A Romance at Random

""

By H. B. Marriott Watson

HE clock in a small church hidden among the huddle of houses had struck twelve, and a fine moon brightened the almost silent street, as Lord de Lys quickened his steps to draw closer to the woman. It was something in her gait, coupled with the strangeness of her sudden flitting from the brougham, which had originally arrested him. She had descended into the chill night air, thrown a furtive glance about the street which evidently missed him where he stood in the shadow of a portico, and, with a gesture of dismissal to the coachman, darted round the corner. De Lys had stared, pulled himself together, and followed.

Why did a fashionably dressed woman behave like that at such an hour within the precincts of Mayfair? He had followed her distantly down two streets, which, as a matter of fact, was his legitimate course, his feet clanging regularly on the pavement, and now, as she drew within the circle of an electric light, he hastened closer He had indulged his curiosity, and now he felt ashamed, ashamed perhaps more by the flash of her eyes as she wheeled them about on him, her open cloak betraying the low-cut dress beneath, her handsome face pallid in the white light.

He passed her where she stood, as if he had been the only occupant of the street, since that conduct alone was left him now. He had become conscious that she had become conscious of him, and that he was suspected of a vulgar pursuit. His face tingled with shame. He heard her crossing the street, and, almost without knowing he did so, turned his head. He saw her cross quickly, and pause before a house, the plain front of which was whitened in the moonlight. She set her hand on the area railings, and she swayed.

He strode across to her at racing speed. She turned, and on her white face the white moon shone ghostly.

“What is it you want?” she asked, holding by the rails.

“I beg your pardon,” said de Lys with some diffidence. “I thought I saw you—I feared you were ill.”

Her unknown eyes seemed to be fixed on him for a moment ere she replied.

“Oh, dear, no,” said she at last. “Your imagination outstrips fact. It runs far ahead.” She paused, then went on: “You were good enough to be interested in me, but I assure you there is nothing to exercise your wits on. I was looking to see if the kitchen lights were out. This is my house.”

“I—I am sorry,” stammered de Lys, “I thought you were ill. That was why I—”

He did not finish his sentence. He saw to his surprise that she was smiling, and he had not looked for amusement, but for either indignation or embarrassment.

“I have no doubt it was,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I did trip on the pavement, and feel a little shaken. So if you will be good enough to walk with me so far as the door I shall be grateful.”

It was unexpected, and subverted in a moment all his theories. Silently he attended her until the fanlight over the door shone full upon them both. The lady stood on the step above him, and they regarded each other. There was no more question as to her class and breeding than as to his—which puzzled him the more. This was no rich and idle wanton, but a woman of character, of some authority, as well as of beauty. A smile spread over her face, which had been grave, as she studied him.

“Do you know the number of this house?” she asked, “or this street?”

“No,” he confessed. “I was not noticing.”

“If you give me your word of honor as a gentleman not to try to discover either, I can offer you a glass of wine for your kindness,” she said.

“Agreed!” said Lord de Lys promptly. This was the sort of adventure that was dear to his heart.

The lady placed a latch-key in the door, turned it, and passed through the open way, beckoning him in silently. He followed, and the heavy door sank bank into the sockets dully, almost as if it closed a prison.

The hall was but dimly lighted; but the lady led the way to a room at the back, which seemed to look on the usual abridged London garden. She switched on the electric light, revealing a roomy chamber pleasantly furnished, with a fire burning briskly, Empire ornaments on the mantelpiece, rich hangings, and an elegant Sheraton table covered with a damask cloth, and set for supper. He noted in his quick way that the materials of the supper were light, such as should make appeal to a woman; and a bottle of claret already opened stood on the table.

“You don't want that,” said his companion with a wave of the hand toward the wine. “Men don't at this hour.”

She was evidently quick of mind, and he rejoiced to find it; he braced up his wits for the coming encounter.

“I think, if you don't mind,” said he, as if he were at an ordinary table and in ordinary circumstances, “that I should like a whiskey and soda.”

