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LORD STRANLEIGH
ABROAD

BY

ROBERT BARR

Author of “Young Lord Stranleigh,” “Lord Stranleigh,
Philanthropist,” “The Mutable Many,” etc.

WARD, LOCKE & CO., LIMITED

LONDON, MELBOURNE, AND TORONTO

1913

“‘Why did you wish to murder me?’” (Page [189].)

CONTENTS

LORD STRANLEIGH
ABROAD.

——◆——

I.—LORD STRANLEIGH ALL AT SEA.

A few minutes before noon on a hot summer day, Edmund Trevelyan walked up the gang-plank of the steamship, at that moment the largest Atlantic liner afloat. Exactly at the stroke of twelve she would leave Southampton for Cherbourg, then proceed across to Queenstown, and finally would make a bee-line west for New York. Trevelyan was costumed in rough tweed of subdued hue, set off by a cut so well-fitting and distinguished that it seemed likely the young man would be looked upon by connoisseurs of tailoring as the best-dressed passenger aboard. He was followed by Ponderby, his valet, whose usually expressionless face bore a look of dissatisfaction with his lot, as though he had been accustomed to wait upon the nobility, and was now doomed to service with a mere commoner. His lack of content, however, was caused by a dislike to ocean travel in the first place, and his general disapproval of America in the second. A country where all men are free and equal possessed no charms for Ponderby, who knew he had no equal, and was not going to demean himself by acknowledging the possibility of such.

Once on deck, his master turned to him and said—

“You will go, Ponderby, to my suite of rooms, and see that my luggage is placed where it should be, and also kindly satisfy yourself that none of it is missing.”

Ponderby bowed in a dignified manner, and obeyed without a word, while Trevelyan mounted the grand staircase, moving with an easy nonchalance suited to a day so inordinately hot. The prospect of an ocean voyage in such weather was in itself refreshing, and so prone is mankind to live in the present, and take no thought of the morrow, that Trevelyan had quite forgotten the cablegrams he read in the papers on his way down from London, to the effect that New York was on the grill, its inhabitants sweltering—sleeping on the house-tops, in the parks, on the beach at Coney Island, or wherever a breath of air could be had. On the upper deck his slow steps were arrested by an exclamation—

“Isn’t this Mr. Trevelyan?”

The man who made the enquiry wore the uniform of the ship’s company.

“Ah, doctor, I was thinking of you at this moment. I read in the papers that you had been promoted, and I said to myself: ‘After all, this is not an ungrateful world, when the most skilful and most popular medical officer on the Atlantic is thus appreciated.’”

“Ah, you put it delightfully, Trevelyan, but I confess I hesitated about adding, at my time of life, to the burden I carry.”

“Your time of life, doctor! Why you always make me feel an old man by comparison with yourself; yet you’ll find me skipping about the decks like a boy.”

“If you’ll take the right-hand seat at my table, I’ll keep an eye on you, and prevent you from skipping overboard,” laughed the doctor.

“Indeed, that was the boon I intended to crave.”

“Then the seat is yours, Trevelyan. By the way, I read in the newspapers that Evelyn Trevelyan is none other than Lord Stranleigh; but then, of course, you can never believe what you see in the press, can you?”

“Personally, I make no effort to do so. I get my news of the day from Ponderby, who is an inveterate reader of the principal journals favoured by what he calls the ‘upper classes.’ But I assure you that Evelyn Trevelyan is a name that belongs to me, and I wear it occasionally like an old, comfortable-fitting coat.”

“Ah, well, I’ll not give you away. I’ll see you at lunch between here and Cherbourg.” And the doctor hurried away to his duties.

The young man continued his stroll, smiling as he remembered some of the doctor’s excellent stories. He regarded his meeting with that friendly officer as a good omen, but hoped he would encounter no one else who knew him.

The next interruption of his walk proved to be not so pleasant. There came up the deck with nervous tread a shabbily-dressed man, who appeared from ten to fifteen years older than Stranleigh, although in reality there was no great disparity in their ages. His face was haggard and lined with anxiety, and his eyes had that furtive, penetrating glance which distinguishes the inveterate gambler. Stranleigh watched his oncoming with amazement.

The Hon. John Hazel had been a member of some of the most exclusive clubs in London; but whether or not Nature had endowed him with a useful talent, he had become notorious as a reckless cardsharper, quite unscrupulous when it came to obtaining money. No one knew this better than Lord Stranleigh, who had been so often his victim, yet had regarded his losses lightly, and forgiven the Hon. John time and again. But recently this younger son of an ancient and honourable house had committed the unpardonable sin—he had been found out, and had been permitted to resign from all his clubs but one, and from which he was expelled by a committee not so lenient. After that he disappeared. He was done for, so far as England was concerned, and he knew it.

“John, is this possible?” cried Lord Stranleigh, as the other approached.

Hazel stopped, his eyes veiling over, as though he held a hand at poker that was unbeatable.

“I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” he said haughtily.

“I’m glad of that, because I’m Edmund Trevelyan at the moment, and was just hoping I should meet no one on board who would recognise me.”

“I don’t know Edmund Trevelyan, and have no wish to make his acquaintance,” returned the other coldly.

“That’s quite all right, and your wish does you credit. Trevelyan has no desire to force his friendship on any man. Nevertheless, Jack, time was when I helped you out of a hole, and, if occasion arose, I should be glad to do it again.”

“You could have prevented my expulsion from the Camperdown Club, had you but cared to raise a finger,” said the other hotly.

“Hazel, you are mistaken. I did all I could for you, as in other crises of the same nature. The committee proved to be adamant, and rather prided themselves on their independence, as if they were a group of blooming Radicals. The House of Lords isn’t what it was, Jack, as, alas, you may learn, should you ever come into the title of your family, although many people stand between you and it at the present moment. Indeed, Jack, it has been on my conscience that my urgent advocacy prejudiced your case instead of helping it.”

“Ah, well, that’s all past; it doesn’t matter now,” said the other, with a sigh. “I have shaken the dust of England for ever from my feet.”

“The mud, you mean.”

“Oh, I admit I wallowed in the mud, but it was dust when I left London this morning. Ah, we’re off! I must be going.” And he moved away from the rail of the ship, where he had been gazing over the side.

“Going? Where?”

“Where I belong. I’m travelling third-class. The moment the steamer gets under way, I have no right on the cabin deck. Before she left, I took the liberty of a sightseer to wander over the steamship.”

“My dear Jack,” said his former friend, in a grave voice, “this will never do; you cannot cross the Atlantic in the steerage.”

“I have visited my quarters, and find them very comfortable. I have been in much worse places recently. Steerage is like everything else maritime—like this bewilderingly immense steamer, for example—vastly improved since Robert Louis Stevenson took his trip third-class to New York.”

“Well, it is a change for a luxury-loving person like my friend the Hon. John Hazel.”

“It is very condescending of you to call me your friend. Nobody else would do it,” replied the Hon. John bitterly.

“Condescension be hanged! I’m rather bewildered, that’s all, and wish for further particulars. Are you turning over a new leaf, then?”

“A new leaf? A thousand of them! I have thrown away the old book, with its blotches and ink-stains. I’m starting a blank volume that I hope will bear inspection and not shock even the rectitude of the Camperdown Committee.”

“What’s the programme?”

“I don’t quite know yet; it will depend on circumstances. I think it’s the West for me—sort of back-to-the-land business. I yearn to become a kind of moral cowboy. It seems the only thing I’m at all equipped for. I can ride well and shoot reasonably straight.”

“I thought,” said Stranleigh, “that phase of life had disappeared with Bret Harte. Is there any money in your inside pocket?”

“How could there be?”

“Then why not let me grub-stake you, which I believe is the correct Western term.”

“As how, for instance?”

“I’ll secure for you a comfortable cabin, and you will pay the damage when you strike oil out West, so, you see, there’s no humiliating condescension about the offer.”

“I’m sure there isn’t, and it’s very good of you, Stranleigh, but I can’t dress the part.”

“That’s easily arranged. Ponderby always over-dresses me. His idea of this world is that there is London, and the rest of the planet is a wilderness. You could no more persuade him that a decent suit might be made in New York than that I am the worst-dressed man in London. You and I are about the same height and build. Ponderby will have in my mountainous luggage anywhere from twenty-five to forty suits never yet worn by me. I don’t know on what principle he goes, but as the last time we went to America he took twenty-five new suits, and we crossed in a twenty-five thousand ton boat, he is likely to have at least forty-five suits for this forty-five thousand ton steamship, and he will feel as much pleasure in rigging you out as he took in the crowning of the new King.”

“Very good of you, Stranleigh, but I cannot accept.”

“I am pleading for Ponderby’s sake. Besides, there’s one practical point you have overlooked. If you attempt to land from the steerage—travelling under an assumed name, I suppose——”

“Like yourself, Stranleigh.”

“No, I own the name ‘Trevelyan.’ But, as I was saying, if you attempt to land rather shabbily dressed and almost penniless, you will find yourself turned back as an undesirable alien, whereas you can go ashore from the first cabin unquestioned, save for those amazing queries the U.S.A. Government puts to one, the answers to which Ponderby will be charmed to write out for you.”

Hazel without reply walked back to the rail, leaned his arms on it, and fell into deep thought. Stranleigh followed him.

“Give me your ticket,” he said.

Hazel took it from his pocket and handed it over.

“Have you any luggage?”

“Only a portmanteau, which I placed in my bunk. It contains a certain amount of necessary linen.”

“Wait here until I find out what there is to be had in the first cabin.”

Stranleigh went down to the purser, and that overworked official threw him a friendly glance, which nevertheless indicated that his time was valuable.

“My name is Trevelyan,” said the young man.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Trevelyan. You have our premier suite. How do you like your accommodation?”

“I haven’t seen it yet. I have just discovered a friend, a rather eccentric man, who had made up his mind to cross the Atlantic in the steerage. One of those silly bets, you know, which silly young men make in our silly London clubs, and I have persuaded him out of it.”

“Our steerage is supposed to be rather comfortable, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“So he says, but I want his company on deck, and not on the steerage deck at that. Have you got anything vacant along my avenue?”

The purser consulted his written list.

“Nobody with him?”

“He’s quite alone.”

“All the larger cabins are taken, but I can give him No. 4390.”

“I suppose, like your steerage, it is comfortable?” said Stranleigh, with a smile.

“It is, yet it’s not a private hotel like your quarters.”

“Oh, he’ll not grumble. Will you send a steward to carry his portmanteau from the number indicated on this steerage ticket to his new room? Meanwhile, I’ll have transferred to him his luggage that I brought from London.”

The purser rapidly wrote out a new ticket, and took the difference in five-pound notes.

“Are you going to your quarters now?” the purser asked.

“Yes, I must give some instructions to my man.”

“Then it will give me great pleasure to show you the way there,” said the purser, rising and locking the door; and in spite of Stranleigh’s protest against his taking the trouble, he led him to a series of rooms that would have satisfied a much more exacting person than his young lordship. When the purser had returned to his duties, Stranleigh said to Ponderby—

“The Hon. John Hazel is aboard, and his cabin is No. 4390. He had to leave London in a great hurry and without the necessary luggage.”

Ponderby’s eyes lit up with an expression which said—“I knew that would happen sooner or later.” But he uttered no word, and cast down his eyes when he saw his master had noticed the glance. Stranleigh spoke coldly and clearly.

“How many new suits have you provided for me?”

“Thirty-seven, my lord.”

“Very well. Clear out one or two boxes, and pack a dress-suit and two or three ordinary suits; in fact, costume the Hon. John Hazel just as you would costume me. Call a steward, and order the box to be taken to his room. Lay out for him an everyday garb, and get all this done as quickly as possible.”

His lordship proceeded leisurely to the upper deck once more, and found Hazel just as he had left him, except that he was now gazing at the fleeting shore, green and village-studded, of the Isle of Wight.

“Here you are,” said Stranleigh breezily, handing the Hon. John the cabin ticket.

There was a weak strain in Hazel’s character, otherwise he would never had come to the position in which he found himself, and he now exhibited the stubbornness which has in it the infallible signs of giving way.

“I really cannot accept it,” he said, his lower lip trembling perceptibly.

“Tut, tut! It’s all settled and done with. Your room is No. 4390. You will find your bag there, and also a box from my habitation. Come along—I’ll be your valet. Luncheon will be on shortly, and I want your company.”

Stranleigh turned away, and Hazel followed him.

Cabin 4390 could not be compared with the luxurious suite that Stranleigh was to occupy, yet, despite the purser’s hesitation to overpraise it, the cabin was of a size and promise of comfort that would have been found in few liners a decade ago. Ponderby was on hand, and saved his master the fag of valeting, and when finally the Hon. John emerged, he was quite his old jaunty self again—a well-dressed man who would not have done discredit even to the Camperdown Club.

“I have secured a place for you,” said Stranleigh, “next to myself at the doctor’s table. I flatter myself on having made this transfer with more tact than I usually display, for I am somewhat stupid in the main, trusting others to carry out my ideas rather than endeavouring to shine as a diplomatist myself. The purser—the only official aware of the change—thinks you made a bet to go over steerage, and will probably forget all about the matter. The question is, under what name shall I introduce you to the doctor?”

“What would you advise?” asked Hazel. “The name on my steerage ticket is William Jones.”

“Oh, that’s no good as a nom de guerre—too palpably a name chosen by an unimaginative man. I should sail under your own colours if I were you.”

“Good! Then John Hazel I am, and so will remain. As a guarantee of good faith, I promise you not to touch a card all the way across.”

“A good resolution; see that you keep it.” And thus they enjoyed an appetising lunch together, and were regaled with one of the doctor’s best salads.

They got away from Cherbourg before the dinner hour, and after that meal Stranleigh and Hazel walked together on the main deck, until the latter, admitting he was rather fagged after the exciting events of the day, went off to his cabin, and Stranleigh was left alone to smoke a final cigar. He leaned on the rail and gazed meditatively at the smooth sea.

It was an ideal evening, and Stranleigh felt at peace with all the world. There exists a popular belief that the rich are overburdened with care. This may be true while they are in the money-making struggle, but it is not a usual fault when the cash is in the bank or safely invested. Stranleigh occasionally lost money, but an immense amount had been bequeathed him, and he made many millions more than he had parted with, although he claimed this was merely because of a series of flukes, maintaining that, whenever he set to work that part of him known as his brains, he invariably came a cropper.

“You are Mr. Trevelyan, are you not?” said a very musical feminine voice at his elbow. Stranleigh turned in surprise, and seeing there a most charming young woman, he flung his partially consumed cigar into the sea.

“Yes,” he replied, “my name is Trevelyan. How did you know?”

That rare smile came to his lips—a smile, people said, which made you feel instinctively you could trust him; and many ladies who were quite willing to bestow their trust, called it fascinating.

“I am afraid,” said the girl, whose beautiful face was very serious, and whose large dark eyes seemed troubled—“I am afraid that I enacted the part of unintentional eavesdropper. I had some business with the purser—business that I rather shrank from executing. You came to his window just before I did, for I was hesitating.”

“I am sorry,” said Stranleigh, “if I obtruded myself between you and that official. Being rather limited in intelligence, my mind can attend to only one thing at a time, and I must confess I did not see you.”

“I know you did not,” retorted the girl. “There was no obtrusion. You were first comer, and therefore should have been first served, as was the case.”

“I would willingly have given up my place and whatever rights I possessed in the matter, had I known a lady was waiting.”

“I am sure of it. However, your conversation with the purser gave me a welcome respite, and, thinking over the crisis, I determined to consult you before I spoke to him; thus I have taken the unusual step of bringing myself to your notice.”

“In what way can I assist you, madam?” asked Stranleigh, a return of his usual caution showing itself in the instant stiffening of manner and coldness of words.

“I learned you were exchanging, on behalf of a friend, a third-class ticket for a place in the cabin. I judged from this that you are a good-hearted man, and my attention was attracted when you introduced yourself to the purser as Trevelyan, because Trevelyan is my own name.”

“Really?” ejaculated his lordship. “Have you relatives near Wychwood? You are English, are you not?”

“I am English, and a distant connection with the family of Trevelyan, near Wychwood, none of whom, however, I have yet met, unless you happen to belong to that branch.”

“I do,” said Stranleigh. “And now tell me, if you please, what is your difficulty?”

“I wish to ask you if the steerage ticket you gave the purser was taken in part payment for the cabin ticket, or did you forfeit it altogether?”

“That I can’t tell you,” said Stranleigh, with a laugh. “I am not accustomed to the transaction of business, and this little arrangement had to be made quickly.”

Although his lordship spoke lightly and pleasantly the girl appeared to have some difficulty in proceeding with her story. The large eyes were quite evidently filling with tears, and of all things in the world Stranleigh loathed an emotional scene. The girl was obviously deeply depressed, whatever the cause.

“Well,” he said jauntily and indeed encouragingly, “we were talking of first and third-class tickets. What have you to say about them?”

“I speak of the steerage ticket only. If you haven’t forfeited it, you have the right to demand its return.”

“I suppose so. Still, it is of no particular use to me.”

“No, but it would be vital to me. Coming down in the train from London, my purse was stolen, or perhaps I lost it when giving up my railway ticket. So I am now without either money or transportation voucher.”

“Was it for cabin passage?”

“Yes.”

“In that case you will have no difficulty; your name will be on the purser’s list. Do you know the number of your state-room?”

“No, I do not, and, so far as my name goes, I can expect no help from that quarter, because the name I travel under is not Miss Trevelyan.”

“Good gracious,” cried Stranleigh, “there are three of us! This ship should be called Incognita. Was your money also in that purse?”

“Yes, all my gold and bank-notes, and I am left with merely some silver and coppers.”

“Then the third-class ticket would not be of the slightest use to you. As I had to point out to another person on a similar occasion, you would not be allowed to land, so we will let that third-class ticket drop into oblivion. If you are even distantly related to the Trevelyan family, I could not think of allowing you to travel steerage. Are you alone?”

