quite a respectable distance.

Descending at his front door, Mr. Nugent passed through a porch smothered in purple clematis into a small, square hall, deliciously cool and shaded. Here he was met by a quiet-looking man of middle age, with a face like a sphinx, and wearing a black cutaway coat. Nugent was not one to make his confidential servant the receptacle of more secrets than he could help, but he knew that if he chose to do so this personification of reticence and discretion would never betray them.

"Well, Sinnett?" he said. They neither of them wasted words at any time in their communications.

"I heard the car, sir," was the reply. "I know you like to be prepared for visitors. Mr. Levison is waiting to see you in the smoke-room."

"Good! I will see him directly," said Nugent, glancing at the closed door of the room indicated. Then, dropping his voice, he added, "Come out into the porch a moment."

The effect of this manœuvre was to place them beyond all chance of being overheard from the smoking-room, though the conversation was nevertheless continued with all precaution.

"I want you to go into Exmouth at once," said Nugent. "Dixon will take you in the car. At the quay you will find one of those French luggers which come over laden with onions to be peddled about the country by the crew. Inquire for a man named Pierre Legros, and tell him that I will buy as many strings of onions as he can carry if he will bring them over during the evening."

"Very good, sir," replied the manservant, who had absorbed the lucid but inexplicable instructions without the quiver of an eyelash. "Does Legros know you, sir?"

"He has never heard of me, nor I of him till this morning. I imagine, though, that the prospect of a good sale will bring him here. If, however, he demurs at all you might say that I have news to his advantage in connection with the Manor House. You understand, of course, Sinnett, that I am not really in need of onions?"

"You want the man, sir?"

"I must have the man."

With which the master of The Hut turned away in the certainty that he would get what he wanted, and, recrossing the hall, entered his cosy-smoking-room.

"Ah, Levison! Sorry to have kept you waiting," was his urbanely offhand greeting to the little Jew who rose obsequiously from a big easy-chair. "I have been lunching at the Manor House, and as I met Mr. Chermside there I am able to forestall your report. He tells me that he intends to kick over the traces."

"Prethithely what he told me, Mr. Nugent, sir," replied the Hebrew. "And I reckon he means it. Though I'm only in the pawnbroking line, and an assistant at that, I flatter mythelf I played the blooming financier up to the nines, but he was as stubborn as Balaam's talking moke. He ain't given me his final answer, yet, though. I'm to meet him to-morrow night for that."

"So he said, and you must keep the appointment and do your level best to make him change his mind," Nugent went on. "You are a clever little chap, and I shouldn't be surprised if you succeeded. Mr. Leslie Chermside is suffering from a qualm of conscience which may be only transitory if you paint the alternative in sufficiently lurid colours."

"S'elp me, sir, but you can rely on me to rub it in thick."

"I am sure of that, though, by the way, I heard to-day that you have not been without your relaxations here while acting as my spy-glass," rejoined Nugent with an amused laugh. "How about the pretty lady's-maid at the Manor House, eh?"

Mr. Levison gazed at the speaker in blind consternation, but, finding nothing but playful tolerance in his employer's manner, he admitted the soft impeachment—boastfully, as is the way of such vulgar lady-killers.

"You're a fair caution, sir," he sniggered. "It licks me how you got hold of that; but there! you get hold of most things. The time was 'anging a bit 'eavy, you see, sir, and she's a dressy little bit of French goods. No 'arm done, I spothe, as it didn't interfere with business?"

"No harm whatever, Levison," said Nugent kindly. "I only mentioned it to show you what a paternal interest I take in your doings. Those who serve me well have no cause to be dissatisfied with the rewards they earn, and you will be no exception to the rule. Only don't relax your efforts with Chermside. Keep the appointment with him to-morrow night, and turn the screw till he squirms. Maybe he'll see reason yet."

And having fortified his visitor with whisky and a good cigar, Mr. Nugent put a graceful finish to his hospitality by conducting him to a side gate that led from the garden on to the moor.