She gave vent to a little laugh. “I could have guessed that, too,” she said. “I have not lived—how many years, do you think—without observation. And one of the most important pieces of knowledge to gain, if you want to live with ease and without friction, concerns the appetites and tastes of men.”

She spoke very slowly, as if she were thinking. She had sat down, and leaned her chin on her hand, her elbows on the table. She was not looking at de Lys, but abstractedly at the table-cloth or a plate. Her cloak had been laid aside, and she was in the full glory of evening dress. Half consciously de Lys glanced at his own rough lounging-suit, which was in evidence, now that he had thrown off his overcoat.

“May I then?” he inquired gently, lifting the decanter.

She gave a little sigh, and came back to life. “Oh, yes, please do,” she said. “I offer apologies. Having brought you here, I should play the part properly.”

Some bitterness was evident in her voice, which he ignored when he said, “That generalization of yours interests me.” Her eyes inquired of him. “I mean as to the obligation to learn men's appetites and tastes if you wish to live without friction. I suppose there is the usual stratum of truth in it.”

He helped himself from one of the dishes, after serving her. She stared at the plate, but said nothing.

“Oh, we women know it best, don't we?” she said abruptly.

“You are in a position of vantage for making observations,” he replied reflectively. “But whether you make them fairly, disinterestedly, and without prejudice is another matter. May I pour you out a glass of wine?”

“No—yes, I thank you,” she said, and almost savagely turned on him. “Without prejudice!” she said. “Do you not see that it is woman who is prejudiced always, that she makes a one-sided bargain, that it is all give and no take with her?”

He demurred, sipping his whiskey. “You are talking in a big generalization again. Single out cases, and we can discuss them on their merits. I am prepared to admit bargains made as badly as you allege; but on the whole I conclude that the balance is in favor of woman and against man.”

“Man of course thinks so,” she said scornfully. “Man, who has his entire freedom—”

“And the responsibility of that freedom,” he interrupted. “Do you ever consider that? Is it not possible that life within rules, life within a certain gentle authority, is easier than life at large, life with the terrible freedom of eternal choice? And besides, the entire freedom you speak of does not amount to real liberty. Man is always conditioned by his affections, and—”

It was she who interrupted now. “His affections!” She threw out her hands. “They derive from base metal. Oh, I have no patience with these affections of yours.”

She rose and crossed the room. She seemed to listen by the door, and it was as if a great change had come over her. Watching her, de Lys had the feeling that something was impending; there was the atmosphere of a crisis in all the scene. He was vaguely troubled, and full of wonder, and the wonder kept the upper hand. She came back.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, smiling. “There must be something in the affections, but they are vastly overrated.”

He rode off lightly on that sentiment. “Agreed,” he said, smiling with her. “We exaggerate all emotions. There is really nothing worth while disturbing ourselves about unduly.”

“Do you believe that?” she asked bluntly.

“I practise it,” he replied.

She considered him. “Yes, I dare say you do,” she said. “You are fortunate.” She sat down, and gazed at the fire. “Unhappily our emotions are made for most of us; they are not the work of our own hands.”

“'Lightly come, lightly go' is an admirable watchword,” he declared. “We should take it with us, and it will prove an excellent passport, giving us the freedom of our circumstances.”

“Yes, men can and do,” she said bitterly.

“Come,” said de Lys, moved to boldness by her attitude and the strangeness of the situation. “You yourself can rise to it—have risen. These circumstances, the occasion of our meeting, this breach of the stupid conventions—”

Her eyes on him, glowing, seemed suddenly to shoot fire.