“Yes,” she murmured almost inaudibly.

“Well, then, it is better that you should make all arrangements with the purser yourself. As I told you, I am not particularly good at business affairs. You give to him the name under which you purchased your ticket. You bought it in London, I suppose?”

“Yes,” she murmured again.

“Mention to him the name you used then. He will look up his list, and allot you the state-room you paid for. It is probable he may have the power to do this without exacting any excess fare; but if such is not the case, settle with him for your passage, and take his receipt. The money will doubtless be refunded at New York. Here is a fifty-pound note, and you can carry out the transaction much better than I. But stop a moment. Do you remember how much you paid for the room?”

“Twenty-five pounds.”

“That will leave you only the remaining twenty-five for New York, which is an expensive place, so we must make the loan a hundred pounds. Leave me your address, and if you do not hear from your people before that loan is expended, you may have whatever more you need. You will, of course, repay me at your convenience. I will give you the name of my New York agents.”

The eyes had by this time brimmed over, and the girl could not speak. Stranleigh took from his pocket-book several Bank of England notes. Selecting two for fifty pounds each, he handed them to her.

“Good-night!” he said hurriedly.

“Good-night!” she whispered.

After dinner on the day the liner left Queenstown, Lord Stranleigh sat in a comfortable chair in the daintily furnished drawing-room of his suite. A shaded electric light stood on the table at his elbow, and he was absorbed in a book he had bought before leaving London. Stranleigh was at peace with all the world, and his reading soothed a mind which he never allowed to become perturbed if he could help it. He now thanked his stars that he was sure of a week undisturbed by callers and free from written requests. Just at this moment he was amazed to see the door open, and a man enter without knock or other announcement. His first thought was to wonder what had become of Ponderby—how had the stranger eluded him? It was a ruddy-faced, burly individual who came in, and, as he turned round to shut the door softly, Stranleigh saw that his thick neck showed rolls of flesh beneath the hair. His lordship placed the open book face downwards on the table, but otherwise made no motion.

“Lord Stranleigh, I presume?” said the stranger.

Stranleigh made no reply, but continued gazing at the intruder.

“I wish to have a few words with you, and considered it better to come to your rooms than to accost you on deck. What I have to say is serious, and outside we might have got into an altercation, which you would regret.”

“You need have no fear of any altercation with me,” said Stranleigh.

“Well, at least you desire to avoid publicity, otherwise you would not be travelling under an assumed name.”

“I am not travelling under an assumed name.”

The stout man waved his hand in deprecation of unnecessary talk.

“I will come to the point at once,” he said, seating himself without any invitation.

“I shall be obliged if you do so.”

The new-comer’s eyes narrowed, and a threatening expression overspread his rather vicious face.

“I want to know, Lord Stranleigh, and I have a right to ask, why you gave a hundred pounds to my wife.”

“To your wife?” echoed Stranleigh in amazement.

“Yes. I have made a memorandum of the numbers, and here they are—two fifty-pound notes. Bank of England. Do you deny having given them to her?”

“I gave two fifty-pound notes to a young lady, whose name, I understood, was Trevelyan—a name which I also bear. She informed me, and somehow I believed her, that her purse containing steamship ticket and money, had been lost or stolen.”

A wry smile twisted the lips of the alleged husband.

“Oh, that’s the story is it? Would you be surprised if the young lady in question denied that in toto?”

“I should not be astonished at anything,” replied his lordship, “if you are in possession of the actual bank-notes I gave to her.”

“She describes your having taken these flimsies from a number of others you carry in your pocket. Would you mind reading me the number of others you carry in your pocket. Would you mind reading me the number of the next note in your collection?”

“Would you mind reading me the numbers on the notes you hold?” asked Stranleigh, in cool, even tones, making no sign of producing his own assets.

“Not at all,” replied the other; whereupon he read them. The notes were evidently two of a series, and the numbers differed only by a single unit. Stranleigh nonchalantly took out his pocket-book, and the intruder’s eyes glistened as he observed its bulk. Stranleigh glanced at the number on the top bank-note, and replaced his pocket-book, leaning back in his easy chair.

“You are quite right,” he said. “Those are the notes I gave to Miss Trevelyan.”

“I asked why.”

“I told you why.”

“That cock-and-bull story won’t go down,” said the other. “Even the richest men do not fling money about in such reckless fashion. They do it only for a favour given or a favour expected.”

“I dare say you are right. But come to the point, as you said you would.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I don’t know that it is. You want money—as large an amount as can be squeezed from a man supposedly wealthy. You use your good-looking wife as a decoy——”

“You are casting aspersion on a lady quite unknown to you!” cried his visitor, with well-assumed indignation.

“Pardon me, you seem to be casting aspersion on her whom you say is your wife. I don’t know how these notes got into your hands, but I’d be willing to stake double the amount that the lady is quite innocent in the matter. She certainly is so far as I am concerned. If the lady is your wife, what is her name? She told me she was travelling under a different title from that written on the lost ticket.”

“I am not ashamed of my name, if you are of yours. My name is Branksome Poole.”

“Ah, then she is Mrs. Branksome Poole?”

“Naturally.”

Stranleigh reached out and drew towards him a passenger list. Running his eye down the column of cabin passengers, he saw there the names: “Mr. and Mrs. Branksome Poole.”

“Well, Mr. Poole, we come to what is the final question—how much?”

“If you give me the roll of Bank of England notes which you exhibited a moment ago, I shall say nothing further about the matter, and, understand me, there is no coercion about my request. You may accept or decline, just as you like. I admit that my wife and I do not get along well together, and although I consider I have a grievance against you, I am not assuming the injured husband rôle at all. If you decline, I shall make no scandal aboard ship, but will wait and take action against you the moment we arrive in New York.”

“Very considerate of you, Mr. Poole. I understand that in New York the fountains of justice are perfectly pure, and that the wronged are absolutely certain of obtaining redress. I congratulate you on your choice of a battle-ground. Of course, you haven’t the slightest thought of levying blackmail, but I prefer to spend my money on the best legal talent in America rather than trust any of it to you. It’s a mere case of obstinacy on my part. And now, if you will kindly take your departure, I will get on with my book; I am at a most interesting point.”

“I shall not take my departure,” said Poole doggedly, “until we have settled this matter.”

“The matter is settled.” Stranleigh touched an electric button. An inside door opened, and Ponderby entered, looking in amazement at his master’s visitor.

“Ponderby,” said Lord Stranleigh, “in future I desire you to keep this outer door locked, so that whoever wishes to see me may come through your room. Take a good look at this gentleman, and remember he is not to be allowed within my suite again on any pretext. Meanwhile, show him into the corridor. Take him through your room, and afterwards return and lock this other door.”

Then occurred an extraordinary thing. Ponderby, for the first time in his life, disobeyed his master’s instructions. Approaching the seated Poole, he said—

“Will you go quietly?”

“I’ll not go, quietly or otherwise,” answered the man stubbornly.

Ponderby opened the door by which Poole had entered, then, seizing him by the collar, lifted him, led him to the door, and pitched him out of the room across the corridor. Returning, he closed, locked, and bolted the door.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the panting Ponderby to his amazed master, “but I dare not take him through my room. His wife is there. She appears to have followed him. Anyhow, she recognised his voice, and told me hurriedly why she came. I locked the door to the passage, for, as I heard her story, I felt it might be serious, and at least you ought to hear what she has to say before you acted. I hope you will excuse the liberty I have taken, my lord.”

“Ponderby, as I have often told you, you are a gem! I will go into your room, but you must remain there while I talk to this lady. No more tête-à-tête conversations with the unprotected for me.”

“I think she is honest, my lord, but in deep trouble.”

“Reeling off what she had to say as if it were a task learned by rote.”

“I am glad to have my opinion corroborated by so good a judge of character as yourself, Ponderby.”

They went together to the valet’s sitting-room, and there sat the woman, with her dark head bowed upon arms outstretched along the table, her shoulders shaking. She was plainly on the verge of hysterics, if, indeed, she had not already crossed the boundary line.

“Here is Mr. Trevelyan, madam,” said Ponderby. “You wanted to speak with him.”

She raised her head, dabbed her wet eyes nervously with her handkerchief, and made an effort to pull herself together. When she spoke, it was with rapid utterance, reeling off what she had to say as if it were a task learned by rote.

“I have at last come to the end of my tether, and to-night, if there is no prospect of freedom, I shall destroy myself. Before this I have often thought of suicide, but I am a cowardly person, and cling to life. Five years ago my father went out to America bent on a motor tour; he took me with him. Among other servants he engaged Charles Branksome, who had proved himself an expert chauffeur. He was English, and came to us well recommended. He intimated that he was of good family, but had his living to earn. He was handsome then, and had a most ingratiating manner. The person who called on you to-night bears little resemblance to the Branksome of five years ago. I had often gone motoring with him while in America, and I was young, and rather flighty: a foolish person altogether. Perhaps you read about it in the papers. I cannot dwell on the appalling mistake I made.

“We became very well acquainted, and at last he professed to have fallen in love with me, and I believed him. We were secretly married before a justice of the peace in America, and I was not long left in doubt as to the disaster that had befallen me. His sole desire was money. My father being wealthy, he hoped to get all he cared to demand. My father, however, is a very stubborn man, and, after his first shock on finding the episode made much of by the American papers, he refused to pay Branksome a penny, and returned forthwith to England. I never saw him again, nor could I get into communication with him. Two years after my mad act he died, and never even mentioned me in his will.

“My husband is a liar, a thief, a forger, a gambler, and a brute. He has maltreated me so that I have been left once or twice for dead, but finally he broke me to his will. He is known as a cheat in every gambling resort in Europe, and on the Atlantic liners. Lately I have been used as a decoy in the way of which you have had experience. Somehow he learned—indeed, that is his business—who were the rich travellers on this boat. He thought, as this was the newest and largest steamship on the ocean, its staff would not at first be thoroughly organised, and that he might escape detection. He pointed you out to me as you came on board, and said you were Lord Stranleigh, travelling as Mr. Trevelyan. The rest you know. He forced me to hand to him the money you had given, and told me it might be necessary for me to go on the witness-stand when we reached New York, but, as you were very wealthy, it is not likely you would allow it to go so far as that. His plan was to demand a very moderate sum at first, which was to be a mere beginning, and each exaction would be but a prelude for the next. He is old at the game, and is wanted now by the authorities in New York for blackmailing a very well-known millionaire.”

“Do you know the name of the millionaire?”

She gave him the information.

“Very well, madam. In the first place, you must do nothing reckless or foolish. I shall see that this man is detained at New York on some pretext or other—in fact, I shall arrange for this by wireless. You should journey to one of the states where divorces are easily obtained. If you will permit me, I shall be your banker. Even if Branksome got free in New York, it will cost him dear, and his supplies are precarious. You should experience no difficulty in evading him with money in your possession. Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes!”

“That’s settled, then. Ponderby, look into the corridor, and see that the way of escape is clear.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, rising, “to cause you such trouble and inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience at all,” said Stranleigh, with his usual nonchalance, “and I never allow myself to be troubled.”

Ponderby reported the way open, and the lady disappeared silently along the passage. Stranleigh betook himself to Room 4390, and had a long talk with the Hon. John Hazel, who, for the first time during the voyage, seemed to be enjoying himself.

Next morning the Hon. John paced up and down one deck after another, as if in search of someone. On an almost deserted lower deck he met the person whom he sought.

“I beg your pardon,” said Hazel in his suavest manner, “but I am trying to find three men as tired of this journey as I am. I have never been on a voyage before, and I confess I miss London and the convenience of its clubs. A quiet little game of poker in the smoking-room might help to while away the time.”

The keen eyes of Mr. Branksome Poole narrowed, as was a custom of theirs, and he took in the points of the man who addressed him.

“I am not much of a hand at poker,” he said hesitatingly and untruthfully.

The Hon. John laughed.

“Don’t mind that in the least,” he said. “The requirement for this game is cash. I have approached several men, and they object to playing for money; but I confess I don’t give a rap for sitting at a card-table unless there’s something substantial on.”

“I’m with you there,” agreed the stout man, his eyes glistening at the thought of handling a pack of cards once more. His momentary hesitation had been because he feared someone might recognise him, for he felt himself quite able to cope with anyone when it came to the shuffle and the deal. They were a strangely contrasted pair as they stood there, the pleb and the patrician—the pleb grim and serious, the patrician carrying off the situation with a light laugh—yet it was hard to say which was the more expert scoundrel when it came to cards.

A little later four men sat down to a table. Hazel ordered a new pack of cards from the smoke-room steward, broke the seal, and pulled off the wrapper.

It is not worth while to describe the series of games: only the one matters. At first Poole played very cautiously, watching out of the tail of his eye for any officer who might spot him as one who had been ordered off the green, and so expose him for what he was. The consequence of this divided attention was soon apparent. He lost heavily, and finally he drew a couple of fifty-pound notes from his pocket-book. He fingered them for a moment as if loath to part with paper so valuable.

“Where’s that steward?” he asked.

“What do you want?” demanded Hazel, as though impatient for the game to go on.

“Change for a fifty.”

“I’ll change it for you.” And the Hon. John drew from his pocket a handful of gold and five-pound bank-notes, counted out fifty pounds, and shoved them across the table to Poole, who, still hesitating, was forced reluctantly to give up the big bank-note. Now Poole began to play in earnest, but still luck was against him, and soon the second fifty-pound note was changed, for they were playing reasonably high. Hazel, after glancing at the number on the note, thrust it carelessly into his waistcoat pocket alongside its brother, as if it were of no more account than a cigarette paper. Little did the pleb dream that he was up against a man of brains. Hazel now possessed the two bank-notes that could have been used in evidence against Lord Stranleigh, and he drew a sigh of satisfaction. Poole only saw that here was a man, evidently careless of money, possessing plenty of it, and extremely good-natured. He had already recognised him as an aristocrat, and expected that, whatever happened, he would treat it with a laugh, and perhaps leave the table, so the pleb now began some fine work. Two games were played in silence, and in the third it was the deal of Branksome Poole. Hazel watched him like a beast of prey, conscious of every crooked move, yet he did not seem in the least to be looking. He gazed at the cards dealt him, rose to his feet, and spread the hand face upward on the table.

“Sir, you are cheating,” he said crisply.

“You lie!” roared Branksome Poole, turning, nevertheless, a greenish yellow, and moistening his parched lips. At the sound of the loud voice, a steward came hurrying in.

“Show your hand, if you dare!” challenged Hazel. “You have dealt yourself——” And here he named the concealed cards one after another. Poole made an effort to fling his hand into the rest of the pack, but Hazel stopped him.

“Show your hand! Show your hand!” he demanded. “These two gentlemen will witness whether I have named the cards correctly or not. Steward, ask the chief officer to come here, or, if he is not on duty, speak to the captain.”

The steward disappeared, and shortly returned with the chief officer, to whom Hazel briefly and graphically related what had happened.

“Will you come with me to the captain’s room?” requested the chief officer.

Branksome Poole had been through the mill before, and he offered no resistance.

When the wireless came in touch with the American shore, a dispatch reached police headquarters in New York, informing them that Charles Branksome, wanted for blackmailing Erasmus Blank, the millionaire, was detained by the ship’s authority for cheating at cards.

When the great vessel arrived at her berth, Mrs. Branksome Poole was quite unmolested as she took her ticket for the West. She was amply supplied with money, and among her newly-acquired funds were two fifty-pound notes which had been previously in her possession.

II.—AN AUTOMOBILE RIDE.

When Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood came to New York under his family name of Trevelyan, he had intended to spend several weeks in that interesting metropolis, but newspaper men speedily scattered his incognito to the winds, and, what with interviewers, photographers, funny paragraphists and the like, the young lord’s life was made a burden to him. Despite his innate desire to be polite to everyone, he soon found it impossible to receive even a tenth part of those who desired speech with him. This caused no diminution of interviews or special articles regarding his plans, and his object in revisiting America. The sensational papers alleged that he had untold millions to invest; that he had placed cash on all the available projects in Europe, and now proposed to exploit the United States in his insatiable desire to accumulate more wealth.

Stranleigh changed his quarters three times, and with each move adopted a new name. He endured it all with imperturbable good-nature, despite the intense heat, but Ponderby was disgusted with the state of affairs, and wished himself and his master back once more in that quiet village known as London.

“By Jove! Ponderby,” said Stranleigh, “they say three moves are as bad as a fire, and the temperature to-day seems to corroborate this, for we are making our third move. Have you anything to suggest?”

“I should suggest, my lord,” said Ponderby, with as much dignity as the sweltering day would allow, “that we return to London.”

“A brilliant and original idea, Ponderby. Many thanks. Go down at once to the steamship office, and book the best accommodation you can get on the first big liner leaving New York.”

Ponderby departed instantly, with a deep sigh of relief.

Stranleigh’s life had been made more of a burden to him than was necessary through the indefatigable exertions of a fellow countryman, whose name was Wentworth Parkes. This individual brought with him a letter of introduction from the Duke of Rattleborough. Rattleborough was an acquaintance, but not a particular friend of Stranleigh’s; nevertheless, a Duke overtops a mere Earl in social eminence, much as the Singer building overtops the structure next to it.

Wentworth Parkes told Stranleigh he had been in America for something more than a year. He had been very successful, making plenty of money, but expending it with equal celerity. Now he determined to get hold of something that contained princely possibilities for the future. This he had secured by means of an option on the Sterling Motor Company at Detroit, and the plant alone, he alleged, was worth more than the capital needed to bring the factory up to its full output. J. E. Sterling, he went on to explain, knew more about automobile designing than anyone else in the world, notwithstanding the fact that he was still a young man. He would undoubtedly prove to be the true successor of Edison, and everyone knew what fortunes had come to those who interested themselves in the products of the great Thomas Alva, who up to date had proved to be the most successful money-making inventor the world had ever seen, to which Lord Stranleigh calmly agreed. Well, J. E. Sterling was just such another, and all a man required to enter the combination, was the small sum of one hundred thousand dollars. This would purchase a share in the business which might be sold within a year or two for millions. Detroit was the centre of automobile manufacturing in America; a delightful city to live in; the finest river in the world running past its doors, with a greater tonnage of shipping than passed through the Suez Canal.