"You came in this way?" he said carelessly as he opened the gate. "That is right. I want you to be particular about that whenever you have occasion to see me. It might complicate matters if your connection with me got to be talked of in this gossipy place."

"Dull little 'ole, I call it," commented Mr. Levison as he prepared to cross the purple heather. "Couldn't have stuck it for a week, I don't think, if it hadn't have been for Louise Aubin. A gent must amuse himself, and one misses the music-'alls. Well, so long, sir; I'll let Chermside 'ave it 'ot to-morrow night."

Nugent watched the mean-looking figure go stumbling along the moorland track on a detour towards the town, and then, the acid smile on his lips in curious contrast with the thoughtful frown on his brows, he turned back into the house. He was the most abstemious of men, but on reaching his den he poured out a fairly strong brandy and soda and drank it at a draught.

"It's a big stake for reclaiming the rebel," he muttered. "But I think it will work out right if Sinnett's mission pans out properly."

But presently, when the laconic manservant returned with his report that Pierre Legros would deliver several strings of onions during the evening, there was nothing in the manner of the master to denote whether he was satisfied or not.

"Thank you, Sinnett. Take care that he does not go away without my seeing him," was all that Mr. Travers Nugent vouchsafed in reply.

CHAPTER V

UNDER THE SEARCHLIGHT

"So that is Nugent, the London chap who lives at The Hut?" said Lieutenant Beauchamp, when the car had flashed past. "Why do you accentuate the information by making such disgustingly ugly faces, Pussy?"

Miss Enid Mallory tossed her dainty head in mock indignation. "You are perfectly horrid, Mr. Beauchamp," she snapped at him. "As if I could make an ugly face if I tried ever so. And I won't have you calling me Pussy—now that I'm grown up."

"Grown up, is it, the little spitfire?" grinned the young sailor. "And I am to be Mr. Beauchamp, am I? Well, we used to be Reggie and Pussy when I was at home last, and, whatever you may do, the force of habit will be too strong for me. Even if I try to conquer it, which I shan't."

"That was three years ago, before you went to China," retorted Enid with dignity.

"What's the difference? We're neither of us very old yet, though I'm not sure I didn't like you better with a pigtail down your back than with all that crinkly bulge round your ears. However, to be serious, and stick to our muttons—what's the matter with Nugent?"

"Father doesn't like him," replied Enid, still inclined to ride the high horse.

"I know that Mr. Mallory doesn't like him, but why not?" persisted Reggie. "I have the greatest regard for your father's judgment in all things. He is invariably right in his conclusions, but he is so jolly reticent as to how he arrives at them. I saw in the club this morning, when Nugent's name cropped up, that he didn't cotton to the johnny, but he refused to be drawn on the subject."

Enid was mollified at last, as she always was by any tribute to the acumen of the parent whom she adored.

"I don't know his reason," she said, as they turned to retrace their steps along the parade. "But father, till he retired, was at the Foreign Office, as you are aware, and in the course of his duties he learned all sorts of secrets and came in contact with all sorts of shady men. I fancy his antipathy dates back to something that occurred during his official career, but you might as well try to open an oyster with your fingers as induce him to divulge what he knows."

Reggie Beauchamp nodded, really more interested in the sprightly hoyden he was talking to than in the subject of their conversation. "I see," he said. "If that's the way you figure it out, I shall be aware of Mr. Travers Nugent when I meet him at the club. If he's a dark horse he might rook me at billiards or bridge. I am obliged to you for this warning, Miss Mallory. You have probably saved an unsophisticated sailor from premature ruin and a suicide's grave."

Enid glanced up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Bother Mr. Nugent!" she exclaimed. "Now that you have addressed me with proper respect, you may call me Pussy again if you wish—till you misbehave again."

So for the next half-hour they reverted to earlier nomenclature, and forgot to play at quarrelling as they wandered up and down by the summer sea. And when at length they parted, Enid to go home to pour out tea for her blind mother, and Reggie to enter the club, they lightly made an appointment which was to have its grim bearing on the tale that has yet to be told.