“Yes, you remind me,” she said. “I can rise; I have risen. 'Lightly come, lightly go.'” She laughed, rose restlessly, and went to the door again. The Empire clock on the mantelpiece near de Lys struck one. She had opened the door and was looking out; then she vanished. De Lys looked at the gilded clock, and shifted uneasily. He drank a little whiskey, rose, and examined the ornaments on the mantelpiece to distract himself from his growing misgivings. The objects of art on the mantelpiece were choice and of considerable value, as were the miniatures that hung on the wall. He lifted an ornament to inspect it closer, and a paper which had rested near it fluttered to the floor. Stooping, he picked it up, and, it being open, his eyes could not but take in the significance of that legal communication. Indeed, the very first thing his eyes alighted on was a name. He could not have refrained from seeing it, and from guessing the rest, without paralysis at once of sight and mind. Yet he experienced a sense of shame at his discovery, and hastily replaced the paper. He went back to the table, drummed his fingers on it with a frown, and again sipped his whiskey. There was nothing but silence in the house, and he was alone.

It was a few minutes afterward that the lady entered. “I beg your pardon for leaving you,” she said coldly. “I must not forget that I have the duties of the position which I have accepted.”

“Will you tell me what that is?” he asked plainly.

She paused before she replied, her glance taking in the clock on the way to the fire. “Perhaps you have the right to know—now,” she said slowly. “I am not sure, but I think you have earned the right to know by this time.” Her eyes met his, which were steady, cool, bright, and respectful. “Your motto being what it is,” she went on, “you will understand. I only got the idea when I found you were following me.” He moistened his lips, but said nothing. “I repulsed it, but you played into my hands by your final insult, when you crossed the road and accosted me. I determined then to—to use you.” She paused, and the pause was long.

“And my use?” he asked quietly.

She did not meet his eyes now. Her pause before she finished witnessed to a certain agitation; yet she spoke with hardness. “I am in a position where I need assistance.”

“My dear lady,” said de Lys, more lightly, “I hasten to put myself at your disposal.”

She paid no heed. “I need—a scapegoat,” she said slowly.

“A scapegoat!” He repeated the word musingly.

Her face was now quite averted, and she spoke with difficulty, but with defiance, he thought, as if she braced herself to a task she feared.

“I have the misfortune to be one of those women whom I believe you were good enough to except from your statement as to the balance of vantages. I—I am married, and my husband is, I suppose, a good specimen of a fine animal. He does me the honor to be jealous—”

She ceased, as if she could press her way no farther, and de Lys assisted her.

“It has become intolerable?” he suggested.

She made a gesture of despair. “I have resolved to seem to be what he seems to think me,” she cried passionately. “At least, I shall have my release, I shall have my release.”

Her voice died suddenly out, and de Lys was left looking at her, looking at her fine profile, at the brown hair on the small nape of the neck, at the moving bosom. His thoughts were quick, as always.

“I think I see,” he said. “I think I begin to see my—my use.”

She uttered no word now.

“I am designed as the instrument of rescue,” he went on in an even voice, as of one summing up the situation judicially. “I am intended to cut the Gordian knot—otherwise the marriage tie. I am the scissors. Please correct me if I am wrong.”

“I should not have thought of it—I would not have—have used you if you hadn't insulted me,” she burst out.

“My way home lay this way—your way,” he said as evenly as before. “I did not follow, but I had the natural curiosity of the average man as to a handsome woman whom he finds in the streets in unusual circumstances.”

“You came over and spoke to me,” she protested fiercely.

“Because I thought I saw you stagger,” he replied coolly. “Your appearance was unusual; you had, pardon me, rather a wild air, and I thought you were ill.” He examined his nails. “There are, even among men, some who are loath to pass by a fellow creature who seems to be in trouble, even if she be a woman.”

There was a perceptible pause, in which he looked up. To his amazement, he saw her face quivering with emotion. He saw that she was on the edge of a collapse.

“Don't,” he said sharply. “Don't! You have played your part up till now bravely. Continue! No harm is done. What is it you feel?”

“I thought—I thought—” she stammered.

“Never mind.” He took her hand, which was cold as ice. “Please sit down. I am sure there is a way out of trouble for you. As for me, don't consider me just now. Look upon me as a stranger—no, a lawyer—who has dropped in to talk things over with you.”

“No, no,” she said with agitation. “You must go now—go quickly, go at once. It is done, but you will never be known. Go, go!”

He hesitated; and then of a sudden there was the noise of a door being opened.