Mr. Parkes was a glib and efficient talker, who might have convinced anyone with money to spare, but he felt vaguely that his fluency was not producing the intended effect on Lord Stranleigh. His difficulty heretofore had been to obtain access to men of means, and now that he had got alongside the most important of them all, he was nonplussed to notice that his eloquence somehow missed its mark. Stranleigh remained scrupulously courteous, but was quite evidently not in the least interested. So shrewd a man as Parkes might have known that it is not easy to arouse enthusiasm in a London clubman under the most favourable auspices, and this difficulty is enormously increased when the person attacked is already so rich that any further access of wealth offers no temptation to him.

Parkes had come to believe that the accumulation of gold was the only thing the average man really cared about, so he failed, by moving against the dead wall of Stranleigh’s indifference towards money, whereas he might have succeeded had he approached the sentimental side of the young man. Indeed, Mr. Wentworth Parkes seemed to catch a glimmering of this idea as his fairy visions of the future fell flat, so he reversed his automobile talk, and backed slowly out.

Conversation lagging, his lordship asked a few casual questions about the Duke of Rattleborough and other persons he knew in London, but if any of these queries were intended to embarrass his visitor, Stranleigh’s failure was equal to that of Parkes himself. The latter answered all enquiries so promptly and correctly that Stranleigh inwardly chided himself for his latent distrust of the man who now, quick to see how the land lay, got his motor car in position once more, but took another direction. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew a slight sigh.

“You see,” he said, in a discouraged tone, “a person brought up as I have been, to do nothing in particular that is of any use to the world, finds himself at a great disadvantage in a hustling land like the United States, where the fellows are all so clever, and have been trained from their very boyhood to be alert business men. I have a good thing in this option, and if once I got upon my feet, I could soon build up a great and profitable business. My chief trouble is to convince any capitalist of this, and if he asks me whether or not the scheme will produce a fortune within six months or a year, I am forced to admit there is little chance of it. An American wishes to turn over his money quickly; a long look into futurity is not for him. He wishes to buy one railway on Monday, another on Tuesday, amalgamate them on Wednesday, and sell out the stock to the public at several millions profit on Thursday, then rake in the boodle on Friday, which proves an unlucky day for the investors. When I truthfully confess it will be a year before I get fairly under way, I am immediately at a discount. Capitalists won’t listen any further.”

Parkes saw that for the first time during the interview Lord Stranleigh began to show interest, reserved though it was.

“Do you know anything about cars?” asked his lordship.

“I can take apart any motor in the market, and put it together again, always leaving it a little better than when I found it.”

“And this machine—invented by the Detroit man—does it fill the bill?”

“It’s the best motor in the world to-day,” asserted Parkes, with a return of his old confidence.

Stranleigh smiled slightly.

“I think,” he said, “you have been very successful in catching the enthusiasm of America. You deal glibly with superlatives. Mr. Sterling is the most remarkable man on earth, Detroit the most beautiful city on the globe, and your motor-car beats the universe.”

“Well, my lord, I don’t disclaim the superlatives, but I insist on their truth. As I said, I deal in truth, and have suffered somewhat in pocket by doing so.”

A slight shade of perplexity came into the young earl’s face. There was something deferential in the tone used by Parkes when he enunciated the phrase “my lord,” which Stranleigh did not like. Neither phrase nor tone would have been used by any person in his own circle of acquaintance addressing another in the same set. His former distrust was again aroused. As he remained silent, Parkes went on—

“You need not take my word for the automobile, which after all is the crux of the situation. I have one of them here in New York. I tested it very fully on the way from Detroit to this city, travelling in it the whole distance. Let me take you for a drive. You doubtless know all about a motor-car, for I was told in London that you owned at least a dozen of them.”

“I daresay it’s true. I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I am so unfortunate as to have only a slight knowledge of their mechanics. I have driven a good deal, but not being so energetic as Prince Henry of Prussia, I leave details to my chauffeurs.”

“Very good. You are doubtless well acquainted with the merits of a car from the owner’s point of view. Come out with me in this Detroit motor, and I will be your chauffeur, or you may drive the machine yourself, if you remember that in this country you keep to the right side of the road.”

Thus the appointment was made, and was kept by Lord Stranleigh. At the end of his run, he said to Parkes—

“The car seems to be a satisfactory piece of construction, but I own two or three American cars in London, any one of which, I think, is equally good; in fact, as Mark Twain said about his Jumping Frog—‘I see no points about this frog different from any other frog.’ However, I will consider your proposal, and will let you know the result. Meanwhile, many thanks for a most interesting ride.”

Stranleigh sauntered down town, and entered a cable office.

“Can I send a message to London, and leave a deposit here for the reply, that it may not cost my London friend anything?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Stranleigh wrote—

“Duke of Rattleborough, Camperdown Club, London.

“A man calling himself Wentworth Parkes presented a letter of introduction from you to me. Please cable whether or not he is reliable.”

Two days later, Stranleigh received a reply—

“Letter a forgery. Parkes was my valet for three years, then bolted, leaving a lot of little things behind him, but not if they were portable and valuable. Believe he is now abroad, though the London police are yearning for him. Rattleborough.”

Now began the persistent pursuit of Stranleigh, which culminated in his sending Ponderby down to the steamship office to buy tickets for England. The young man said nothing to anyone of the cablegram he had received, nor did he inform the police of London the whereabouts of their quarry. He rather pitied the poor wretch, as he called him, but he had no use for a thief and a liar, so he refused to hold further communication with him, or to make any explanation. Parkes, finding he could not gain admission to Stranleigh, took to sending letters by special messenger, first adopting an aggrieved tone, a reproachful suggestion of injured innocence running through his correspondence like a minor note in a piece of music; then he became the victim of an unscrupulous millionaire, asserting that Stranleigh had promised to finance the proposed company, and breathing threats of legal proceedings. Indeed, as the recipient read these later communications, he realised they were evidently written with a view to publicity in law courts, for there emanated from them sentiments of great patriotism. The United States, Stranleigh learned, would not put up with his villainy, as would have been the case with legal proceedings in decadent England, where judges were under the thumb of a debased aristocracy.

Stranleigh had no ambition to appear in the courts of either country, so he removed from one hotel to another, but apparently he was watched, for Parkes ran him down wherever he betook himself. Thus we come to the moment when the sedate but overjoyed Ponderby returned with the steamship tickets, which Stranleigh thrust into his pocket.

“Shall I pack up now, my lord?”

“I wish you would. The valet of the hotel will assist you. Prepare three boxes; one for yourself and two for me, filling mine with such clothing as I should take were I going to visit a friend in the country for a week or two. Place the other luggage in charge of the manager of the hotel, and say I will telegraph when I make up my mind where it is to be sent.”

And then, to Ponderby’s amazement, the young man left for Boston, and took passage in the steamer for St. John, New Brunswick.

“You see, Ponderby,” said his lordship, when they got out into the ocean, “the estimable Parkes, if he is watching us, is already aware that you have booked for Southampton. He may possibly set the law in motion, and appear with some emissaries thereof aboard the liner before she sails, so we might be compelled to remain in this country which he so ardently loves.”

“But the steamship tickets, my lord? They cost a lot of money.”

“Quite so, my economical Ponderby, but remember for your consolation that when you step ashore from this boat, you will be under the British flag. You may telegraph to the company and tell them to sell the tickets, meanwhile sending them by post to New York. Here they are. Whatever money the company returns, is to be retained by you further to mitigate your disappointment. I have no doubt that in thus bolting for Canada you feel like a culprit escaping from justice, but we are only escaping from Parkes. Having pestered me as much about Detroit as he has done, that city will be the last place in which he is likely to look for me. We are making for Detroit, Ponderby, by the most roundabout route I could choose, seeing that the Panama Canal is not yet open, and thus I am unable to reach the autometropolis by way of San Francisco.”

After passing through Canada, Lord Stranleigh settled himself very comfortably in a luxurious suite of rooms situated near the top storey of a luxurious hotel in the city of the Straits, under the assumed commonplace name of Henry Johnson. The windows of his apartment afforded wide and interesting views of skyscrapers and noble public edifices, with a wilderness of roofs extending towards the misty horizon to the west, north, and east, while to the south flowed the majestic river, its blue surface enlivened by stately steamers and picturesque sailing craft.

The gloomy valet did not share his master’s admiration of the scene. Ponderby was heart and soul a Londoner, and although forced to admit that the Thames was grey and muddy, and its shipping for the most part sombre and uncouth, that tidal water remained for him the model of all other streams. He was only partially consoled by the fact that five cents brought him across to the Canadian shore, where he might inhale deep breaths of air that fluttered the Union Jack.

Stranleigh, confident that he had shaken off pursuit, enjoyed himself in a thoroughly democratic manner, sailing up stream and down, on one of the pearl white passenger boats, that carried bands which played the immortal airs of Sousa.

He began his second week in Detroit by engaging a motor to make a tour of the motor manufacturing district. He was amazed at the size and extent of the buildings, and recognised, among the names painted thereon, the designation of cars that were familiar to him. He had come to believe Parkes such an untruthful person, that he had taken a big discount from everything he said, and so was unprepared to find the reality far in advance of the description. However, he saw no sign bearing the name of the Sterling Motor Company, so asked his chauffeur to convey him thither. The chauffeur, pondering a moment, was forced to admit that he had never heard of the firm.

“Then be so good,” requested Stranleigh, “as to drop into one of these offices and enquire. It is likely that someone will know the names of all other companies in the same line of manufacture.”

“I don’t doubt,” said the chauffeur, “that they know all about it, but it wouldn’t be business to direct a possible customer to a rival firm.”

Stranleigh smiled.

“I have not been in this country so long as you have,” he said, “but I think you will find an American business man ignores rivalry when he has an opportunity of doing an act of courtesy.”

The chauffeur drew up at a huge factory and went inside. Returning very promptly, he informed his fare that they knew of no Sterling Motor Company, but there was in Woodbridge Street a young engineer named J. E. Sterling, who, they believed, made motor-cars.

“J. E. Sterling! That’s the man I want. Where is Woodbridge Street?”

“Right away down town; next door, as you might say, to the river front.”

“Very good; we’ll go there. Just drive past Mr. Sterling’s place, for if I do not like the look of it I shall not go in.”

By and by they turned into Woodward Avenue, and raced down town at a speed which Stranleigh thought must surely exceed the legal limit, if there was one. Woodbridge Street proved to be crowded with great lumbering trucks, loaded with vegetables for the most part, and among these vehicles the chauffeur threaded his way cautiously. They passed a small, rather insignificant shop, above whose window was painted—

“J. E. Sterling. Motor Engineer. Repairs
promptly executed. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

When the chauffeur came to a halt a little further on, Stranleigh said—

“The place doesn’t look very inviting, but as Mr. Sterling guarantees satisfaction, I think it but right to call upon him. I sha’n’t need you any more to-day.”

The door being open, Stranleigh walked in unannounced. A two-seated runabout, evidently brand new, stood by the window, where it could be viewed by passers-by. Further down the room rested a chassis, over which two men, one middle-aged and the other probably twenty-five, were bending, with tools in their hands. They were dressed in grease-stained blue overalls, and they looked up as Stranleigh entered.

“I wish to see Mr. J. E. Sterling,” he said.

“My name is Sterling,” replied the younger man, putting down his tools, and coming forward.

“I understood,” went on Stranleigh, “that there was a Sterling Motor Car Company.”

“There will be,” answered the young man confidently, “but that’s in the sweet by and by. It hasn’t materialised so far. What can I do for you?”

“Well, you can give me some information regarding J. E. Sterling. I want to learn if it tallies with what I have heard.”

The young man laughed.

“It depends on who has been talking about me. I daresay you have been told things that might require explanation.”

“I heard nothing but praise,” his lordship assured him. “It was said you were the true successor of Thomas Alva Edison.”

Sterling laughed even more heartily than before.

“I’m afraid they were getting at you. A man may be a creditable inventor, and a good, all-round engineer without being able to hold a candle to Edison. Are you looking for an automobile?”

“No; as I told you at first, I am looking for J. E. Sterling.”

“I was going to say that I am not yet prepared to supply cars. I do repairing and that sort of thing, merely to keep the wolf from the door, and leave me a little surplus to expend in my business. My real work, however, is experimenting, and when I am able to turn out a machine that satisfies me, my next business will be to form a company, for one can’t do anything in this trade without capital.”

“The competition must be intense.”

“It is, but there’s always room for a first-rate article, and the production of a first-rate article is my ambition.”

“Is that your work in the window?”

“Yes.”

“Does it come up to your expectations?”

The young man’s face grew serious; his brow wrinkled almost into a frown, and he remained silent for a few moments.

“Well, I can’t exactly say that it does,” he answered at last, “still, I think the faults I have found can be remedied with a little patience. On the other hand, I fear the improvement I have put in this car may not be as great as I thought when I was working at it.”

Lord Stranleigh looked at the young man with evident approval; his frankness and honesty commended themselves to him.

“Do you mind showing me your improvement and explaining its function?”

“Not at all. You will remember, however, that this exhibition is confidential, for I have not yet patented the mechanism.”

“I shall not mention to anyone what you show me. You asked me a moment ago if I wished to buy an automobile, and I said I did not. I have made a little money in my time, but mostly, it seems to me, by flukes. I do not pretend to be a business man, yet such is the conceit of humanity that I wish to invest some of my money to back my own judgment. If I lose the cash, it won’t cripple me to any appreciable extent. On the other hand, should the investment prove satisfactory, I shall have more faith in my judgment than has hitherto been the case. In any event, I promise to assist you in the formation of your company.”

“That’s all right!” cried the young engineer, with enthusiasm. “My own judgment of men is frequently at fault, but somehow I’d stake my bottom dollar on you. Come over to the window, and I’ll show you how the wheels go round.”

The two men approached the car in the window, and as they did so a third person on the pavement outside stopped suddenly, and regarded them with evident astonishment. Neither of those inside saw him, but if one or the other had looked through the glass, he would have recognised the sinister face of Wentworth Parkes who, having satisfied himself as to the visitor’s identity, turned away and retraced his steps.

Sterling lifted up a leather curtain which hung down in front from the passenger’s seat and disclosed a line of three upright pegs, rising two or three inches from the floor of the car. They were concealed when the curtain was lowered.

“If you give the matter any thought,” said Sterling, “you will discover that the passenger in an automobile is in rather a helpless position. His chauffeur may faint, or even die at his wheel from heart failure, as has been the case in several instances I know of, or he may be drunk, and therefore unreasonable or obstinate, driving the car with danger to all concerned, yet if his master attempt to displace him while the car is going at high speed, disaster is certain. Now, the centre peg here will stop the engine and put on the brakes. A pressure by the foot on the right-hand peg turns the car to the right; and on the left-hand to the left. In the ordinary car the passenger can do nothing to save himself, but here he may stop the car dead, or, if he prefers it, may disconnect the steering wheel, and guide the car at his will.”

“Why, I think that’s an excellent device!” cried Stranleigh.

“I thought so, too, but there are disadvantages. The crises in which it could be brought to play are rare. As a general rule, a chauffeur is much more to be trusted than the owner, and if the owner happens to be a nervous man, he might interfere, with deplorable results.”

“Yes,” said Stranleigh, “it’s like the pistol in Texas. You may not need it, but when you do you want it very badly. Has anyone else seen this contrivance?”

“No one except my assistant.”

“Could you lend me this car to-morrow?”

“Certainly.”

“Then place the car in charge of a competent chauffeur, who knows nothing of your safety device, and send it up to my hotel at eleven o’clock. Tell him to ask for Henry Johnson. I’ll take a little trip into the country, where I can test the car on some unfrequented road.”

“Better cross the river to Canada,” said Sterling, with a smile. “Things are quiet over there.”

“Very well,” agreed Stranleigh. “You are a busy man, and I have taken up a considerable amount of your time. You must allow me to pay you for it.”

The young man’s face grew red underneath its spots of grease, and he drew back a step.

“You have spent your own time to an equal amount, so we’ll allow one expenditure to balance the other.”

“My time is of no account. I’m a loafer.”

“I could not accept any money, sir.”

The two looked at one another for a moment, and gentlemen understand each other even though one wears the greasy clothes of a mechanic.

“I beg your pardon,” said Stranleigh, softly. “Now, let me ask you one question. Have you given an option on this business to anyone?”

Sterling glanced up in surprise.

“Why, yes, I did give an option to an Englishman. By the way, you’re English, are you not?”

“I was born over there.”

“This Englishman wasn’t your sort. He was a most plausible talker, and as I told you, my judgment of men is sometimes at fault. I gave him an option for two months, but I think all he wanted was to get an automobile for nothing. He said he represented a syndicate of English capitalists, some of whom were in New York, and he borrowed the only car I had completed at that time. That was four months ago. Like the preacher after the futile collection, I wanted to get back my hat at least, but although I wrote letter after letter, I never received any answer. It wasn’t worth my while to set the police on his track, so I tried to forget him, and succeeded until you spoke of an option just now.”

“That agreement lapsed two months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then write out an option for me, good for a week. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars down, to be forfeited if I fail to do what I promise.”

“I’ll give you the document with pleasure, but it is unnecessary to make a deposit.”

“This is business, you know, Mr. Sterling. You are pretending you are as bad a business man as I am. I don’t know much about the law of America, but I think you will find that unless a deposit is made, your instrument would be invalid in a court of law. There must be value received, I believe, when a bargain is made.”

“All right,” said Sterling, “but I’ll give you back your money if you regret the deal.”