"Look here, Miss Mallory," said the Lieutenant, with feigned solemnity. "I have to go into Exeter to-morrow to try on some new uniforms, and to-night I must stay at home and help the mater entertain a wretched curate whom she has invited to dinner. But I shall be at large to-morrow evening. What about a prowl along the shore or up the marsh? We might renew hostilities, and get some sort of a notion which of us is really right in the matter of our Christian names. I may change my mind, and come to the conclusion that you are, after all."

"Oh, may you, indeed, Reggie?" replied the girl, and with a roguish laugh she ran away without saying whether or no she would meet him. But he was familiar with his former playmate's impish ways, and it was in sublime confidence that the appointment would be kept that he loitered about on the seafront on the evening of the following day.

Sure enough, a little after nine, when the sunset glow still lingered in the western sky, Miss Enid's white-clad figure was seen threading its way through the loungers on the parade. It was a beautiful evening, and the junior section of residents and visitors were about in plenty. Young men and maidens, hatless and in evening dress, strolled up and down the asphalte side-walk between the coastguard station and the club, for the most part chattering of the handicaps in the forthcoming tennis tournament, while some few exceptions, too busy making eyes at each other for such frivolity, worshipped at the love-god's shrine. Such public worship, however, has ever been considered bad form at Ottermouth, except among septuagenarians and the rosy-cheeked couples who on Sundays "walk out" together in the country lanes.

Perhaps it was because of this unwritten law of the place that Reggie Beauchamp and Enid Mallory, having duly greeted each other with flippant discourtesy, but having the germ of quite another sentiment in their irresponsible hearts, intuitively turned their steps to the further end of the parade, and came to a halt at the spot where the struggle between the feeble efforts of the urban council and the giant forces of nature ceased. In front lay the bank of shingle across the former river's mouth; to the left stretched the sedge-covered, dyke-sected bed of the old estuary.

"Shall we go back to the parade or take a turn up the marsh?" asked Reggie. And then, without waiting for a reply, he added, "By Jingo! Look out to sea. There is a cruiser—the Terrible, I think, or one of her class."

Enid followed the direction of his pointing finger, and in the fast-fading twilight saw the great four-funnelled monster steaming slowly about two miles out at sea. Even as they looked, the big warship became little more than a huge blurred shape, barely discernible in the darkness that was swiftly blotting out land and sea.

"Well, she won't bite, I suppose," said the girl carelessly.

"No, but she might bark," laughed the Lieutenant. "I expect she's out for night practice with her heavy guns—with blank charges, of course."

The young people quickly lost interest in the ship, and, turning aside, struck into the path traversed by Leslie Chermside and Levison on the morning of the preceding day. It was raised above the level of the mud-flats which skirted it on the right; on the other side rose the umbrageous bank of the old water-course, increasing the shadows in which they walked.

Presently Enid's hand stole under her companion's arm, and they glided naturally into the frank comradeship which had prevailed between them long before the mutual banter which they had lately affected, and which was probably due to a desire to conceal the first stirrings of something stronger than a boy-and-girl attachment. They were both of the age when young folk are supremely susceptible, but have a self-conscious dread of being thought so. Out here on the marsh, in the kindly mantle of a moonless summer night, they could enjoy the pleasure of propinquity without fear of being laughed at.

"Let's sit down here for a bit while I smoke a cigarette," said Reggie, when they had gone half a mile along the marsh. "It is the old ambush, as we called it, where we used to picnic when I was a middy and you were a kid."

He ran down the side of the raised path into a little glade formed by some dwarf oaks at the base of the miniature cliff, and Enid followed, seating herself on the low-growing branch of one of the trees. It was quite dark now—so dark that though they were very close to the path they had quitted, they could not be seen from it. Even in daylight they would have been invisible behind their leafy screen.

"I suppose you executed that manœuvre because you heard the footsteps behind us," said Enid in a whisper.