“It's the hall door. It's my husband,” she whispered fearfully. “He has come back.”

De Lys held up a hand for silence, listening; he moved silently to the door, pushed it to, and listened at the crack. Voices came to him, voices of men in laughter and talk. He stood there tensely waiting, and then another door opened, the voices trailed off into murmurs, and the door was shut. His breath came slower now. The immediate danger had passed; the husband and his friends had gone into one of the rooms.

He went quietly back to the woman. “They have gone into the smoking-room or the dining-room,” he said. “Don't be afraid. The hall is free. I can escape now.”

She shook her head; and then lifted a pallid face, terrified as a child in fear of nameless terrors. “It is no good,” she whispered. “He has set the servants to watch. They are his spies. They saw you come in. I knew it, and that waswhy—”

She did not finish. De Lys frowned heavily. So it was laid as deep at that!

“Who knows of my presence?” he asked.

“The butler!” she stammered. “I saw his shadow in the darkness of the stairway as we entered.” She made an effort, and rallied. “Yes, you are right. You must go now, while the coast is clear. I'm a fool. No one knows who you are. You will not be mixed up in anything. And the butler—”

He saw her point—that the husband would have his evidence, that she would be free! She had wanted that. He looked at her closely, at the pallid face, at the scared eyes, at the moving bosom. He sat down. A thin stream of voices and laughter issued down the hall.

“Let me give you this,” he said, pouring out a glass of spirits. “I insist.” He forced it on her, and watched the improving color in her cheeks. “I want you to understand,” he said presently and with earnestness, “that you are not going through this as you think.”

“Forgive me, won't you?” she pleaded brokenly.

“I want you,” he continued, “to understand that this is not going to be what you think, or to take you where you think. Get that clearly into your head, and rest on it with confidence. You can repeat this another time if you like it well enough, but to-night—for my sake, and for yours—it's not going to happen.”

He went to the mantelpiece, and took up the piece of paper that lay there. Then he came back and took her hand, warmed it between his, and set her in the chair. “It won't matter that you are looking ill and terrified,” he told her. “In fact, I prefer it just now. And now kindly follow my directions absolutely. Sit here until you hear me come back, and take your cue from me.”

“Where are you going?” she asked in wonder and fear.

He was struggling into his overcoat, and he took up his hat. “I'm going to see the butler. Wait,” he addressed her kindly and firmly, and something in his expression forbade her resistance. She sank back into the armchair.

De Lys went out into the hall, which was still in dim light, and looked around. The room into which the host and his guests had gone was on his right. He avoided that, and knocked on the door on the left; then he turned his attention to the stairs, but no one was visible. Finally he opened a baize door behind the staircase, which evidently gave on the kitchen quarters, and a man met him.

“Are you footman or butler or something?” he asked cheerily. “Because if so, I guess you'd better come and look after the missis. She's taken it pretty badly.”

“What d'you mean? What is it?” demanded the man, amazed.

De Lys saw him now in the light for what he was, a dull, unimaginative, and highly respectable man servant of fifty.

“The lady, I say,” he said with some show of impatience. “I've tried to give her some whiskey, but she won't have it. Come along, man, do. It ain't a time to stare and gape.”

He seized the astonished butler and conducted him into the hall and toward the door of the room in which he had left the lady, talking the while.

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“They sometimes take it like this, but as often as not they don't mind, bless you. It's the man that's got to pay up and grin. Still, I'm always sorry for 'em, poor things. That's why I like to do it when there's a man about. I kept it from her as long as I could.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” gasped the outraged butler.

“Who am I?” De Lys grinned at him at the door of the room they had reached. “Why, at the suit of Bell and Weston, two hundred and thirty odd.”

He entered, almost dragging in the butler as he spoke.