He went to a desk in the corner, and wrote out the agreement, in which he acknowledged the receipt of five hundred dollars. Stranleigh selected from his wallet five bills for a hundred dollars each, and handed them over, then bidding farewell to the engineer, walked to his hotel, followed at a discreet distance by Mr. Wentworth Parkes.

Having located his quarry, Parkes retraced his steps to Woodbridge Street, deep in thought. His first resolution was to try bluster, but he abandoned that idea for two reasons, each conclusive in its way. His slight acquaintance with the engineer had convinced him that while much could be done with Sterling by persuasion, he would not yield to force, and secondly, the motor builder had no money. Whatever gold he was to acquire in his deal must come from Lord Stranleigh. It was, therefore, a mild and innocent lamb of a man who entered the machine shop of Woodbridge Street.

“Hello!” cried Sterling, who seemed taken aback by the encounter. “What have you done with my automobile, and why did you not answer my letters?”

“Your automobile is here in Detroit; a little the worse for wear, perhaps, but there is nothing wrong with it that you cannot put right in short order. As for letters, I never received any. I thought I had notified you of my changed address.”

“As a matter of fact, you didn’t.”

“In that case, I apologise most humbly. The truth is, Mr. Sterling, I have been working practically night and day, often under very discouraging circumstances. Until quite recently there was nothing hopeful to tell, and the moment I struck a bit of good luck, I came on here in the car to let you know. You see, it was very difficult to interest capital in a proposition that apparently has no substantiality behind it. If you had possessed a big factory in going order, that I could have shown a man over, the company would have been formed long ago. It therefore surprised me exceedingly, when I passed your shop less than a hour ago, to see standing in this window, while you were explaining the car to him, the man on whom I chiefly depended. You must put it down to my credit that instead of coming in as I had intended, thus embarrassing him, and perhaps spoiling a deal by my interference, I passed on, waited until he came out, and followed him to his hotel.”

Sterling was plainly nonplussed.

“I wish you had come in an hour earlier,” he said. “You couldn’t have interfered with a deal, because your option ran out two months ago.”

“I know that,” said Parkes regretfully, “but I thought the good work on my part would have made up for a legal lapse. Indeed, Mr. Sterling, if you will allow me to say so, I had such supreme faith in your own honesty, that I believed you would not hesitate to renew our arrangement.”

“That’s just the point,” said Sterling. “Had you come in an hour sooner, you would have been in time. As it is, I have granted a new option to the man you saw here with me.”

“What name did he give you? Trevelyan?”

“No; the name he mentioned was Henry Johnson.”

Parkes laughed a little, then checked himself.

“He went under the name of Trevelyan in New York, but I know neither that nor Johnson is his true title. Well, is he going in with you, then?”

“He has asked for a week to decide.”

Now Parkes laughed more heartily.

“I took him out in your motor in New York, and there also he asked for a week in which to decide. He seems to have taken the opportunity to come West, and try to forestall me.”

“Oh, I don’t believe he’s that sort of man,” cried Sterling, impatiently.

“Perhaps I do him an injustice. I sincerely hope so. Of course you’re not compelled to show your hand, but I think, in the circumstances, you might let me know just how far you’ve got.”

“Yes, I think you are entitled to that. I remember I was rather astonished when I learned he knew I had given a former option, but I shall be very much disappointed if he doesn’t run straight. Still, I have been mistaken in men before. He took an option for a week, and paid me five hundred dollars down in cash, to be forfeited if he does not exercise it.”

“Well, if the money is not counterfeit, that certainly looks like running straight. And meanwhile, what are you to do?”

“I am to do nothing, except send this car up to his hotel with a suitable chauffeur, at eleven o’clock to-morrow. He is going to test it along the Canadian roads.”

“Was anything said about the amount of capital he was to put up?”

“Not a word; we didn’t get that far.”

Parkes took a few turns up and down the room then he said suddenly:

“Have you any particular chauffeur in mind?”

“No; I was just going out to make arrangements.”

“You don’t need to make any arrangements. I’ll be your chauffeur, and can show off this car better than a stranger, who perhaps might be interested in some other automobile, and try to get your customer away. It’s to my interest, having spent so much time on it, to see the deal put through. Besides, I know your man, and now that I have encountered him here in Detroit, he cannot deny that I sent him to your shop. I think he owes me at least a commission for bringing you together. I realise, of course, that I have no legal claim on either of you, yet I am sure, if the facts were proved, any court would allow me an agent’s commission.”

“I’ll pay your commission,” said Sterling.

“You haven’t got the money, and he has.”

“Very well; I will let you go as chauffeur, but I must inform him who you are.”

Parkes shook his head.

“My dear Sterling, you are the most honest and impractical man I ever met. If you give him warning, he’ll merely leave you in the lurch as he did me.”

“Do you intend to disguise yourself?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then he will recognise you at once.”

“I understand that class of Englishman much better than you do. He will never see me, and I don’t know that I shall call myself to his attention at all. My own idea is to let the deal go through, claiming only the privilege of being your adviser, and keeping altogether in the background. I can give you valuable hints about dealing with this sort of man. He will regard me as a servant, and unless I said to him: ‘Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, why did you bolt so suddenly from New York?’ he would never have the least idea who was sitting beside him, and even then he would exhibit no surprise.”

“Lord Stranleigh?” echoed Sterling in amazement.

“Yes; that’s the man you’re dealing with, and he’s worth untold millions. I’ll go up to this hotel now, and see him, if you prefer that I should do so.”

“No; you may take him out to-morrow, but I advise you to say nothing to him about me or my business. Whatever arrangement we come to finally, you shall be recompensed for your share in the negotiations.”

Parkes’ prediction regarding Stranleigh’s non-recognition of him proved accurate. The young man simply said—

“We will cross the ferry, and run up along the Canadian shore as far as Lake St. Clair.”

The road continued along the river bank, with no fences on the left side. Although residences were fairly numerous, there was little traffic on the highway. The car was running at a moderate pace when the chauffeur suddenly diverted it towards the river, and with an exceedingly narrow margin escaped tumbling down the bank.

“I say,” murmured Stranleigh, “I don’t like that you know.”

“There’s worse to come,” said the chauffeur menacingly. “You will promise to pay me a hundred thousand dollars, or I will dash you and the car over the edge into the river. If you consider your life worth that sum, speak quickly.”

“Ah, it is you, Parkes? I hope you realise that you will dash yourself over at the same time?”

“I know that, but I’m a desperate man. Just get that through your head.”

“You are aware that a promise given under duress is not binding?”

“Stow talk!” roared Parkes. “Say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“I say ‘No!’” replied Stranleigh, so quietly that the other was unprepared for the prompt action which followed. Stranleigh flung his arms around the man, and jerked him backward from his wheel. His lordship was in good athletic condition; the ex-valet had looked too much on the wine when it was red, and on the highball when it sparkled in the glass. He felt helpless as a child.

“Now,” said Stranleigh, “we will see who is the coward. I’ll lay a wager with you that this car tumbles off the bank before five minutes are past.”

Stranleigh with his heels was working the two outside pegs, and the car acted as if it were drunker than a lord, and almost as drunk as the valet.

“In God’s name,” cried the latter, “let me go. We shall be wrecked in a moment.”

“No, we won’t.”

“I implore you, Lord Stranleigh!”

“I’ll save your life, but will give you a lesson against attempted blackmail.”

He steered to the edge of the bank, then pressed the middle peg, and stopped the car. Rising and carrying Parkes with him, he hurled him headlong over the slight earthy precipice into the water, which was shallow at that point. Parkes arose spluttering, and found Stranleigh had turned the car round, and with a smile on his face, was looking down at his dripping victim.

“You’ll suffer for this!” cried Parkes, shaking his fist at him. “We’re in a country, thank God, where we think very little of lords.”

“Oh, I don’t think much of lords myself, in any country,” replied Stranleigh suavely, “and even less of their valets, notwithstanding I’ve a very good one myself. Now listen to my advice. I shall be in the United States before you can reach a telephone, and I don’t see how you can get me back unless I wish to return. I advise you not to stir up the police. The Duke of Rattleborough cabled to me that a certain section of that useful body is anxious to hear of you. Call on Mr. Sterling, and whatever he thinks is just compensation for your introduction I will pay, but before you get the money, you must ensure both of us against further molestation in any way.”

Stranleigh drove up to the shop on Woodbridge Street, and listened to the account Sterling gave of Parkes’ visit and conversation, and his explanation of how he had come to allow him to drive the car.

“That’s quite all right and satisfactory,” said his lordship. “I never for a moment distrusted you. Still, I did get your name from Parkes, and I owe him something for that. What do you think would be a fair payment to make? I threw him into the river, but though it’s clean, clear water, I expect no reward.”

“If you’ll allow me to pay him the five hundred dollars you gave me yesterday, I think the rogue will get much more than he deserves.”

“Very good; I’ll add another five hundred, but see that he signs some legal promise not to molest us further. I’ll capitalise your company to the extent of any amount between a hundred thousand dollars and half a million.”

III.—THE GOD IN THE CAR.

Young Lord Stranleigh always proved a disappointment to a thorough-going Radical, for he differed much from the conventional idea of what a hereditary proud peer should be. He was not overbearing on the one hand, nor condescending on the other, being essentially a shy, unassuming person, easily silenced by any controversialist who uttered statements of sufficient emphasis. He never seemed very sure about anything, although undoubtedly he was a judge of well-fitting clothes, and the tailoring of even the remoter parts of America rather pleased him.

One thing that met his somewhat mild disapproval was undue publicity. He shrank from general notice, and tried to efface himself when reporters got on his track. In order, then, to live the quiet and simple life, his lordship modified a stratagem he had used on a previous occasion with complete success. He arranged that the obedient but unwilling Ponderby should enact the country gentleman of England, bent on enlarging his mind, and rounding out his experiences by residence in the United States. Ponderby wished to get back to the old country, but was too well-trained to say so. Lord Stranleigh, under the humble designation of Henry Johnson, set for himself the part of Ponderby’s chauffeur, a rôle he was well fitted to fill, because of his love for motoring, and his expertness in the art. He dressed the character to perfection, being always particular in the matter of clothes, and was quite admirable in raising his forefinger deferentially to the edge of his cap, a salute whose effect Ponderby endangered by his unfortunate habit of blushing.

Accustomed to self-suppression though he was, Ponderby could not altogether conceal from Lord Stranleigh his dislike of the metamorphosis that was proposed. He had been born a servant and brought up a servant, with the result that he was a capable one, and posing as a gentleman was little to his taste. Of course, he would do anything Lord Stranleigh commanded, and that without consciously hinting disapproval, but the earl shrank from giving a command as much as he would have disliked receiving one. He was suave enough with the general public, but just a little more so in dealing with those who depended on him.

“Did you ever visit the ancient village of Burford, Ponderby?” he asked on this occasion.

“Burford in England, my lord?”

“Ponderby,” pleaded Stranleigh, “kindly oblige me by omitting the appellation.”

“Burford in England, sir?”

“That’s better,” said the earl with a smile, “but we will omit the ‘sir’ in future, also. I am a chauffeur, you know. Yes, I do mean Burford in Oxfordshire, nestling cosily beside the brown river Windrush, a village of very ancient houses.”

“I have never been there.” Ponderby swallowed the phrase “my lord” just in time.

“Then you have not seen the priory of that place; the ruins of a beautiful old English manor-house? It forms the background of a well-known modern picture by Waller—‘The Empty Saddle.’ The estate was purchased by Lenthall, Speaker of the House of Commons during the Long Parliament. Kings have put up at the Priory, the last being William the Third. Think of that, Ponderby! Royalty! I know how you will respect the house on that account. One of Lenthall’s descendants was served by an ideal butler, who was happy, contented, well-paid; therefore, to all outward appearances, satisfied. One day he fell heir to three thousand pounds, which at present would be not quite fifteen thousand dollars, but at that time was a good deal more. Against his master’s protests, he resigned his butlership.

“‘I have always wished to live,’ he confessed, ‘at the rate of three thousand a year; to live as a gentleman for that period. I will return to you a year from to-day, and if you wish to engage me, I shall be happy to re-enter your service.’

“He spent his long-coveted year and the three thousand pounds, returning and taking up his old service again on the date he had set. Now, Ponderby, there’s a precedent for you, and I know how you love precedents. Remembering this historical fact, I have placed in the bank of Altonville fifteen thousand dollars to your credit. You cannot return to old England just yet, but you may enjoy New England. Already constituting myself your servant, I have taken a furnished house for you, and all I ask in return is that I may officiate as your chauffeur. I hope to make some interesting experiments with the modern American automobile.”

And so it was arranged. Lord Stranleigh at the wheel saw much of a charming country; sometimes with Ponderby in the back seat, but more often without him, for the inestimable valet was quite evidently ill-at-ease through this change of their relative positions.

One balmy, beautiful day during the exceptionally mild Indian summer of that year, Stranleigh left Altonville alone in his motor, and turned into a road that led northward, ultimately reaching the mountains to be seen dimly in the autumn haze far to the north. It was a favourite drive of his, for it led along the uplands within sight of a group of crystal lakes with well-wooded banks on the opposite shore. The district was practically untouched by commerce, save that here and there along the valley stood substantial mills, originally built to take advantage of the water power from the brawling river connecting the lakes. Some of these factories had been abandoned, and were slowly becoming as picturesque as an old European castle. Others were still in going order, and doubtless the valley had once been prosperous, but lagging behind an age of tremendous progress, had lost step, as it were, with the procession. Lack of adequate railway connection with the outside world was the alleged cause, but the conservatism of the mill-owners, who, in an age of combination, had struggled on individually to uphold the gospel of letting well alone, a campaign that resulted in their being left alone, had probably more to do with bringing about adversity than the absence of railways. Some of the mills had been purchased by the Trusts, and closed up. One or two still struggled on, hopelessly battling for individualism and independence, everyone but themselves recognising that the result was a foregone conclusion.

Yet for a man who wished to rest, and desired, like the old-fashioned millers, to be left alone, this countryside was indeed charming. The summer visitors had all departed, missing the sublimest time of the year. Stranleigh had the road to himself, and there was no annoying speed limit to hamper the energy of his machine. Without any thought of his disconsolate valet moping about an unnecessarily large and well-furnished house, the selfish young man breathed the exhilarating air, and revelled in his freedom.

He passed a young couple, evidently lovers, standing on a grassy knoll, gazing across a blue lake at the wooded banks on the other side, seemingly at a fine old colonial mansion which stood in an opening of the woods, with well-kept grounds sloping down to the water’s edge.

A man driving a car enjoys small opportunity for admiring scenery and architecture, so Stranleigh paid little regard to the view, but caught a fleeting glimpse of a beautiful girl, in whose expression there appeared a tinge of sadness which enhanced her loveliness; then he was past, with the empty road before him. He fell into a reverie, a most dangerous state of mind for a chauffeur, since a fall into a reverie on the part of a driver may mean a fall into a ravine on the part of the machine. The reverie, however, was interrupted by a shout, and then by another. He slowed down, and looking back over his shoulder saw that the young man was sprinting towards him at a record-breaking speed. Stranleigh declutched his automobile, and applying the brakes came to a standstill. The young man ran up breathlessly.

“You are the chauffeur of that Englishman in Altonville, are you not?” he panted, breathing hard.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to meet him, or anything of that sort?”

“No; I’m out for my own pleasure.”

“I’ll give you a dollar if you take my wife and me back to Altonville.”

Stranleigh smiled.

“I’ll go, my chief; I’m ready,” he murmured. “It is not for your silver bright, but for your winsome lady.”

“My wife has sprained her ankle, and cannot walk,” explained the young man.

“I am sorry to hear that,” replied Lord Stranleigh. “Get in, and we will go back to her in a jiffy.”

The young man sprang into the car, which the amateur chauffeur turned very deftly, and in a few moments they drew up close to the grassy bank where the girl was sitting. The young husband very tenderly lifted her to the back seat, and the polite chauffeur, after again expressing his regret at the accident, drove the car swiftly to Altonville, stopping at the office of the only doctor.

The young man rang the bell, and before the door was opened, he had carried the girl up the steps. Presently he returned, and found Stranleigh still sitting in the chauffeur’s seat, meditatively contemplating the trafficless street. His late passenger thrust hand in pocket, and drew forth a silver dollar.

“I am ever so much obliged,” he said, “and am sorry to have detained you so long.”

“The detention was nothing. To be of assistance, however slight, is a pleasure, marred only by the fact of the lady’s misadventure. I hope to hear that her injury is not serious, and then I shall be well repaid.”

“You will not be repaid,” returned the young man, with a slight frown on his brow, “until you have accepted this dollar.”

Stranleigh laughed gently.

“I told you at the beginning that I was not working for coin.”

The young man came closer to the automobile.

“To tell the truth,” he said earnestly, “I fear that now we are in Altonville that pompous gentleman, your boss, may come along, and you will get into trouble. Masters do not like their motors used for other people’s convenience.”

“Don’t worry about Mr. Ponderby. He is a very good-hearted person, and his pomposity merely a mannerism. I am waiting to take madame and yourself to your residence.”

“It isn’t much of a residence,” laughed the young man rather grimly, “only a couple of rooms and a small kitchen, and is less than a hundred yards from this spot.”

“Then I’ll take you that hundred yards.”

“I work in Fulmer’s grist mill,” explained the husband, “and business is not very good, so I had the day off. This is a time of year when we ought to be busy, but the trade is merely local. The huge concerns down east, and further west, do practically all the grinding nowadays.”

The door opened, and the doctor appeared at the top of the steps.

“It’s all right, Mr. Challis,” he said encouragingly. “Mrs. Challis must stay indoors for a few days, and be careful to rest her foot. The cure may be tedious, but not painful, thanks to prompt treatment.”

Challis brought out his wife, and Stranleigh took them to the two-storied frame house, of which they occupied part. When the young man came out to thank the chauffeur, he found the street empty.