"Footsteps? I didn't hear any," replied Reggie.

"Hush! Don't speak. You can hear them now."

The sound of hurrying feet was distinctly audible now from the path, and a moment later a man—the heavy tread left no doubt that it was a man—went by. He was almost running, and they could hear his quick breathing, but it was impossible to tell whether he was tall or short, young or old, rich or poor, in the inky blackness that had swallowed up the marsh.

"A telegraph boy taking a short cut to the Manor House," suggested Enid when the steps had died away.

"Too late for that—the office closed two hours ago," replied Reggie Beauchamp carelessly. "More likely some poacher who has been setting snares for rabbits, and thought he heard a keeper behind him. The Ottermouth fishermen used to be precious handy with a bit of copper wire and a bootlace."

The brief interruption passed from their minds, and they had been chattering for about ten minutes when once again the silence of the marsh was broken by the sound of advancing steps. This time the wayfarer came along in more leisurely fashion, and in this case also it was possible to guess from the heavy footfall that the passer by was a man. Perhaps a minute elapsed, and then, just as the young people were becoming absorbed in each other again, there came from further along the marsh—that is to say, from the direction to which both the successive pedestrians had been proceeding—a sudden sharp cry, ending in a long-drawn wail.

"What on earth was that?" exclaimed Enid, jumping down from her bough.

"Goodness knows," laughed the careless sailor. "Either a bereaved cow or a curlew suffering from nightmare. Sit down again, Pussy; it was nothing to worry about."

"It struck me as being distinctly human," said Enid doubtfully, but she swung herself back into the tree, willing to be convinced that there was nothing wrong, rather than terminate a tête-à-tête that was rapidly gliding into a flirtation. Another pleasant quarter of an hour slipped by, and then at the beats of a distant clock in the town striking half-past ten she dropped from her perch.

"I must be getting back, or father will be wondering what has become of me," she said as she made for the entrance of their lair.

Reggie's detaining hand fell on her arm.

"Half a second," he said. "There is some one coming along the path—one of those chaps who went by returning, perhaps. Better let him get ahead, whoever he is, before we break cover. We don't want company on our way back."

So they waited in the shadows, listening to the oncoming footsteps till the man who caused them was nearly opposite their hiding-place in the little glade. His identity was nothing to them; they had no thought but to enjoy their homeward stroll without having to tread too closely on the heels of any inconvenient outsider.

And then, suddenly, far out at sea a great shaft of light shot skyward, and, after steadying itself in a perpendicular gleam, swooped down upon the marsh, moving to and fro across the broad expanse, prying out its secret places and showing up each reed and sedge in an electric glare, that was twice as effective as lightning because it dwelt longer on its objectives. At first the radiant tongue played on the opposite side of the marsh, then it flickered on the central wastes, and finally darted on to the path close to Reggie and Enid just as the man they had heard advancing passed by.

Unseen themselves in the thicket, they had a clear view of him as he strode along the path, for, the latter being raised several feet above their level, his face was silhouetted against the dark sky beyond the electric beam. Their glimpse was only momentary, because as though dazzled, he raised his hand to his eyes, and altogether he was not ten seconds within the range of their vision, but it lasted long enough to enable Enid to whisper her companion—

"That was Mr. Chermside, the young officer from India who has been staying down here for the last month. He's supposed to be awfully gone on Violet Maynard, the daughter of the rich Birmingham man who has taken the Manor House for the summer."

"Then I expect that is where he was coming from," suggested Reggie. "I met him in the club yesterday. Your father introduced him. He seemed a decent sort of chap, but down on his luck I thought."

"You have made two blunders in one statement," was Miss Enid's pert retort. "He can't have been coming from the Manor House because he wasn't in evening dress. And he can't be down on his luck because he's got heaps of money. Why, he's going to start on a cruise round the world soon in a steam yacht that is fitting out at Portland."

"Sorry I spoke," said Reggie. "Come, he's far enough ahead not to be a nuisance now; let me give you a hand up on to the path. I suppose that Mr. Mallory is prejudiced against Chermside, since he's a friend of Travers Nugent, eh?"