“Here, my lady,” he called out in his suave, insinuating voice, such as bailiffs' men are wont to cultivate. “I've found one of your servants,” and to the butler in a lower but perfectly audible voice, “Make her take a little—go on, man. Otherwise she'll get hysterical! Don't mind me, my lady,” he called in a louder voice. “I can make myself at home. I've been too long a broker's man to cause any trouble. I'm sorry, but if the gentleman had been here—”

The butler found his voice. “Sir Charles is here,'” he said between dignity and horror. “How did you get in? Did you—did you—”

He glanced across at his mistress, who had half started up on their entrance, and was eying both, looking pale and haggard.

“Oh, I managed it pretty easily,” said de Lys complacently. “I'm sorry, my lady, to have been obliged to make use of you this evening, but it was my duty—”

She shivered at the phrase “make use of,” but she had evidently recovered, and she spoke now. “I don't want to hear anything more of you. No doubt Sir Charles—”

“Oh, please don't worry yourself,” said de Lys amiably. “Sir Charles will be all right, I've no doubt. We'll all be all right.”

He made a feint of examining a picture on the wall while the butler assiduously attended to his mistress. She was playing the game, the game he had started, with the courage of despair.

“Did you know anything of this, Simpson?” he heard her ask.

“No, my lady. The man says it's Bell and Weston.”

“Bell and Weston?” she repeated, as if trying to remember the name.

“The jewelers in Bond Street, my lady,” said Simpson.

“Jewelers!”” The word seemed to have a strange effect on her. “What is the amount?” she raised her voice to ask de Lys.

“Certainly, my lady,” he said, turning quickly. “Only a little matter of two hundred and thirty odd.”

She was silent for a moment, and then to Simpson, “Leave me with this—this man,” she commanded. “I wish to speak to him. Return when I ring.”

The butler withdrew, expressing deference and sympathy in his very mien. The lady broke out quickly, in seeming excitement:

“Will you explain, please? I took your cues as you asked. But I do not understand. What is this about Bell and Weston? And how can you—”

For answer he put into her hand the paper he had seen on the mantelpiece. “It was an absolute accident,” he said. “I had no thought of seeing it, but the mere fact of the document wrote itself on my mind mechanically. When the crisis came, my mind remembered it.”

She was hardly paying attention to him; she was studying the paper. “At the suit of Bell and Weston,” she was saying, “the jewelers of Bond Street! I have bought no jewelry for years. And when I buy I pay for my— The bailiffs have not been put in?” she asked him.

He smiled. “I am representing them for the time,” he said. “But no doubt to-morrow or the next day—they are probably waiting to see the effect of this.” He pointed to the paper. “They can come in when they like after that.”

“Ah!” She was thinking deeply, and then looked at him with a change of expression. “I thank you, sir, for your kindness,” she said, in a voice in which formality strove with real feeling. “You have done something for a woman which no woman could forget.”

“It would be well to forget it,” said de Lys gently.

The color clouded her face, as his words recalled to her what had passed between them. Impulsively she touched his arm.

“I don't know who you are. I don't want to know,” she said, “and, not knowing, we can exchange words other than mere convention. What has been said has gone too deep for us to pretend now. I ask your pardon.”

“There is no necessity,” he replied, and gracefully touched her fingers with his lips. “I pardoned you when I saw you.”

“No, no,” she put her hands over her ears. “Please, nothing but sincerity. We are dealing with naked truths.”

“And yet,” he replied, “it is true.”

“Had I been plain and old?” she asked strangely.

He bowed. “Even so, you would have been what you are—a woman.”

“Ah!” she flashed in her impulsive way, “I see what you mean. You are going back to your argument that the woman has the advantage. Yes, my friend, I admit it—with men such as you.”

“I am the average man,” he smiled at her.

“No.” She shook her head, and held out her hand. “Good-by, friend. If I can say that to a man, it passes him for me. I have never yet said that to a man. Good-by, my friend.”

“Good-by,” he said, and hesitated. “You are not troubled? You have solved your problem?”

“I have solved it, I think,” she said gravely. “I will ring for Simpson.”

Suddenly he laughed. “But how am I to be squared? We have forgotten that. I take it my place is here, like a watchdog.”