A week later, Stranleigh’s passengers heard the purr of an automobile outside the cottage. Challis opened the door in response to the chauffeur’s knock.

“Good morning,” said Stranleigh, shaking hands cheerfully. “What a lovely day! I am delighted to know that Mrs. Challis has completely recovered. I did not care to trouble you with repeated calls, but the doctor has been very kind, and has kept me informed of her progress. It is with his permission that I come to offer you a spin in the car. I’ll take you anywhere you wish to go, and this invitation is extended with the concurrence of Mr. Ponderby, so you may enjoy the run to the full. My name’s Johnson; not Jack, the celebrated, but Henry, the unknown.”

Challis laughed.

“I’m delighted to meet you again,” he said. “Come in and see my wife. Her worry has been that she has never had the opportunity to thank you for your former kindness. Yes; I shall be glad of a ride. I have been too much in the house lately.”

“Another day off, eh?”

“All days are off days now,” growled Challis. “The grist mill has shut down.”

Mrs. Challis received the alleged Johnson with a graciousness that was quite charming. She thanked him in a manner so winning that Stranleigh sat there overcome with an attack of the shyness he had never been able to shake off. He could not help noticing the subtle melancholy of her beautiful face, a hint of which he had received in that brief first glance as he passed in the automobile. He attributed it then to her mishap, but now realised its cause was something deeper and more permanent. He was astonished later to find her so resolute in refusing his invitation. She wished her husband to go for a drive, but would not avail herself of that pleasure. In vain Stranleigh urged the doctor’s dictum that it would be good for her especially as the day was so fine, and she had endured a week of enforced idleness indoors.

“Some other day perhaps,” she said, “but not now,” and he speedily recognised that her firmness was not to be shaken.

All her own powers of persuasiveness, however were turned upon her husband.

“You must go, Jim,” she insisted. “I have kept you a prisoner for a week, and you need the fresh air much more than I do.”

James Challis, protesting more and more faintly at last gave way, and the two men drove off together while Mrs. Challis fluttered a handkerchief from her window in adieu.

Challis had refused to sit in the back seat, and took his place beside the chauffeur.

“Where shall we go?” asked the latter.

“Drive to the place where you found us,” said his passenger, and there they went. On the way thither, neither spoke, but at a sign from Challis, Stranleigh stopped the car.

“You must not think,” began the former, “that my wife did not wish to come. I know from the expression of her eyes that she did. Her reason for declining was one that I imagine any woman would consider adequate, and any man the reverse.”

“I am an exception so far as the men are concerned,” said Stranleigh, coming much nearer the truth than he suspected, “for I am sure that whatever motive actuated Mrs. Challis, it was commendable and right.”

“Thank you,” responded the other. “I am with you there. It is all a matter of clothes. My wife possesses no costume suitable for a motor excursion.”

“In that case,” cried Stranleigh impulsively, “the defect is easily remedied. I have saved a bit from the ample salary Mr. Ponderby allows me, and if I may offer you——”

“I could not accept anything,” interrupted Challis.

“Merely a temporary loan, until the grist mill begins operations.”

Challis shook his head.

“That mill will never grind again with the water that is past, nor the water that is to come. Fulmer has gone smash, and I could not accept a loan that I do not see my way to repay. Nevertheless, I appreciate fully the kindness of your offer, and if you don’t mind, I will tell you how I got myself entangled, for there is no use in concealing from you what you must already have seen—that I am desperately poor, so much so that I sometimes lose courage, and consider myself a failure, which is not a pleasant state of mind to get into.”

“Oh, I’ve often felt that way myself,” said Stranleigh, “but nobody’s a failure unless he thinks he is. You strike me as a capable man. You have youth and energy, and added to that, great good luck. I’m a believer in luck myself.”

This commendation did not chase the gloom from the face of Challis.

“You have knocked from under me,” he said, “the one frail prop on which I leaned. I have been excusing myself by blaming the run of horrid bad luck I have encountered.”

Stranleigh shook his head.

“You can’t truthfully say that,” he rejoined quietly, “while you have had the supreme good fortune to enlist the affection of so clever and charming a wife.”

The gloom disappeared from Challis’s countenance as the shadow of a cloud at that moment flitted from the surface of the lake. He thrust forth his hand, and there being no onlookers, Stranleigh grasped it.

“Shake!” cried Challis. “I’ll never say ‘ill-luck’ again! I wish she had come with us.”

“So do I,” agreed Stranleigh.

“I’d like her to have heard you talk.”

“Oh, not for that reason. I’d like her to enjoy this scenery.”

“Yes, and the deuce of it is, she practically owns the scene. Look at that house across the lake.”

“A mansion, I should call it.”

“A mansion it is. That’s where my wife came from. Think of my selfishness in taking her from such a home to wretched rooms in a cottage, and abject poverty.”

“I prefer not to think of your selfishness, but rather of her nobility in going. It revives in a cynical man like myself his former belief in the genuine goodness of the world.”

“It all came about in this way,” continued Challis. “I graduated at a technical college—engineering. I began work at the bottom of the ladder, and started in to do my best, being ambitious. This was appreciated, and I got on.”

“In what line?” asked Stranleigh.

“In a line which at that time was somewhat experimental. The firm for which I worked might be called a mechanical-medical association, or perhaps ‘surgical’ would be a better term. We had no plant, no factory; nothing but offices. We were advisers. I was sent here and there all over the country, to mills that were not in a good state of health; dividends falling off, business declining, competition too severe, and what-not. I looked over the works, talked with managers and men, formed conclusions, then sent a report to my firm containing details, and such suggestions as I had to offer. My firm communicated with the proprietor of the works accordingly, and collected its bill.”

“That should be an interesting occupation,” said Stranleigh, whose attention was enlisted.

“It was. One day, I was sent up here to inspect the factory of Stanmore Anson, a large stone structure which you could see from here were it not concealed by that hill to the right. It has been in the Anson family for three generations, and had earned a lot of money in its time, but is now as old-fashioned as Noah’s Ark. It was cruelly wasteful of human energy and mechanical power. It should have had a set of turbines, instead of the ancient, moss-grown, overshot waterwheels. The machinery was out of date, and ill-placed. The material in course of manufacture had to go upstairs and downstairs, all over the building, handled and re-handled, backward and forward, instead of passing straight through the factory, entering as raw material, and coming out the finished product. I reported to my firm that the establishment needed a complete overhauling; that it ought to have new machinery, but that if it was compulsory to keep the old machines at work, they should be entirely rearranged in accordance with the sketch I submitted, so that unnecessary handling of the product might be avoided. I set down the minimum expense that must be incurred, and also submitted an estimate covering the cost of turbines and new machinery, which I admit was large in the bulk, but really the most economical thing to do.”

“I see. And the old man objected to the expense, or perhaps had not the necessary capital to carry out your suggestion? What sort of a person is he? Unreasonable, I suppose you consider him?”

“Strangely enough, I never met him in my life.”

“And you married his daughter?”

“Had to. I was determined to take the girl away, whether I reformed the factory or not, and here you see where good luck and the reverse mingled. When I arrived at Mr. Anson’s factory, the old man was in New York, for the purpose, as I learned, of raising a loan, or of selling the property, neither of which projects was he able to carry out.”

“That was his misfortune, rather than his fault, wasn’t it?”

“In a way, yes; still, the Trust had offered him a reasonable figure for his factory. He not only refused, but he fought the Trust tooth and nail, thinking that with low taxation, and country wages, he could meet the competition, which, of course, with the factory in its present state, he could not do. The fact that he was up against the Trust became well known, so that he could neither borrow nor sell. While in New York, he called several times on Langdon, Bliss, and Co., the firm that employed me. When my report came in and was read to him, I understand he fell into a tremendous rage, and characterised our company as a body of swindlers. Mr. Langdon ordered him out of the office.

“That was the first spoke in my wheel. Mr. Langdon was a capable man, always courteous and very calm when dealing with his fellows, so I am sure that my father-in-law must have been exceedingly violent when he provoked Langdon to vocal wrath. I judge that Langdon, when he recovered from his outbreak, regretted it extremely, and was inclined to blame me for rather muddling the affair of Anson’s mill. I may say that I had been placed in rather a difficult position. The proprietor was absent, and had not taken his foreman into his confidence, therefore this foreman put difficulties in the way of investigation. The employees were suspicious, not knowing what this research by a stranger meant, so I went to Anson’s house, hoping to find there someone with sufficient authority to enable me to get the information I must have.

“I met Mrs. Anson, a kindly woman, but realised in a moment that no authority had been delegated to her. She appeared afraid to suggest anything, but called in her only daughter to assist at our conference. The girl at once said she would accompany me to the mill, and did so. I shall never forget with what infinite tact and persuasiveness she won over the foreman, and it was quite evident that the workmen all knew and liked her, for her very presence appeared to dissipate distrust. I saw Miss Anson home, and it seemed, as my investigations progressed, many conferences became more and more necessary. You’re a young man, and doubtless you know how it is yourself.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” interjected Stranleigh, “but I can guess.”

“Well—your guess is right. We had no difficulty with Mrs. Anson, but both mother and daughter were uneasy about how the father would take it. I wrote him what I hoped was a straightforward letter, putting the case to him as man to man. He answered with a very brief and terse letter that left me no doubt regarding his opinion, but my own communication had arrived at an unfortunate time; the day after he had been ordered out of our office. He at once enclosed my letter to Mr. Langdon, saying in effect:—

“‘This is the sort of man you sent like a wolf in sheep’s clothing to my home.’”

“Langdon telegraphed, asking if this was true. I, of course, had to admit it was, with the result of instant dismissal. I never would have let either mother or daughter know about this, but my reticence was vain, for Mr. Anson wrote a stinging letter to his daughter saying she could do what she pleased about marrying me, but that he had secured my dismissal. It is strange,” Challis murmured reflectively, speaking more to himself than to his companion, “it is strange that a father rarely recognises that when he comes to a difference with one of his children, he is meeting, in part at least, some of his own characteristics. I wonder if I shall ever be so unreasonable as——”

Stranleigh’s eye twinkled as he remembered how firm the girl had been in refusing the automobile invitation, yet giving no explanation of that refusal.

“What Gertrude said to me was, holding her head very proudly: ‘I have received my father’s permission to marry you, and if you are ready for an immediate ceremony, I am willing.’

“We were married before the old man returned from New York.”

“Has there been no further communication between Mr. Anson and yourself?”

“On my part, yes; ignored by him. It was Gertrude who wished to stay in Altonville. She knew a financial crisis was threatening her father, and she hoped that in some way I should be able to advise him. That was not to be. She requested permission to take away her belongings. This was refused. Everything she possessed, Mr. Anson said, had been purchased with his money. They remained at his home, and she was welcome to use them at his house, any time she chose to return, but having exchanged his care for that of another man, it was the other man’s duty to provide what she needed. This ended our communication, and brings us to the present moment.”

“Can you drive a car?” asked Stranleigh.

“Yes.”

“The immediate question strikes me as being that of wearing apparel. I propose to return with at least a box full. I don’t like to be baffled, and I wish Mrs. Challis to come out with us for a run. Will you exchange seats, and drive me down to the mill?”

“You’re up against a tough proposition,” demurred Challis.

“A proposition usually gives way if you approach it tactfully, as Miss Anson approached the manager. If you have never seen her father, he will not recognise you, so let us call at the mill.”

“He would not recognise me, but the foreman would, also many of the men.”

“We must chance that.”

The two young men exchanged seats, and Challis at the wheel, with more caution than ever Stranleigh used, sent the car spinning down the slightly descending road by the margin of the lake, until they came to the water level. No word was spoken between them, but his lordship studied with keen scrutiny from the corner of his eye, the profile of the intent driver. He was immensely taken with the young man, and meditated on the story to which he had listened. The effect left on his mind by that recital surprised him. It was a feeling of sympathy with the old man who had acted so obstreperously, and gradually he placed this feeling to the credit of Challis, who had shown no rancour against his father-in-law, either in word or tone. Yes; he liked Challis, and was sorry for the elderly Anson, one evidently advanced in years, battling against forces that were too much for him, stubbornly using antiquated methods in a world that had out-grown them; the muzzle-loader against the repeating rifle. These two men should be pulling together.

“There’s the factory,” said Challis, at last, and Stranleigh, looking up, beheld further down the valley a three-storied structure, unexpectedly huge, built apparently for all the ages. There was no sign of activity about it; but the roar of waters came to their ears; idle waters, nevertheless, that were turning no wheels, the muffled sound of an unimpeded minor cataract.

“By Jove!” cried Stranleigh, jumping out as the car stopped.

Challis said nothing, but an expression of deep anxiety darkened his countenance. There were plastered here and there on the stone walls great white posters, bearing printing like the headings of a sensational newspaper, magnified several hundred times.

AUCTION SALE.

BY ORDER OF THE BANKRUPTCY COURT,

that desirable property known as Anson’s Mill, fully equipped with machinery, in condition for immediate use, with never-failing water power, which at slight expense may be enormously increased; together with ten acres of freehold land; without reserve to the highest bidder; on the Seventeenth of November!

“A desirable property,” said Challis, sadly, “which nobody desires except the Trust, and probably it cares nothing about it now.”

“You forget that it is desired by Stanmore Anson.”

“I am afraid that even he is tired of it by this time. I am sorry, but I feared it was inevitable.”

Stranleigh looked up at him.

“Could you make this factory pay, if it were given into your charge?”

“Not in its present condition.”

“I mean, of course, with your recommendations carried out. If the mill, free from all encumbrances, filled with modern machinery, rightly placed, were put under your management, could you make it pay?”

Challis did not answer for some moments. His brow was wrinkled in thought, and he seemed making some mental calculations.

“There would need to be a suitable amount of working capital——”

“Yes, yes; all that is understood. Could you make it pay?”

“I am almost sure I could, but there is that incalculable factor, the opposition of the Trust.”

“Damn the Trust!” cried Stranleigh. “I beg your pardon; I should have said, blow the Trust! I thought I had lost the power of becoming excited, not to say profane. It must be the exhilarating air of America. The sale is a good way off yet, and I think it will be further off before I get through with it. If you will accept the management, and your father-in-law proves at all reasonable, I guarantee to find the necessary money.”

“You mean that, Mr. Ponderby——”

“Exactly. I am his chief business adviser, as well as his only chauffeur. But we are forgetting the matter in hand. We must rescue the wardrobe of Mrs. Challis. Drive on to the mansion. You know the way, and I don’t.”

“I’m a warned-off trespasser, but here goes.”

“You won’t be called on to trespass very much. You’re my chauffeur, pro tem. Perhaps you won’t need to enter the house at all. I shall see Mrs. Anson before I meet her husband, if possible, and will try to persuade her to give me the wardrobe.”

“She would not have the courage to do that without her husband’s permission, and he will never give it.”

“We’ll see about that. Ah, the mill is not the only piece of property to be sold!”

They had turned into a well-shaded avenue, to the massive stone gate-pillars of which were attached posters similar to those at the mill, only in this case it was “This valuable, desirable and palatial residence,” with the hundreds of acres of land attached, that were to be knocked down by the auctioneer’s hammer.

“I might have known,” commented Stranleigh, “that if Mr. Anson was bankrupt at his mill, he was also bankrupt at his house.”

They drew up at the entrance. Stranleigh stepped down, and rang the bell, Challis remaining in the car. Shown into the drawing-room, the visitor was greeted by a sad-looking, elderly woman.

“Mrs. Anson,” said the young man, very deferentially, “I expect your forgiveness for this intrusion on my part when I say that I am here in some sense as an ambassador from your daughter.”

“From my daughter!” gasped the old lady in astonishment. “Is she well, and where is she?”

“She is very well, I am glad to say, and is living with her husband over in the village.”

“In her last letter she said her husband was taking her to New York. There had been a—misunderstanding.” The old lady hesitated for a moment before using that mild term. “On the day her letter was received, I went to the hotel at which they were stopping, and was told by the landlord they had gone, he did not know where. Do you tell me they have been living in Altonville all the time?”

“I think so, but cannot be sure. I met Mr. and Mrs. Challis for the first time only a week ago.”

“I hope she is happy.”

“She is,” said Stranleigh confidently, “and before the day is done her mother will be happy also.”

Mrs. Anson shook her head. She was on the verge of tears, which Stranleigh saw and dreaded. So he said hurriedly:

“You will select me what you think she should have at once, and I will take the box or parcel to Altonville in my car.”

“When at last her father saw that everything we possessed must be sold,” rejoined Mrs. Anson, “he packed up in trunks what belonged to Gertrude, and as we could not learn where to send them, Mr. Asa Perkins, a friend of ours, who lives in Boston, lent us a room in which to store the things, and they are there now.”

“How odd!” exclaimed Stranleigh. “I met Mr. Perkins just before he left his summer residence, and took the place furnished, acting for the present tenant. It is much too large for him, and some of the rooms are locked. Do you happen to have the key?”

“No; it is in the possession of the housekeeper. She is there still, is she not?”

“Yes; I took the house as it stood, servants and all.”

“I’ll write a note to the housekeeper, then. What name shall I say?”

“Please write it in the name of Mr. Challis. He’s outside now, in my car.”

“May I bring him in?” she asked, eagerly.

“Certainly,” said Stranleigh, with a smile. “It’s your house, you know.”

“Not for long,” she sighed.

“Ah,——” drawled Stranleigh, “Mr. Challis and I propose that this sale shall not take place. If I may have a short conversation with your husband, I think we shall come to terms.”

An expression of anxiety overspread her face.

“Perhaps I had better not ask Jim to come in,” she hesitated.

“Your husband does not know him, and I would rather you did not tell him who is with me. Just say that Henry Johnson and a friend wish to negotiate about the factory.”

Stanmore Anson proved to be a person of the hale old English yeoman type, as portrayed by illustrators, although his ancestors originally came from Sweden. His face was determined, his lips firm, and despite his defeats, the lurking sparkle of combat still animated his eyes.