Disdaining the offer of assistance, Enid ran lightly up the slope on to the path before replying.

"On the contrary," she said as Reggie joined her, "I can't quite make father out on the subject of Mr. Leslie Chermside. For once in a way the dear old man is inconsistent, or so he seems to me. He won't commit himself to a definite opinion, but I can see that he is deeply interested in Mr. Nugent's friend, and in the relations existing between the pair. I think, from signs and portents known only to myself, that father rather likes Mr. Chermside."

"Lucky for Chermside," Reggie absently mused aloud. "There!" he added with a quick return to nautical briskness. "Thank goodness that infernal searchlight has moved off us and found the town at last. I prefer being at the other end of the beastly thing to having it in one's eyes. There goes the first gun from the cruiser."

And under cover of the restored darkness arms were clasped again, and the young heads fell very close together for the rest of the way back to the town that was now being vigorously bombarded in mimic warfare.

Two miles out at sea the big guns flashed and boomed, and ahead of them on the marshland path the footsteps of the man they had seen in the rays of the searchlight were dying away, so quickly had he outpaced the lingerers. But Lieutenant Beauchamp and Miss Enid Mallory took no heed of either, little dreaming of the terrible significance that attached to what they had seen and heard that night.

CHAPTER VI

THE CRY FROM THE TRAIN

"Oh, good morning, Chermside. So you have not, after all, left Ottermouth yet, as you led me to infer would be the case."

Leslie Chermside looked up from his newspaper to meet the steady gaze of Travers Nugent, who had just entered the reading room at the club. It was before the hour when the morning frequenters were wont to assemble, and for the moment they had the apartment to themselves.

"No," said Leslie shortly. "I have changed my mind, and shall stay on for a while."

Nugent carefully closed the door and came and stood with his back to the mantelpiece looking down at his late accomplice. "Does that mean that you have returned to your allegiance?" he asked softly.

"Certainly not," came Leslie's flash of indignation.

"Ah! then I presume that you found Levison amenable to reason, or, at least, that you persuaded him to grant you a reprieve when you kept your appointment with him last night?" said Nugent. Though he spoke with a great assumption of carelessness, applying a light to his cigarette the while, his eyes never left the younger man's face for an instant, seeming to burn with a snake-like glitter.

Under this keen scrutiny Leslie reddened, and his reply came haltingly at first, as though he picked his words with deliberation. "I asked no favours of Levison. He—he can do his worst for all I care." And then, moved by a sudden impulse, the ex-Lancer added hotly: "See here, Mr. Nugent. My association with you, which I deeply regret, has not been an honourable one. It is not my province to blame you, seeing how culpable I have been myself, but the subject is distasteful to me, and at least I have the right to ask that you will not again refer to the disgraceful affair that brought us together. I shall hope shortly to obtain employment which will enable me to repay the money advanced by the Maharajah for my passage home, and, so far as I am concerned, that will be an end of the business. I do not consider that I am legally or morally bound to recognize the debts which his Highness gave me to understand he had paid voluntarily. As the bribe with which he tempted me was only a sham, I owe him no allegiance whatever."

Nugent listened with upraised brows to the angry outbreak, the flicker of a frosty smile playing about his lips. But if he had meditated a rejoinder he checked it. His quick ears had caught the click of the hall door, and the hum of voices in the ante-room. He merely shrugged his shoulders, and was ready with a genial greeting for the members who trooped in. They were three in number—Mr. Montague Maynard, who had motored in from the Manor House; Mr. Vernon Mallory, whose pale, ascetic face reflected nothing of the interest inspired by finding Nugent and Chermside, obviously to his shrewd vision, concluding a heated discussion; and, lastly, but by no means least in his own estimation, General Kruse, formerly of the Indian Staff Corps.