Her face darkened. “Yes,” she said, “I had thought of that. You mean Simpson will tell his master, and the question will arise—how were you disposed of? I don't think the difficulty is as great as you imagine. Still—”

“It would be advisable to show up before his master.”

She looked doubtful. “I—I—”

But fate settled the matter for them. Steps sounded in the hall, and were evidently coming in their direction.

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“It is he,” she whispered with some tenseness of face and figure.

De Lys moved swiftly across the room to the door, hat in hand. “Well, it's my duty to see the gentleman, and I'm going to do it. I'm sorry, madam.” His voice rang loud and sleek. He turned into the hall, and a man in evening dress encountered him, dark, square built, and flushed.

“Who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Sorry, sir; these things are a bit awkward, I know. But it's only temporary, we all know.”

“What the blazes—”

“Bell and Weston—execution warrant,” murmured de Lys politely.

“Damnation!” exploded the man in evening dress.

“Only a matter of a little inconvenience, I've no doubt, as I've been telling my lady,” continued de Lys in his rôle as suave broker's man.

“Look here, you can't stay here; you'll have to clear out,” stormed Sir Charles.

“Beg pardon, sir, but it's impossible. I'm placed here to do my duty, and I've got to do it as well as you,” said the obstinate broker's man with a hint of resentment which de Lys fancied might help. It had some effect apparently, for the man fumed instead of storming.

“But, hang it, man, it's after one o'clock, and I've got guests, and—oh, I say it's impossible.”

“I can make shift in the servants' hall, I dare say, sir,” said de Lys, eying his victim.

“But confound—do the servants know you're here?” asked the embarrassed master of the house, who saw himself the laughing-stock of his domestics.

“Only one, sir, the butler,” said de Lys reassuringly.

“Oh! Look here, it was an oversight, I'll send on a check to-morrow.”

“A check to-night, sir, perhaps would make it easier,” suggested de Lys.

He had been right in his conjecture. The man could not draw a check for the amount; and his vexation and his shame were alike apparent in his face. As de Lys watched him there flashed back on him the memory of the night, of the tragic despair of a woman driven to abandon her name of honor, and he felt glad to witness that shame and that anger.

“Look here, you go into the kitchen and see Simpson. Hanged if I'll have you about here,” blustered the impotent master of the house.

De Lys turned. “Certainly, sir,” he acquiesced, and departed through the baize door in search of the butler. He found him alone in the kitchen, for seemingly the other servants were in bed, and saluted him genially.

“I dare say we can make ourselves comfortable, Mr. Simpson,” he insinuated. “A drop of something, eh? I suppose you've got a steward's pantry handy, seeing your position, and all that.”

Mr. Simpson took the suggestion well. He was staggered by the presence of this unwelcome visitor, but he had come to close quarters with the gentry before, and he was a man of the world. Moreover, he remembered vaguely that the sheriff's bailiff must be treated considerately, according to the law. And again this revolution in the house dispensed naturally with the ordinary forms and conventions; and a drop of something would be acceptable. He produced two glasses of fine old port.

“Governor's taking it nastily,” observed de Lys, adding philosophically, “about his first experience, I should say. He'll get over it.”

As he was a gentlemanly broker's man, Simpson condescended to ask questions as to his experiences, which were answered with a wealth of invention, and startled Simpson, particularly the case of the peer who committed suicide by taking poison in his wine, “just as it might be you and me drinking, Mr. Simpson.”

Simpson glanced uneasily at the port wine, as if he suspected it of holding death in leash, and the affable broker's man rattled on.

The adventure had had its grave aspects, but the tension had lessened, and his whimsical humor had gained full possession of him.

Presently an electric bell sounded loudly in the kitchen, and Simpson rose.

“It's Sir Charles,” he explained.

De Lys rose also. “Excuse me. It's for me,” he said. “Sir Charles was to ring for me. I doubt not he's going to fix it all up properly with a check, and get it cleared up to-night.”

Simpson hesitated, and, as the broker's man did not, lost his chance. De Lys went into the hall and walked up to the door of the dining-room. Entering, he found a couple of card-tables occupied, though the men at one of them had just finished a rubber, and were discussing its points.