“Before we begin any conversation regarding a sale,” he said, “you must answer this question, Mr. Johnson. Are you connected in any way, directly or indirectly, with the G.K.R. Trust?”

“I am not connected with it, directly or indirectly.”

“You state that on your honour as a man?”

“No; I simply state it.”

“You wouldn’t swear it?”

“Not unless compelled by force of law.”

“Then I have nothing further to say to you, sir.”

The old man seemed about to withdraw, then hesitated, remembering he was in his own house. Stranleigh sat there unperturbed.

“You have nothing further to say, Mr. Anson, because two thoughts are sure to occur to you. First, a man whose word you would not accept cannot be believed, either on his honour or his oath. Second, the Trust doesn’t need to send an emissary to you; it has only to wait until November, and acquire your factory at its own figure. No one except myself would bid against the Trust.”

“That’s quite true,” agreed Anson. “I beg your pardon. What have you to propose?”

“I wish to know the sum that will see you clear and enable you to tear down those white posters at the gates, and those on the mill.”

Stanmore Anson drew a sheet of paper from his pocket, glanced over it, then named the amount.

“Very good,” said Stranleigh, decisively. “I’ll pay that for the mill and the ten acres.”

“They are not worth it,” said Anson. “Wait till November, and even though you outbid the Trust, you’ll get it at a lower figure.”

“We’ll make the mill worth it. You may retain the residence and the rest of the property.”

“There is but one proviso,” said the old man. “I wish to name the manager.”

“I regret I cannot agree to that, Mr. Anson, I have already chosen the manager, and guarantee that he will prove efficient.”

“I’ll forego your generous offer of the house and property if you will allow me to appoint the manager.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Anson, but you touch the only point on which I cannot give way.”

“Very well,” cried Anson, angrily, his eyes ablaze. “The arrangement is off.”

Both young men saw that Stanmore Anson was indeed difficult to deal with, as his ancestors had been in many a hard-fought battle.

“Wait a moment! Wait a moment!” exclaimed Challis. “This will never do. It is absurd to wreck everything on a point so trivial. I am the man whom Mr. Johnson wishes to make manager. I now refuse to accept the position, but if the bargain is completed, I’ll give Mr. Anson and his manager all the assistance and advice they care to receive from me, and that without salary.”

“Be quiet, Challis!” cried Stranleigh.

“Challis! Challis!” interrupted the old man, gazing fiercely at his junior. “Is your name Challis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not my son-in-law?”

“I am, sir.”

“I did you a great injustice,” admitted Anson. “No man has a right to deprive another of his livelihood. I have bitterly regretted it. It is you I wish appointed manager.”

“Challis,” said Stranleigh, “take the car, and bring your wife. Say her father wishes to see her.”

Challis disappeared, and in an incredibly short space of time, during which Anson and Stranleigh chatted together, the door opened, and Gertrude Challis came in.

“Father,” she cried, “Jim says he’s going to scrap all the machinery in the factory. Shall we throw our differences on that scrap-heap?”

The old man gathered her to his breast, and kissed her again and again. He could not trust his voice.

“‘Shall we throw our differences on that scrap-heap?’”

IV.—THE MAD MISS MATURIN.

“Would you like to meet the most beautiful woman in America?” asked Edward Trenton of his guest.

Lord Stranleigh drew a whiff or two from the favourite pipe he was smoking, and the faint suggestion of a smile played about his lips.

“The question seems to hint that I have not already met her,” he said at last.

“Have you?”

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“In every town of any size I ever visited.”

“Oh, I daresay you have met many pretty girls, but only one of them is the most beautiful in America.”

Again Stranleigh smiled, but this time removed his pipe, which had gone out, and gently tapped it on the ash tray.

“My dear Ned,” he said at last, “on almost any other subject I should hesitate to venture an opinion that ran counter to your own experience, yet in this instance I think you wrong the great Republic. I am not very good at statistics, but if you will tell me how many of your fellow-countrymen are this moment in love, I’ll make a very accurate estimate regarding the number of most beautiful women there are in the United States.”

“Like yourself, Stranleigh, I always defer to the man of experience, and am glad to have hit on one subject in which you are qualified to be my teacher.”

“I like that! Ned Trenton depreciating his own conquests is a popular actor in a new rôle. But you are evading the point. I was merely trying in my awkward way to show that every woman is the most beautiful in the world to the man in love with her.”

“Very well; I’ll frame my question differently. Would you like to meet one of the most cultured of her sex?”

“Bless you, my boy, of course not! Why, I’m afraid of her already. It is embarrassing enough to meet a bright, alert man, but in the presence of a clever woman, I become so painfully stupid that she thinks I’m putting it on.”

“Then let me place the case before you in still another form. Would your highness like to meet the richest woman in Pennsylvania?”

“Certainly I should,” cried Stranleigh, eagerly.

Trenton looked at him with a shade of disapproval on his brow.

“I thought wealth was the very last qualification a man in your position would care for in a woman, yet hardly have I finished the sentence, than you jump at the chance I offer.”

“And why not? A lady beautiful and talented would likely strike me dumb, but if she is hideously rich, I may be certain of one thing, that I shall not be asked to invest money in some hare-brained scheme or other.”

“You are quite safe from that danger, or indeed from any other danger, so far as Miss Maturin is concerned. Nevertheless, it is but just that you should understand the situation, so that if you scent danger of any kind, you may escape while there is yet time.”

“Unobservant though I am,” remarked Stranleigh, “certain signs have not escaped my notice. This commodious and delightful mansion is being prepared for a house-party. I know the symptoms, for I have several country places of my own. If, as I begin to suspect, I am in the way here, just whisper the word and I’ll take myself off in all good humour, hoping to receive an invitation for some future time.”

“If that’s your notion of American hospitality, Stranleigh, you’ve got another guess coming. You’re a very patient man; will you listen to a little family history? Taking your consent for granted, I plunge. My father possessed a good deal of landed property in Pennsylvania. This house is the old homestead, as they would call it in a heart-throb drama. My father died a very wealthy man, and left his property conjointly to my sister and myself. He knew we wouldn’t quarrel over the division, and we haven’t. My activity has been mainly concentrated in coal mines and in the railways which they feed, and financially I have been very fortunate. I had intended to devote a good deal of attention to this estate along certain lines which my father had suggested, but I have never been able to do so, living, as I did, mostly in Philadelphia, absorbed in my own business. My sister, however, has in a measure carried out my father’s plans, aided and abetted by her friend, Miss Constance Maturin. My sister married a man quite as wealthy as herself, a dreamy, impractical, scholarly person who once represented his country as Minister to Italy, in Rome. She enjoyed her Italian life very much, and studied with great interest the progress North Italy was making in utilising the water-power coming from the Alps. In this she was ably seconded by Miss Maturin, who is owner of forests and farms and factories further down the river which flows past our house. Her property, indeed, adjoins our own, but she does not possess that unlimited power over it which Sis and I have over this estate, for her father, having no faith in the business capacity of woman, formed his undertakings into a limited liability company where, although he owned the majority of stock during his life, he did not leave his daughter with untrammelled control. Had the old man known what trouble he was bequeathing to his sole heir, I imagine he would have arranged things a little differently. Miss Maturin has had to endure several expensive law-suits, which still further restricted her power and lessened her income. So she has ceased to take much interest in her own belongings, and has constituted herself adviser-in-chief to my dear sister, who has blown in a good deal of money on this estate in undertakings that, however profitable they may be in the future, are unproductive up to date. I am not criticising Sis at all, and have never objected to what she has done, although I found myself involved in a very serious action for damages, which I had the chagrin of losing, and which ran me into a lot of expense, covering me with injunctions and things of that sort. No rogue e’er felt the halter draw, with a good opinion of the law, and perhaps my own detestation of the law arises from my having frequently broken it. If this long diatribe bores you, just say so, and I’ll cut it short.”

“On the contrary,” said Stranleigh, with evident honesty, “I’m very much interested. These two ladies, as I understand the case, have been unsuccessful in law——”

“Completely so.”

“And unsuccessful in the projects they have undertaken?”

“From my point of view, yes. That is to say, they are sinking pots of money, and I don’t see where any of it is coming back.”

“Of what do these enterprises consist?”

“Do you know anything about the conservation controversy now going on in this country?”

“I fear I do not. I am a woefully ignorant person.”

“My father had ideas about conservation long before the United States took it up. It is on these ideas that Sis has been working. You preserve water in times of flood and freshet to be used for power or for irrigation throughout the year. Her first idea was to make a huge lake, extending several miles up the valley of this river. That’s where I got into my law-suit. The commercial interests down below held that we had no right to put a huge concrete dam across this river.”

“Couldn’t you put a dam on your own property?”

“It seems not. If the river ran entirely through my own property, I could. Had I paid more attention to what was being done, I might perhaps have succeeded, by getting a bill through the Legislature. When I tried that, I was too late. The interests below had already applied to the courts for an injunction, which, quite rightly, they received. Attempting to legalise the action, not only did I find the Legislature hostile, but my clever opponents got up a muck-raking crusade against me, and I was held up by the Press of this State as a soulless monopolist, anxious to increase my already great wealth by grabbing what should belong to the whole people. The campaign of personal calumny was splendidly engineered, and, by Jupiter! they convinced me that I was unfit for human intercourse. Tables of statistics were published to prove how through railway and coal-mine manipulation I had robbed everybody, and they made me out about a hundred times richer than I am, although I have never been able to get any of the excess cash. Sermons were preached against me, the Pulpit joining the Press in denunciation. I had no friends, and not being handy with my pen, I made no attempt at defence. I got together a lot of dynamite, blew up the partially-constructed dam, and the river still flows serenely on.”

“But surely,” said Stranleigh, “I saw an immense dam on this very river, when you met me at Powerville railway station the other day?”

Trenton laughed.

“Yes; that was Miss Maturin’s dam.”

“Miss Maturin’s!” cried Stranleigh in astonishment.

“It was built years ago by her father, who went the right way about it, having obtained in a quiet, effective way, the sanction of legislature. Of course, when I say it belongs to Miss Maturin, I mean that it is part of the estate left by her father, and the odd combination of circumstances brought it about that she was one of my opponents in the action-at-law, whereas in strict justice, she should have been a defendant instead of a plaintiff. The poor girl was horrified to learn her position in the matter, and my sister was dumbfounded to find in what a dilemma she had placed me. Of course, the two girls should have secured the advice of some capable, practical lawyer in the first place, but they were very self-confident in those days, and Sis knew it was no use consulting her husband, while her brother was too deeply immersed in his own affairs to be much aid as a counsellor.

“Well, they kept on with their conservation scheme after a time, and both on this property and on Miss Maturin’s, dams have been erected on all the streams that empty into the river; streams on either side that take their rise from outlying parts of the estate. They have built roads through the forest, and have caused to be formed innumerable lakes, all connected by a serviceable highway that constitutes one of the most interesting automobile drives there is in all the United States; a drive smooth as a floor, running for miles through private property, and therefore overshadowed by no speed limit.”

“By Jove, Ned,” exclaimed Stranleigh, “you must take me over that course.”

“I’ll do better than that, my boy. Constance Maturin is one of the best automobilists I know, and she will be your guide, for these dams are of the most modern construction, each with some little kink of its own that no one understands better than she does. There is a caretaker living in a picturesque little cottage at the outlet of every lake, and in each cottage hangs a telephone, so that no matter how far you penetrate into the wilderness, you are in touch with civilisation. From this house I could call up any one of these water-wardens, or send out a general alarm, bringing every man of the corps to the ’phone, and the instructions given from here would be heard simultaneously by the whole force. I think the organisation is admirable, but it runs into a lot of money.”

“‘But what good came of it at last,
Quoth little Peterkin,’”

asked Stranleigh. “Do these artificial lakes run any dynamos, or turn any spindles? Now tell me all about the war, and what they dammed each streamlet for.”

“Ah, you have me there! The ladies have not taken me into their counsel: I’ve got troubles enough of my own. One phase of the subject especially gratifies me: their activities have in no instance despoiled the landscape; rather the contrary. These lakes, wooded to their brims, are altogether delightful, and well stocked with fish. A great many of them overflow, causing admirable little cascades, which, although not quite so impressive as Niagara, are most refreshing on a hot day, while the cadence of falling waters serves as an acoustic background to the songs of the birds; a musical accompaniment, as one might call it.”

“Bravo, Ned; I call that quite poetical, coming as it does from a successful man of business. I find myself eager for that automobile ride through this forest lakeland. When do you say Miss Maturin will arrive?”

“I don’t know. I expect my sister will call me up by telephone. Sis regards this house as her own. She is fond of leaving the giddy whirl of society, and settling down here in the solitude of the woods. I clear out or I stay in obedience to her commands. You spoke of a house-party a while ago. There is to be no house-party, but merely my sister and her husband, with Miss Maturin as their guest. If you would rather not meet any strangers, I suggest that we plunge further into the wilderness. At the most remote lake on this property, about seven miles away, quite a commodious keeper’s lodge has been built, with room for, say, half a dozen men who are not too slavishly addicted to the resources of civilisation. Yet life there is not altogether pioneering. We could take an automobile with us, and the telephone would keep us in touch with the outside world. Fond of fishing?”

“Very.”

“Then that’s all right. I can offer you plenty of trout, either in pond or stream, while in a large natural lake, only a short distance away, is excellent black bass. I think you’ll enjoy yourself up there.”

Stranleigh laughed.

“You quite overlook the fact that I am not going. Unless ejected by force, I stay here to meet your sister and Miss Maturin.”

For a moment Trenton seemed taken aback. He had lost the drift of things in his enthusiasm over the lakes.

“Oh, yes; I remember,” he said at last. “You objected to meet anyone who might wish you to invest good money in wild-cat schemes. Well, you’re quite safe as far as those two ladies are concerned, as I think I assured you.”

Ned was interrupted, and seemed somewhat startled by a sound of murmured conversation ending in a subdued peal of musical laughter.

“Why, there’s Sis now,” he said, “I can tell her laugh anywhere.”

As he rose from his chair, the door opened, and there entered a most comely young woman in automobile garb, noticeably younger than Trenton, but bearing an unmistakable likeness to him.

“Hello, Ned!” she cried. “I thought I’d find you here,” then seeing his visitor, who had risen, she paused.

“Lord Stranleigh,” said Trenton. “My sister, Mrs. Vanderveldt.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Lord Stranleigh,” she said, advancing from the door and shaking hands with him.

“Why didn’t you telephone?” asked her brother.

His sister laughed merrily.

“I came down like a wolf on the fold, didn’t I? Why didn’t I telephone? Strategy, my dear boy, strategy. This is a surprise attack, and I’d no wish that the garrison, forewarned, should escape. I am sure, Lord Stranleigh, that he has been descanting on the distraction of the woods and the camp, or perhaps the metropolitan dissipation of Philadelphia, depending on whether the yearning for sport, or his business in town was uppermost in his mind.”

“My dear Sis,” cried Ned with indignation, “that is a libellous statement. I never so much as mentioned Philadelphia, did I, Stranleigh? You can corroborate what I say.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Stranleigh, lightly. “Your attempt to drag me into your family differences at this point of the game is futile. I’m going to lie low, and say nothing, as Brer Rabbit did, until I learn which of you two is the real ruler of this house. I shall then boldly announce myself on the side of the leader. My position here is much too comfortable to be jeopardised by an injudicious partisanship.”

“As for who’s boss,” growled Ned, “I cravenly admit at once that Sis here is monarch of all she surveys.”

“In that case,” rejoined Stranleigh, heaving a deep sigh of apparent relief, “I’m on the side of the angels. Mrs. Vanderveldt, he did mention Philadelphia and his office there, speaking much about business interests, coal-mines, and what not, during which recital I nearly went to sleep, for I’m no business man. He also descanted on the lakes and the waterfalls and the fishing, and on trout and black bass, and would doubtless have gone on to whales and sea-serpents had you not come in at the opportune moment. Please accept me as your devoted champion, Mrs. Vanderveldt.”

“I do, I do, with appreciation and gratitude,” cried the lady merrily. “I’ve long wished to meet you, Lord Stranleigh, for I heard such glowing accounts of you from my brother here, with most fascinating descriptions of your estates in England, and the happy hours he spent upon them while he was your guest in the old country. I hope we may be able to make some slight return for your kindness to this frowning man. He is always on nettles when I am talking; so different from my husband in that respect.”

“Poor man, he never has a chance to get a word in edgewise,” growled Ned. “My soul is my own, I’m happy to say.”

“Ah, yes,” laughed the lady, “pro tem. But although I am saying so much for myself, I speak with equal authority for my friend Constance Maturin.”

“Did you bring her with you, or is she coming later?” asked Trenton with some anxiety.

“She is here, dear brother, but I could not induce her to enter this room with me. Doubtless she wishes to meet you alone. She is a dear girl, Lord Stranleigh, and it will be my greatest joy to welcome her as a sister-in-law.”

A warm flush was added to the frown on her brother’s brow, but he made no remark.

“Gracious me!” cried the lady, laughing again “have I once more put my foot in it? Why Ned, what a fine confidential friend you are. If I were a young man, and so sweet a girl had promised to marry me, I should proclaim the fact from the house-tops.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” groaned Ned, “if you had a sister.”

“Never mind him,” said Stranleigh, “you have betrayed no secret, Mrs. Vanderveldt. His own confused utterances when referring to the young lady, rendered any verbal confession unnecessary. I suspected how the land lay at a very early stage of our conversation.”

“Well, I think he may congratulate himself that you do not enter the lists against him. You possess some tact, which poor Ned has never acquired, and now I’ll make him sit up by informing him that Connie Maturin took a special trip over to England recently, in order to meet you.”

“To meet me?” cried Stranleigh in astonishment.