The last-mentioned was somewhat unkindly behind his back called "the widow's Kruse," the nickname being founded on an erroneous rumour that he was pursuing with matrimonial intentions the wealthy relict of a London tradesman, who had settled in the neighbourhood. There was a still more unkind version of the origin of the nickname, and one in which there was, unfortunately, just a spice of truth—that he was "always full." He was a big, burly man, with a rubicund complexion and a voice like a thunderstorm.

The three gentlemen had chanced to meet on the doorstep of the club, and the General had already commenced to impart to the other two an item of news which he had picked up on the way from his house. He now began it all over again for the benefit of the larger audience.

"Most extraordinary thing," he bellowed in his foghorn tones. "As I was just telling these fellows, Nugent, I looked in at the Plume Hotel as I came through the town, and they're in a rare pucker there. A chap staying at the hotel went out last night after dinner, saying he was going for a walk, and he hasn't come back."

"Bolted to save paying his bill, I suppose," suggested Nugent, stealing a glance at Leslie Chermside, who, however, was invisible behind his newspaper. "It is not an unprecedented occurrence at a seaside resort in the summer season, is it?"

But General Kruse with great gusto proceeded to demolish any such commonplace theory. "It wasn't that," he roared. "The chap—Levison his name was—had paid his charges pretty near up to the hilt. It is the custom to render bills weekly, and as he had been at the Plume a week yesterday, his account was presented to him. He paid it like a shot. There is only his last night's dinner owing for, and he has left luggage that would square that twenty times over."

"I expect he will turn up before the day is over," said Nugent, with the air of becoming bored with all this fuss about a stranger. And, as if to put an end to the General's prosing, he turned to Montague Maynard.

"When I was lunching with you the other day, Miss Violet consulted me about a picnic tea she was thinking of giving," he said. "Your daughter was good enough to want my advice as to a good camping-ground, and I told her I would take time to consider. Will you tell her from me that I should recommend that grassy patch on the marsh, half-way between the beach and the Manor House? It is sheltered from the sun at four o'clock in the afternoon, and that means everything at this time of year."

"Thanks very much; I'll tell Vi; she's sending out short invitations for to-morrow," replied Mr. Maynard, wondering why, in making a communication that concerned him alone of those present in the room, the speaker should have been looking at some one else. For, after claiming the screw manufacturer's attention, Nugent allowed his eyes to wander to Leslie Chermside, who was still hidden by the newspaper.

Mr. Vernon Mallory, of whom it had once been remarked that he noticed everything while appearing to notice nothing, happened to choose this moment for addressing a trivial but direct question to the diligent reader, calling him by his name, and leaving him no alternative but for an equally direct answer. Leslie laid aside the paper and replied courteously, but in doing so disclosed a twitching mouth, and a face from which every drop of red blood had fled, leaving it ashen grey.

Mr. Mallory did not pursue the subject of his interrogation further, but, turning to General Kruse, started a fresh and congenial topic by suggesting that that thirsty old warrior would be the better for a whisky and soda. The invitation being promptly accepted, Mr. Mallory, who eschewed spiritual indulgence in the morning, ordered a cigar for himself, and plunged into a discussion of the delinquencies of the urban district council, in which Travers Nugent and Mr. Maynard were presently included.

Under cover of these amenities Leslie Chermside rose and, followed by two pairs of observant eyes, left the club. Avoiding the crowded parade, he crossed the pebbly beach to an upturned and discarded boat, and flinging himself down in the shade of it, abandoned himself to his thoughts. Gradually the colour came back to his cheeks, and the agonized expression which Mr. Mallory had surprised yielded to one of dogged determination.

"The prospect of the picnic at that spot is simply horrible, but after all it is a mere detail, and I must go through with it," he murmured presently. "The fact remains that, within limits, I am now free to stay here and thwart the new scheme which I am convinced that Nugent is hatching. If I could have but one glimpse at the cards he holds."