“Simpson, bring—” The master of the house looked up at that, and saw de Lys. His face crimsoned. “What the devil—” he began, and checked himself.

“Hsh!” urged de Lys in a loud whisper. “I'm discreet. I sha'n't give you away. It isn't the first time I've acted this way.”

“Confound you!” The master of the house rose, and before his wrath and physical menace the broker's man retreated. “What do you mean,” he growled under his breath, “coming in here and letting my guests know—”

“Hold hard, sir, don't you be afraid,” urged the broker's man in a voice that seemed to strive for secrecy, but was wonderfully audible through the room. “It won't be the first time I've taken the part of a waiter where I've been put in. And as Mr. Simpson had a bit of a headache, why—”

“Silence, damn you!” Sir Charles's voice burst out of his control. The card-players stared. An awkward silence fell on the room.

“What can I get, sir?” asked de Lys cheerfully, breaking this.

“I say, Winterbotham!” a man's voice issued from the card-table, where the second party were finishing. A fair, big bluff man came forward. “Look here, we're in the way,” he said in a lower voice. “I guess we'll go now.”

De Lys slipped out of the room, leaving the master of the house a prey to bitter shame. He was not penitent, as he glanced down the hall toward the room in which the lady had entertained him. It was dark now, and silent. He wondered if she had gone to bed, and he hoped she slept, oblivious of her cares. It was time he himself went. Yet he could not forego a doubt as to what would follow this strange adventure. It did not seem complete; the skein was raveled. Had his action, taken on the prick of desperation and an ingenious wit, only relieved her for the moment? Was there to be a reckoning on the morrow when the cold light of reason shone, and the broker's man had disappeared!

He saw and heard the guests filing out, himself remaining doubtful in the darkness; and when the last had gone he was aware of a white shadow on the stairs, descending. The door of the dining-room was open, and the light streamed out. Sir Charles had gone back with his garment of shame.

De Lys stepped out, and met her as she came off the last stair. She showed no surprise at his presence, but with a gesture invited him to follow. She entered the dining-room. Sir Charles was sitting moodily by the fire, a full glass of whiskey in his hand. He turned with a start.

“Violet!” he said, and seeing de Lys, “Get away, you scoundrel!”

“No.” The woman spoke, and with authority. “I think it is necessary that he should not leave just now. He can leave altogether presently. This, I assume, is correct?” Her voice as cold as snow, she held forth the lawyer's document, which she had taken from de Lys.

He winced. “I suppose so,“ mumbling.

“Bell and Weston. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds fifteen shillings,” she mused. “Those are the jewelers, aren't they?”

He stirred uncomfortably. “Yes,” he admitted.

“I don't think I have had any jewelry from you for—why, not since our marriage, I think, now I come to remember. I think, Charles, there must be a mistake.”

Of a sudden de Lys realized, and he thrilled as he did so. He could have clapped his hands at her, and her manner of conduct.

Oh, he was to see this bear, this animal, wallow in shame and confusion!

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he volunteered in assistance, “there's no mistake. All's in order.”

“Why, then, Charles,” said she, “it must be paid. And so,” she drew from the bosom of her dress a little piece of paper, “I have drawn a check for the sum. This—this gentleman's presence would be inconvenient”—her eyes met those of de Lys, and were full of somber fire and triumph. She passed him the check. “I suppose I can be satisfied of the correctness of the account?” she asked.

“You can get all the items from Bell and Weston, my lady,” said de Lys glibly, as he pocketed the check. “Thank you. And now I'll quit. Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”

Sir Charles's face was averted; he said no word. Lady Winterbotham accompanied de Lys to the door. “You will see to this for me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “A thousand congratulations; you were wonderful.”

“Oh, I am free now, I know—in a way,” she said listlessly. “Good-by. I shall never forget.”

“Nor I,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

Before going to bed he wrote a particular letter to Messrs. Bell and Weston, to whom he was well known, enclosing the check of Lady Winterbotham.