“Yes, indeed, and an amazed girl she was to learn that you had sailed for America. She came right back by the next boat. She has a great plan in her mind which requires heavy financing. My brother here isn’t rich enough, and I, of course, am much poorer than he is, so she thought if she could interest you, as the leading capitalist of England——”

“Good heavens, girl,” interrupted Ned, the perspiration standing out on his brow, “do show some consideration for what you are saying! Why, you rattle on without a thought to your words. Lord Stranleigh just made it a proviso that——. Oh, hang it all, Sis; you’ve put your foot in it this time, sure enough.”

The lady turned on him now with no laughter on her lips, or merriment in her tone.

“Why, Ned, you’re actually scolding me. I promised Connie Maturin to help her, and my way of accomplishing anything is to go directly for it.”

“Oh, heaven help me,” murmured Ned, “the law courts have already taught me that.”

“Mrs. Vanderveldt,” said the Earl of Stranleigh, very quietly, “please turn to your champion, and ignore this wretched man, whose unnecessary reticence is finding him out.”

The only person to be embarrassed by this tangle of concealments and revelations was Constance Maturin, who had indulged in neither the one nor the other. The Earl of Stranleigh found it difficult to become acquainted with her. She seemed always on her guard, and never even approached the subject which he had been given to understand chiefly occupied her thoughts.

On the day set for their automobile ride, Miss Maturin appeared at the wheel of the very latest thing in runabouts; a six-cylindered machine of extraordinary power, that ran as silently and smoothly as an American watch, and all merely for the purpose of carrying two persons. Stranleigh ran his eye over the graceful proportions of the new car with an expert’s keen appreciation, walking round it slowly and critically, quite forgetting the girl who regarded him with an expression of amusement. Looking up at last, he saw a smile playing about her pretty lips.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“I’m not sure that I shall grant it,” she replied, laughing. “To be ignored in this callous fashion for even the latest project of engineering, is not in the least flattering.”

“Not ignored, Miss Maturin,” said Stranleigh, “for I was thinking of you, although I may have appeared absorbed in the machine.”

“Thinking of me!” she cried. “You surely can’t expect me to believe that! The gaze of a man fascinated by a piece of machinery is quite different from that of a man fascinated by a woman. I know, because I have seen both.”

“I am sure you have seen the latter, Miss Maturin. But what I have just been regarding is an omen.”

“Really? How mysterious! I thought you saw only an automobile.”

“No, I was looking through the automobile, and beyond, if I may put it that way. I am quite familiar with the plan of this car, although this is the first specimen that I have examined. The car is yours by purchase, I suppose, but it is mine by manufacture. Your money bought it, but mine made it, in conjunction with the genius of a young engineer in whom I became interested. Perhaps you begin to see the omen. Some time ago I was fortunate enough to be of assistance to a young man, and the result has been an unqualified success. To-day perhaps I may be permitted to aid a young woman with a success that will be equally gratifying.”

Stranleigh gazed steadily into the clear, honest eyes of the girl, who returned his look with a half-amused smile. Now she seemed suddenly covered with confusion, and flushing slightly, turned her attention to the forest that surrounded them. Presently she said—

“Do you men worship only the god of success? You have used the word three or four times.”

“Most men wish to be successful, I suppose, but we all worship a goddess, too.”

“I’m sorry,” said Miss Maturin, “that Mrs. Vanderveldt mentioned my search for a capitalist. I have abandoned the quest. I am now merely your guide to the lakes. Please take a seat in this automobile of yours, Lord Stranleigh, and I will be your conductor.”

The young man stepped in beside her, and a few moments later they were gliding, rather than running over a perfect road, under the trees, in a machine as noiseless as the forest. The Earl of Stranleigh had seen many beautiful regions of this world, but never any landscape just like this. Its artificiality and its lack of artificiality interested him. Nothing could be more businesslike than the construction of the stout dams, and nothing more gently rural than the limpid lakes, with the grand old forest trees marshalled round their margins like a veteran army that had marched down to drink, only to be stricken motionless at the water’s edge.

It seemed that the silence of the motor-car had enchanted into silence its occupants. The girl devoted her whole attention to the machine and its management. Stranleigh sat dumb, and gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the Vallombrosic tour.

For more than half an hour no word had been spoken; finally the competent chauffeur brought the auto to a standstill at a view-point near the head of the valley, which offered a prospect of the brawling main stream.

“We have now reached the last of the lakes in this direction,” she said quietly. “I think your automobile is admirable, Lord Stranleigh.”

The young man indulged in a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“As a landscape gardener on a marvellous scale, you are without a competitor, Miss Maturin.”

The girl laughed very sweetly.

“That is a compliment to nature rather than to me. I have merely let the wilderness alone, so far as road-making and dam-building would allow me.”

“In that very moderation lies genius—the leaving alone. Will you forgive the inquisitiveness of a mere man whom you suspected at our outset of success-worship, if he asks what practical object you have in view?”

“Oh, I should have thought that was self-evident to an observant person like yourself,” she said airily. “These lakes conserve the water, storing it in time of flood for use in time of scarcity. By means of sluices we obtain partial control of the main stream.”

“You flatter me by saying I am observant. I fear that I am rather the reverse, except where my interest is aroused, as is the case this morning. Is conservation your sole object, then?”

“Is not that enough?”

“I suppose it is. I know little of civil engineering, absorbing craft though it is. I have seen its marvels along your own lines in America, Egypt, India, and elsewhere. As we progressed I could not help noticing that the dams built to restrain these lakes seemed unnecessarily strong.”

A slight shadow of annoyance flitted across the expressive countenance of Constance Maturin, but was gone before he saw it.

“You are shrewder than you admit, Lord Stranleigh, but you forget what I said about freshets. The lakes are placid enough now, but you should see them after a cloud-burst back in the mountains.”

“Nevertheless, the dams look bulky enough to hold back the Nile.”

“Appearances are often deceitful. They are simply strong enough for the work they have to do. American engineering practice does not go in for useless encumbrance. Each dam serves two purposes. It holds back the water and it contains a power-house. In some of these power-houses turbines and dynamoes are already placed.”

“Ah, now I understand. You must perceive that I am a very stupid individual.”

“You are a very persistent person,” said the young woman decisively.

Stranleigh laughed.

“Allow me to take advantage of that reputation by asking you what you intend to do with the electricity when you have produced it?”

“We have no plans.”

“Oh, I say!”

“What do you say?”

“That was merely an Anglicised expression of astonishment.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“No.”

They were sitting together on the automobile seat, deep in the shade of the foliage above them, but when he caught sight of the indignant face which she turned towards him, it almost appeared as if the sun shone upon it. She seemed about to speak, thought better of it, and reached forward to the little lever that controlled the self-starting apparatus. She found his hand there before she could carry out her intention.

“I am returning, Lord Stranleigh,” she said icily.

“Not yet.”

She leaned back in the seat.

“Mr. Trenton told me that you were the most polite man he had ever met. I have seldom found him so mistaken in an impression.”

“Was it a polite man you set out to find in your recent trip to Europe?”

As the girl made no reply, Stranleigh went on—

“My politeness is something like the dams we have been considering. It contains more than appears on the surface. There is concealed power within it. You may meet myriads of men well qualified to teach me courtesy, but when this veneer of social observance is broken, you come to pretty much the same material underneath. I seldom permit myself the luxury of an escape from the conventions, but on rare occasions I break through. For that I ask your pardon. Impressed by your sincerity, I forgot for the moment everything but your own need in the present crisis.”

“What crisis?” she asked indignantly.

“The financial crisis caused by your spending every available resource on this so-called conservation policy. To all intents and purposes you are now a bankrupt. Mrs. Vanderveldt has contributed all she can, and both you and she are afraid to tell her brother the true state of the case. You fear you will get little sympathy from him, for he is absorbed in coal-mines and railways, and both of you have already felt his annoyance at the law-suit in which you have involved him. Hence your desperate need of a capitalist. A really polite man would be a more pleasant companion than I, but he is not worth that, Miss Maturin!”

Stranleigh removed his hand from the lever long enough to snap fingers and thumb, but he instantly replaced it when he saw her determination to start the machine.

“The man of the moment, Miss Maturin, is a large and reckless capitalist. I am that capitalist.”

He released his hold of the lever, and sat upright. The sternness of his face relaxed.

“Now, Miss Maturin, turn on the power; take me where you like; dump me into any of those lakes you choose; the water is crystal clear, and I’m a good swimmer,” and with this Stranleigh indulged in a hearty laugh, his own genial self once more.

“You are laughing at me,” she said resentfully.

“Indeed I am not. Another contradiction, you see! I am laughing at myself. There’s nothing I loathe so much as strenuousness, and here I have fallen into the vice. It is the influence of that brawling river below us, I think. But the river becomes still enough, and useful enough, when it reaches the great lake at Powerville, which is big enough to swallow all these little ponds.”

The girl made no motion towards the lever, but sat very still, lost in thought. When she spoke, her voice was exceedingly quiet.

“You complimented Nature a while ago, intending, as I suppose, to compliment me, but I think after all the greater compliment is your straight talk, which I admire, although I received it so petulantly. I shall make no apology, beyond saying that my mind is very much perturbed. Your surmise is absolutely correct. It isn’t that I’ve spent the whole of my fortune and my friend’s fortune in this conservation scheme. It is because I have built a model city on the heights above Powerville. I was promised assistance from the banks, which is now withheld, largely, I suspect, through the opposition of John L. Boscombe, a reputed millionaire. To all intents and purposes Boscombe and I are the owners of Powerville and the mills there, but although this place was founded and built up by my father, I am a minority stock-holder, and powerless. Boscombe exercises control. Any suggestions or protests of mine are ignored, for Boscombe, like my father, has little faith—no faith at all, in fact—in the business capacity of a woman.

“I have tried, as I hinted, to enlist the co-operation of other capitalists, but experience has taught me that any appeal is futile that does not impinge directly upon cupidity. If there is the least hint of philanthropy in the project, every man of money fights shy of it.”

“I am an exception,” said Stranleigh, eagerly. “Philanthropy used to be a strong point with me, though I confess I was never very successful in its exercise. What humanitarian scheme is in your mind, Miss Maturin?”

Again she sat silent for some moments, indecision and doubt on her fair brow. Presently she said, as if pulling herself together—

“I will not tell you, Lord Stranleigh. You yourself have just admitted disbelief, and my plan is so fantastic that I dare not submit it to criticism.”

“I suppose your new city is in opposition to the old town down in the valley? You alone are going to compete with Boscombe and yourself.”

“That is one way of putting it.”

“Very well, I am with you. Blow Boscombe! say I. I’ve no head for business, so I sha’n’t need to take any advice. I shall do exactly what you tell me. What is the first move?”

“The first move is to set your brokers in New York at work, and buy a block of Powerville stock.”

“I see; so that you and I together have control, instead of Boscombe?”

“Yes.”

“That shall be done as quick as telegraph can give instructions. What next?”

“There will be required a large sum of money to liquidate the claims upon me incurred through the building of the city.”

“Very good. That money shall be at your disposal within two or three days.”

“As for security, I regret——”

“Don’t mention it. My security is my great faith in Ned Trenton, also in yourself. Say no more about it.”

“You are very kind, Lord Stranleigh, but there is one thing I must say. This may involve you in a law-suit so serious that the litigation of which Ned complains will appear a mere amicable arrangement by comparison.”

“That’s all right and doesn’t disturb me in the least. I love a legal contest, because I have nothing to do but place it in the hands of competent lawyers. No personal activity is required of me, and I am an indolent man.”

The second part of the programme was accomplished even sooner than Stranleigh had promised, but the first part hung fire. The brokers in New York could not acquire any Powerville stock, as was shown by their application to Miss Maturin herself, neither had their efforts been executed with that secrecy which Stranleigh had enjoined. He realised this when John L. Boscombe called upon him. He went directly to the point.

“I am happy to meet you, Lord Stranleigh, and if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to say that you are more greatly in need of advice at this moment than any man in America.”

“You are perfectly right, Mr. Boscombe. I am always in need of good advice, and I appreciate it.”

“An application was made to me from New York for a block of stock. That stock is not for sale, but I dallied with the brokers, made investigations, and traced the inquiry to you.”

“Very clever of you, Mr. Boscombe.”

“I learn that you propose to finance Miss Constance Maturin, who is a junior partner in my business.”

“I should not think of contradicting so shrewd a man as yourself, Mr. Boscombe. What do you advise in the premises?”

“I advise you to get out, and quick, too.”

“If I don’t, what are you going to do to me?”

“Oh, I shall do nothing. She will do all that is necessary. That woman is stark mad, Lord Stranleigh. Her own father recognised it when he bereft her of all power in the great business he founded. If she had her way, she’d ruin the company inside a year with her hare-brained schemes; love of the dear people, and that sort of guff.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I noticed no dementia on the part of Miss Maturin, who seemed to me a most cultivated and very charming young lady. You will permit me, I hope, to thank you for your warning, and will not be surprised that I can give you no decision on the spur of the moment. I am a slow-minded person, and need time to think over things.”

“Certainly, certainly; personally I come to sudden conclusions, and once I make up my mind, I never change it.”

“A most admirable gift. I wish I possessed it.”

Lord Stranleigh said nothing of this interview to Constance Maturin, beyond telling her that the acquisition of stock appeared to be hopeless, as indeed proved to be the case.

“Boscombe must be a stubborn person,” he said.

“Oh, he’s all that,” the girl replied, with a sigh. “He cares for one thing only, the making of money, and in that I must admit he has been very successful.”

“Well, we’ve got a little cash of our own,” said Stranleigh, with a laugh.

Miss Maturin and Mrs. Vanderveldt celebrated a national holiday by the greatest entertainment ever given in that district. The mills had been shut down for a week, and every man, woman and child in the valley city had been invited up to the new town on the heights. There was a brass band, and a sumptuous spread of refreshments, all free to the immense crowd. The ladies, for days before, visited everyone in the valley, and got a promise of attendance, but to make assurance doubly sure, an amazing corps of men was organised, equipped with motor cars, which scoured the valley from Powerville downwards, gathering in such remnants of humanity as for any reason had neglected to attend the show. Miss Maturin said she was resolved this entertainment should be a feature unique in the history of the State.

The shutting down of the mills had caused the water in the immense dam to rise, so that now the sluices at the top added to the picturesqueness of the scene by supplying waterfalls more than sixty feet high, a splendid view of which was obtainable from the new city on the heights. Suddenly it was noticed that these waterfalls increased in power, until their roar filled the valley. At last the whole lip of the immense dam began to trickle, and an ever augmenting Niagara of waters poured over.

“Great heavens!” cried Boscombe, who was present to sneer at these activities, “there must have been a cloud-burst in the mountains!”

He shouted for the foreman.

“Where are the tenders of the dam?” he cried. “Send them to lower those sluices, and let more water out.”

“Wait a moment,” said Constance Maturin, who had just come out of the main telephone building. “There can be no danger, Mr. Boscombe. You always said that dam was strong enough, when I protested it wasn’t.”

“So it is strong enough, but not——”

“Look!” she cried, pointing over the surface of the lake. “See that wave!”

“Suffering Noah and the Flood!” exclaimed Boscombe.

As he spoke, the wave burst against the dam, and now they had Niagara in reality. There was a crash, and what seemed to be a series of explosions, then the whole structure dissolved away, and before the appalled eyes of the sight-seers, the valley town crumpled up like a pack of cards, and even the tall mills themselves, that staggered at the impact of the flood, slowly settled down, and were engulfed in the seething turmoil of maddened waters.

“‘This,’ he cried, ‘is murder.’”

For a time no voice could be heard in the deafening uproar. It was Boscombe who spoke when the waters began to subside.

“This,” he cried, “is murder!”

He glared at Constance Maturin, who stood pale, silent and trembling.

“I told you she was mad,” he roared at Stranleigh. “It is your money that in some devilish way has caused this catastrophe. If any lives are lost, it is rank murder!”

“It is murder,” agreed Stranleigh, quietly. “Whoever is responsible for the weakness of that dam should be hanged!”

V.—IN SEARCH OF GAME.

The warm morning gave promise of a blistering hot day, as Lord Stranleigh strolled, in his usual leisurely fashion, up Fifth Avenue. High as the thermometer already stood, the young man gave no evidence that he was in the least incommoded by the temperature. In a welter of heated, hurrying people, he produced the effect of an iceberg that had somehow drifted down into the tropics. The New York tailor entrusted with the duty of clothing him quite outdistanced his London rival, who had given Lord Stranleigh the reputation of being the best-dressed man in England. Now his lordship was dangerously near the point where he might be called the best-dressed man in New York, an achievement worthy of a Prince’s ambition.

His lordship, with nothing to do, and no companionship to hope for, since everyone was at work, strolled into the splendour of the University Club and sought the comparative coolness of the smoking room, where, seating himself in that seductive invitation to laziness, a leather-covered arm chair, he began to glance over the illustrated English weeklies. He had the huge room to himself. These were business hours, and a feeling of loneliness crept over him, perhaps germinated by his sight of the illustrated papers, and accentuated by an attempted perusal of them. They were a little too stolid for a hot day, so Stranleigh turned to the lighter entertainment of the American humorous press.

Presently there entered this hall of silence the stout figure of Mr. John L. Banks, senior attorney for the Ice Trust, a man well known to Stranleigh, who had often sought his advice, with profit to both of them. The lawyer approached the lounger.

“Hello, Banks, I was just thinking of you, reflecting how delightful it must be in this weather to be connected, even remotely, with the ice supply of New York.”

Mr. Banks’s panama hat was in one hand, while the other drew a handkerchief across his perspiring brow.

“Well, Stranleigh, you’re looking very cool and collected. Enacting the part of the idle rich, I suppose?”

“No, I’m a specimen of labour unrest.”

“Perhaps I can appease that. I’m open to a deal at fair compensation for you. If you will simply parade the streets in that leisurely fashion we all admire, bearing a placard ‘Pure Ice Company,’ I’ll guarantee you a living wage and an eight hours’ day.”

“Should I be required to carry about crystal blocks of the product?”