For an hour Leslie lay in the shadow of the boat, vainly striving to penetrate the veil which he felt sure Nugent had thrown over his designs. It was futile to formulate plans for combating them till he had discovered what the designs were. That the Cobra, the big turbine yacht that had been chartered, would still be retained as the principal feature in the programme was probable, since Nugent would naturally be reluctant to waste the expense already incurred, and, except on a vessel controlled by the Maharajah's emissaries, the abduction of Violet Maynard to India would be practically impossible. But how, without the co-operation which he had withdrawn, Nugent could hope to convey an unwilling passenger on board the steamer Leslie could not surmise. He could only wait and watch, in the full knowledge that his former colleague and present antagonist was a man of infinite resource, and endowed with an inborn cunning which it would be folly to despise.

One thing was certain, he told himself, as he rose and strolled back to his lodgings on the main street—day and night he must keep vigil for the appearance of the Cobra off the coast, and he must also cultivate close relations with Violet, so as to learn of anything that might indicate the ruse by which it was intended to inveigle her on board.

To sustain the pretence that he had recently inherited a fortune, and had means which would justify the possession of a large steam yacht, he had established himself, by the advice and introduction of Travers Nugent, at the best and most expensive rooms in the place. Here he shut himself up for the remainder of that day, refraining from going to the club or to the tennis field, and brooding over the resolves and apprehensions which unfitted him, as he knew, for the society of his fellow-men.

By the last post he received an informal note from Violet, inviting him to a picnic tea on the following day. The party was to assemble at the Manor at four o'clock, afterwards making its way on foot to the spot selected, which was within easy reach of the house. Leslie shuddered as he read the concluding words, but having braced himself to sit down and pen an acceptance, he went out in the dusk and posted it.

The next day was favoured with ideal weather for an al fresco entertainment, and when the guests assembled at the appointed hour it was at once evident that Violet's picnic tea had been hailed as a popular function. Every one who had been asked put in an appearance, to the number of about a hundred. Hired conveyances deposited a mixed assortment of residents and season visitors from Ottermouth; a few old-fashioned barouches brought representatives of such of the neighbouring county families as had deigned to recognize the Birmingham magnate; while motor cars in plenty accounted for many of the arrivals.

Among the latter was Mr. Travers Nugent, well-groomed and debonair in his grey suit, and wearing an orchid in his button-hole from one of his own glasshouses at The Hut. On descending from his car he exchanged his motor-cap for a feather-weight Panama, and smilingly confronted the group at the main entrance. Mr. Mallory, who had arrived earlier, took particular notice of that smile, which lasted only just so long as it was wanted for the purpose of responding to the welcome of his host and hostesses. As soon as he had shaken hands with Violet and Miss Sarah Dymmock and Mr. Maynard, Nugent effaced himself unobtrusively among the guests, and Mr. Mallory's observant eyes following him perceived that the smile had given place to a look of preoccupation.

This in turn was chased away by a sudden start and a gleam of satisfaction when, among the last arrivals, Leslie Chermside was seen making his way on foot up the drive. Thence onward Mr. Travers Nugent's air of self-absorption left him; turning to those of his acquaintances nearest him he laid himself out to amuse and interest.

"Now, what does that portend?" the keen old diplomatist muttered under his breath. "It was almost as though Nugent had been afraid that Chermside was not coming, and that he was gratified when at length he appeared. I wonder what is the bond, if bond it is, between the young soldier with the mysterious blank in his life and the clever gentleman with so many irons in the fire that he ought to have burned his fingers long ago. There is something in the wind, but is the youngster from India a dupe or confederate? I would give a good deal to know."

At the word from jovial Montague Maynard the now completed party set out for the picnic ground, a chorus of approval going up at the announcement of the spot selected. Even on a hot summer day the laziest could not object, for, once outside the Manor demesne, a quarter of an hour's saunter through the delightful scenery at the head of the marsh brought them to the little strip of pasture land reclaimed from the swamps, where the tea-tables had been set out in the shade of a group of elms. Cavillers might have complained that the railway embankment skirting the place on one side marred the aesthetic harmony of the whole, but if there were any such they remained discreetly silent.