“No; you’re frigid enough as it is. Besides, ice at the present moment is too scarce to be expended on even so important a matter as advertisement.”

Banks wheeled forward an arm chair, and sat down opposite his lordship. A useful feature of a panama hat is its flexibility. You may roll one brim to fit the hand, and use the other as a fan, and this Banks did with the perfection of practice.

“What’s the cause of the unrest, Stranleigh?”

“Thinking. That’s the cause of unrest all the world over. Whenever people begin to think, there is trouble.”

“I’ve never noticed any undue thoughtfulness in you, Stranleigh.”

“That’s just it. Thinking doesn’t agree with me, and as you hint, I rarely indulge in it, but this is a land that somehow stimulates thought, and thought compels action. Action is all very well in moderation, but in these United States of yours it is developed into a fever, or frenzy rather, curable only by a breakdown or death.”

“Do you think it’s as bad as all that?”

“Yes, I do. You call it enterprise; I call it greed. I’ve never yet met an American who knew when he’d had enough.”

“Did you ever meet an Englishman who knew that?”

“Thousands of them.”

Banks laughed.

“I imagine,” he said, “it’s all a matter of nomenclature. You think us fast over here, and doubtless you are wrong; we think you slow over there, and doubtless we are wrong. I don’t think we’re greedy. No man is so lavish in his expenditure as an American, and no man more generous. A greedy man does not spend money. Our motive power is interest in the game.”

“Yes; everyone has told me that, but I regard the phrase as an excuse, not as a reason.”

“Look here, Stranleigh, who’s been looting you? What deal have you lost? I warned you against mixing philanthropy with business, you remember.”

Stranleigh threw back his head and laughed.

“There you have it. According to you a man cannot form an opinion that is uninfluenced by his pocket. As a matter of fact, I have won all along the line. I tried the game, as you call it, hoping to find it interesting, but it doesn’t seem to me worth while. I pocket the stakes, and I am going home, in no way elated at my success, any more than I should have been discouraged had I failed.”

Leaning forward, Mr. Banks spoke as earnestly as the weather permitted.

“What you need, Stranleigh, is a doctor’s advice, not a lawyer’s. You have been just a little too long in New York, and although New Yorkers don’t believe it, there are other parts of the country worthy of consideration. Your talk, instead of being an indictment of life as you find it, has been merely an exposition of your own ignorance, a sample of that British insularity which we all deplore. I hope you don’t mind my stating the case as I see it?”

“Not at all,” said Stranleigh. “I am delighted to hear your point of view. Go on.”

“Very well; here am I plugging away during this hot weather in this hot city. Greed, says you.”

“I say nothing of the kind,” replied his lordship calmly. “I am merely lost in admiration of a hard-working man, enduring the rigours of toil in the most luxurious club of which I have ever been an honorary member. Let me soften the asperities of labour by ordering something with ice in it.”

The good-natured attorney accepted the invitation, and then went on—

“We have a saying regarding any futile proposition to the effect that it cuts no ice. This is the position of the Trust in which I am interested. In this hot weather we cut no ice, but we sell it. Winter is a peaceable season with us, and the harder the winter, the better we are pleased, but summer is a time of trouble. It is a period of complaints and law-suits, and our newspaper reading is mostly articles on the greed and general villainy of the Trust. So my position is literally that of what-you-may-call-him on the burning deck, whence almost all but he have fled to the lakes, to the mountains, to the sea shore. Now, I don’t intend to do this always. I have set a limit of accumulated cash, and when I reach it I quit. It would be high falutin’ if I said duty held me here, so I will not say it.”

“A lawyer can always out-talk a layman,” said Stranleigh, wearily, “and I suppose all this impinges on my ignorance.”

“Certainly,” said Banks. “It’s a large subject, you know. But I’ll leave theory, and come down to practice. As I said before, you’ve had too much of New York. You are known to have a little money laid by against a rainy day, so everybody wants you to invest in something, and you’ve got tired of it. Have you ever had a taste of ranch life out West?”

“I’ve never been further West than Chicago.”

“Good. When you were speaking of setting a limit to financial ambition, I remembered my old friend, Stanley Armstrong, the best companion on a shooting or fishing expedition I ever encountered. It is not to be wondered at that he is an expert in sport, for often he has had to depend on rod and gun for sustenance. He was a mining engineer, and very few know the mining west as well as he does. He might have been a millionaire or a pauper, but he chose a middle course, and set his limit at a hundred thousand pounds. When land was cheap he bought a large ranch, partly plain and partly foothills, with the eternal snow mountains beyond. Now, if you take with you an assortment of guns and fishing rods, and spend a month with Stanley Armstrong, your pessimism will evaporate.”

“A good idea,” said Stranleigh. “If you give me a letter of introduction to Mr. Armstrong, I’ll telegraph at once to be sure of accommodation.”

“Telegraph?” cried the lawyer. “He’d never get your message. I don’t suppose there’s a telegraph office within fifty miles. You don’t need a letter of introduction, but I’ll write you one, and give your name merely as Stranleigh. You won’t have any use for a title out there; in fact, it is a necessary part of my prescription that you should get away from yours, with the consequences it entails. Not that you’re likely to come across would-be investors, or any one with designs on your wealth. As for accommodation, take a tent with you, and be independent. When I return to my office, I’ll dictate full instructions for reaching the ranch.”

“Is it so difficult of access as all that?”

“You might find it so. When you reach the nearest railway station, which is a couple of days’ journey from the ranch, you can acquire a horse for yourself, and two or three men with pack mules for your belongings. They’ll guide you to Armstrong’s place.”

Stranleigh found no difficulty in getting a cavalcade together at Bleachers’ station, an amazingly long distance west of New York. A man finds little trouble in obtaining what he wants, if he never cavils at the price asked, and is willing to pay in advance. The party passed through a wild country, though for a time the road was reasonably good. It degenerated presently into a cart-track, however, and finally became a mere trail through the wilderness. As night fell, the tent was put up by the side of a brawling stream, through which they had forded.

Next morning the procession started early, but it was noon before it came to the clearing which Stranleigh rightly surmised was the outskirts of the ranch. The guide, who had been riding in front, reined in, and allowed Stranleigh to come alongside.

“That,” he said, pointing down the valley, “is Armstrong’s ranch.”

Before Stranleigh could reply, if he had intended doing so, a shot rang out from the forest, and he felt the sharp sting of a bullet in his left shoulder. The guide flung himself from the saddle with the speed of lightning, and stood with both hands upraised, his horse between himself and the unseen assailant.

“Throw up your hands!” he shouted to Stranleigh.

“Impossible!” was the quiet answer, “my left is helpless.”

“Then hold up your right.”

Stranleigh did so.

“Slide off them packs,” roared the guide to his followers, whereupon ropes were untied on the instant, and the packs slid to the ground, while the mules shook themselves, overjoyed at this sudden freedom.

“Turn back!” cried the guide. “Keep your hand up, and they won’t shoot. They want the goods.”

“Then you mean to desert me?” asked Stranleigh.

“Desert nothing!” rejoined the guide, gruffly.

“We can’t stand up against these fellows, whoever they are. We’re no posse. To fight them is the sheriff’s business. I engaged to bring you and your dunnage to Armstrong’s ranch. I’ve delivered the goods, and now it’s me for the railroad.”

“I’m going to that house,” said Stranleigh.

“The more fool you,” replied the guide, “but I guess you’ll get there safe enough, if you don’t try to save the plunder.”

The unladen mules, now bearing the men on their backs, had disappeared. The guide washed his hands of the whole affair, despite the fact that his hands were upraised. He whistled to his horse, and marched up the trail for a hundred yards or so, still without lowering his arms, then sprang into the saddle, fading out of sight in the direction his men had taken. Stranleigh sat on his horse, apparently the sole inhabitant of a lonely world.

“That comes of paying in advance,” he muttered, looking round at his abandoned luggage. Then it struck him as ridiculous that he was enacting the part of an equestrian statue, with his arm raised aloft. Still, he remembered enough of the pernicious literature that had lent enchantment to his early days, to know that in certain circumstances the holding up of hands was a safeguard not to be neglected, so he lowered his right hand, and took in it the forefinger of his left, and thus raised both arms over his head, turning round in the saddle to face the direction from whence the shots had come. Then he released the forefinger, and allowed the left arm to drop as if it had been a semaphore. He winced under the pain that this pantomime cost him, then in a loud voice he called out:

“If there is anyone within hearing, I beg to inform him that I am wounded slightly; that I carry no firearms; that my escort has vanished, and that I’m going to the house down yonder to have my injury looked after. Now’s the opportunity for a parley, if he wants it.”

He waited for some moments, but there was no response, then he gathered up the reins, and quite unmolested proceeded down the declivity until he came to the homestead.

The place appeared to be deserted, and for the first time it crossed Stranleigh’s mind that perhaps the New York lawyer had sent him on this expedition as a sort of practical joke. He couldn’t discover where the humour of it came in, but perhaps that might be the density with which his countrymen were universally credited. Nevertheless, he determined to follow the adventure to an end, and slipped from his horse, making an ineffectual attempt to fasten the bridle rein to a rail of the fence that surrounded the habitation. The horse began placidly to crop the grass, so he let it go at that, and advancing to the front door, knocked.

Presently the door was opened by an elderly woman of benign appearance, who nevertheless regarded him with some suspicion. She stood holding the door, without speaking, seemingly waiting for her unexpected visitor to proclaim his mission.

“Is this the house of Stanley Armstrong?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he at home? I have a letter of introduction to him.”

“No; he is not at home.”

“Do you expect him soon?”

“He is in Chicago,” answered the woman.

“In Chicago?” echoed Stranleigh. “We must have passed one another on the road. I was in Chicago myself, but it seems months ago; in fact, I can hardly believe such a place exists.” The young man smiled a little grimly, but there was no relaxation of the serious expression with which the woman had greeted him.

“What was your business with my husband?”

“No business at all; rather the reverse. Pleasure, it might be called. I expected to do a little shooting and fishing. A friend in New York kindly gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Armstrong, who, he said, would possibly accompany me.”

“Won’t you come inside?” was her reluctant invitation. “I don’t think you told me your name.”

“My name is Stranleigh, madam. I hope you will excuse my persistence, but the truth is I have been slightly hurt, and if, as I surmise, it is inconvenient to accept me as a lodger, I should be deeply indebted for permission to remain here while I put a bandage on the wound. I must return at once to Bleachers, where I suppose I can find a physician more or less competent.”

“Hurt?” cried the woman in amazement, “and I’ve been keeping you standing there at the door. Why didn’t you tell me at once?”

“Oh, I think it’s no great matter, and the pain is not as keen as I might have expected. Still, I like to be on the safe side, and must return after I have rested for a few minutes.”

“I’m very sorry to hear of your accident,” said Mrs. Armstrong, with concern. “Sit down in that rocking-chair until I call my daughter.”

The unexpected beauty of the young woman who entered brought an expression of mild surprise to Stranleigh’s face. In spite of her homely costume, a less appreciative person than his lordship must have been struck by Miss Armstrong’s charm, and her air of intelligent refinement.

“This is Mr. Stranleigh, who has met with an accident,” said Mrs. Armstrong to her daughter.

“Merely a trifle,” Stranleigh hastened to say, “but I find I cannot raise my left arm.”

“Is it broken?” asked the girl, with some anxiety.

“I don’t think so; I fancy the trouble is in the shoulder. A rifle bullet has passed through it.”

“A rifle bullet?” echoed the girl, in a voice of alarm. “How did that happen? But—never mind telling me now. The main thing is to attend to the wound. Let me help you off with your coat.”

Stranleigh stood up.

“No exertion, please,” commanded the girl. “Bring some warm water and a sponge,” she continued, turning to her mother.

She removed Stranleigh’s coat with a dexterity that aroused his admiration. The elder woman returned with dressings and sponge, which she placed on a chair. Stranleigh’s white shirt was stained with blood, and to this Miss Armstrong applied the warm water.

“I must sacrifice your linen,” she said calmly. “Please sit down again.”

In a few moments his shoulder was bare; not the shoulder of an athlete, but nevertheless of a young man in perfect health. The girl’s soft fingers pressed it gently.

“I shall have to hurt you a little,” she said.

Stranleigh smiled.

“It is all for my good, as they say to little boys before whipping them.”

The girl smiled back at him.

“Yes; but I cannot add the complementary fiction that it hurts me more than it does you. There! Did you feel that?”

“Not more than usual.”

“There are no bones broken, which is a good thing. After all, it is a simple case, Mr. Stranleigh. You must remain quiet for a few days, and allow me to put this arm in a sling. I ought to send you off to bed, but if you promise not to exert yourself, you may sit out on the verandah where it is cool, and where the view may interest you.”

“You are very kind, Miss Armstrong, but I cannot stay. I must return to Bleachers.”

“I shall not allow you to go back,” she said with decision.

Stranleigh laughed.

“In a long and comparatively useless life I have never contradicted a lady, but on this occasion I must insist on having my own way.”

“I quite understand your reason, Mr. Stranleigh, though it is very uncomplimentary to me. It is simply an instance of man’s distrust of a woman when it comes to serious work. Like most men, you would be content to accept me as a nurse, but not as a physician. There are two doctors in Bleachers, and you are anxious to get under the care of one of them. No—please don’t trouble to deny it. You are not to blame. You are merely a victim of the universal conceit of man.”

“Ah, it is you who are not complimentary now! You must think me a very commonplace individual.”

She had thrown the coat over his shoulders, after having washed and dressed the wound. The bullet had been considerate enough to pass right through, making all probing unnecessary. With a safety-pin she attached his shirt sleeve to his shirt front.

“That will do,” she said, “until I prepare a regular sling. And now come out to the verandah. No; don’t carry the chair. There are several on the platform. Don’t try to be polite, and remember I have already ordered you to avoid exertion.”

He followed her to the broad piazza, and sat down, drawing a deep breath of admiration. Immediately in front ran a broad, clear stream of water; swift, deep, transparent.

“An ideal trout stream,” he said to himself.

A wide vista of rolling green fields stretched away to a range of foothills, overtopped in the far distance by snow mountains.

“By Jove!” he cried. “This is splendid. I have seen nothing like it out of Switzerland.”

“Talking of Switzerland,” said Miss Armstrong, seating herself opposite him, “have you ever been at Thun?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You stopped at the Thunerhof, I suppose?”

“I don’t remember what it was called, but it was the largest hotel in the place, I believe.”

“That would be the Thunerhof,” she said. “I went to a much more modest inn, the Falken, and the stream that runs in front of it reminded me of this, and made me quite lonesome for the ranch. Of course, you had the river opposite you at the Thunerhof, but there the river is half a dozen times as wide as the branch that runs past the Falken. I used to sit out on the terrace watching that stream, murmuring to its accompaniment ‘Home, sweet Home.’”

“You are by way of being a traveller, then?”

“Not a traveller, Mr. Stranleigh,” said the girl, laughing a little, “but a dabbler. I took dabs of travel, like my little visit to Thun. For more than a year I lived in Lausanne, studying my profession, and during that time I made brief excursions here and there.”

“Your profession,” asked Stranleigh, with evident astonishment.

“Yes; can’t you guess what it is, and why I am relating this bit of personal history on such very short acquaintance?”

The girl’s smile was beautiful.

“Don’t you know Europe?” she added.

“I ought to; I’m a native.”

“Then you are aware that Lausanne is a centre of medical teaching and medical practice. I am a doctor, Mr. Stranleigh. Had your wound been really serious, which it is not, and you had come under the care of either physician in Bleachers, he would have sent for me, if he knew I were at home.”

“What you have said interests me very much, Miss Armstrong, or should I say Doctor Armstrong?”

“I will answer to either designation, Mr. Stranleigh, but I should qualify the latter by adding that I am not a practising physician. ‘Professor,’ perhaps, would be the more accurate title. I am a member of the faculty in an eastern college of medicine, but by and by I hope to give up teaching, and devote myself entirely to research work. It is my ambition to become the American Madame Curie.”

“A laudable ambition, Professor, and I hope you will succeed. Do you mind if I tell you how completely wrong you are in your diagnosis of the subject now before you?”

“In my surgical diagnosis I am not wrong. Your wound will be cured in a very few days.”

“Oh, I am not impugning your medical skill. I knew the moment you spoke about your work that you were an expert. It is your diagnosis of me that is all astray. I have no such disbelief in the capacity of woman as you credit me with. I have no desire to place myself under the ministrations of either of those doctors in Bleachers. My desire for the metropolitan delights of that scattered town is of the most commonplace nature. I must buy for myself an outfit of clothes. I possess nothing in the way of raiment except what I am wearing, and part of that you’ve cut up with your scissors.”

“Surely you never came all this distance without being well provided in that respect?”

“No; I had ample supplies, and I brought them with me safely to a point within sight of this house. In fact, I came hither like a sheik of the desert, at the head of a caravan, only the animals were mules instead of camels. All went well until we came to the edge of the forest, but the moment I emerged a shot rang out, and it seemed to me I was stung by a gigantic bee, as invisible as the shooter. The guide said there was a band of robbers intent on plunder, and he and the escort acted as escorts usually do in such circumstances. They unloaded the mules with most admirable celerity, and then made off much faster than they came. I never knew a body of men so unanimous in action. They would make a splendid board of directors in a commercial company that wished to get its work accomplished without undue discussion.”

The girl had risen to her feet.

“And your baggage?” she asked.

“I suppose it is in the hands of the brigands by this time. I left it scattered along the trail.”

“But, Mr. Stranleigh, what you say is incredible. There are no brigands, thieves or road agents in this district.”

“The wound that you dressed so skilfully is my witness, and a witness whose testimony cannot be impugned on cross-examination.”

“There is a mistake somewhere. Why, just think of it; the most energetic bandit would starve in this locality! There is no traffic. If your belongings were scattered along the trail, they are there yet.”

“Then why shoot the belonger of those belongings?”