An Old Man's Game

By OWEN OLIVER

Y grandson and his wife talked about sending me away before Marie's marriage. They thought I was asleep in my chair; but I do not sleep as much as they think, only close my eyes. There is more to see within than without; for I am ninety-two.

"She's been trouble enough," Clara said. "We don't want any more from him."

"Bah!" said George. "You're always seeing bogies. He hardly realises that she is going to get married, or what marriage is. Besides, she won't say anything to worry 'Great-Grand.'"

Marie is considerate to me. God bless her!

"She won't talk to him about it of her own accord," Clara owned, "but he may notice that she goes about looking like a wet Sunday, and ask her what is the matter."

"And what if he does?" George growled. "He can't do anything; won't try to. He doesn't attach importance to things that happen nowadays. He says so himself."

I only mean things that happen to me. I know well enough that some have not yet outlived life's importance.

"He is in a position to give a good deal of trouble if he did," she protested. "He—I suppose he is asleep? I never feel sure about the old fox."

"He's as deaf as a post, anyway," my grandson said.

I am not so deaf as they think.

"As regards Marie," she muttered, "I'm not afraid of anything that he can do himself; but if she confided in him, and he advised her to stand out against our wishes"

"Marie stand out!" George interrupted scornfully. "Did she ever 'stand out' all her life?"

"She's your child and mine, and his descendant. She must have a backbone somewhere. She made a good deal of opposition—for her—to the engagement, you know. With that fierce old man behind her—he has a backbone!"

"Had! He's scarcely enough left to sit up in his chair and play his old man's game of patience."

"I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think there's a bit of the old devil left. He can be stiff enough and stubborn enough on occasion, and tiresome enough. I don't know why we put up with him."

"You do!" my grandson swore, with an oath.

"He lets you handle his property while he lives here. Ye-es. He's contrived things so that you can only finger the interest, not the capital." (I have!) "He's not so innocent and harmless as you think, George. He's quite capable of calling you to account and putting the affairs in the hands of lawyers, if you offend him."

"Hang it, don't I know? You're arguing against yourself. That's just why I won't upset him by packing him off."

"You could send him to the seaside for a nice holiday, with Giles to look after him."

Giles is my man, and I pay him. He is a good servant, and good to me, but I know quite well that he is bribed to look after their interests.

"He won't go. He'll want to be at Marie's wedding. He always declared that he was going to dance his last dance at it. Ha, ha, ha!"

"So long as it's his last! Well, if you won't do it, you won't, George. I've warned you. I tell you again that, with that old man here, you'll never be safe until she's actually married, and Harmer has given you back the mortgages. … The price of your child!"

"Oh, don't start upon that again! Needs must when the devil drives. She's your child, too, and you're sharing in the price. You know we'd be ruined if Harmer pressed me."

"I know. I was your wife before I was Marie's mother. That's why I've helped drive the girl into it. I swear I wouldn't have done it to save myself from ruin."

"Oh, she'll be all right. Harmer will make a great fuss over her, and give her all she wants."

"All she wants! Don't be a fool! … Well, I've warned you. There's fire in the old ashes, and if it bursts out"

"Poetic! There's no need for it to burst out. You've only to watch that 'Old Fire' gets no private talk with Marie. If he tries to, I will send him away, and chance the row; but provided that he never speaks to her alone, he can't interfere. Let him sit in his chimney-corner and mess about with his patience cards. Nine-tenths of the time he'll forget that existence means anything more than his old man's game! He doesn't realise that anyone's under sixty!"

But I do realise that. Nothing happens nowadays which matters much to me, but I know that considerable things still happen to young people, and that a girl's marriage is such to her. And I do not think that an old man's game is only with cards. It should be chiefly to help young people.

At ninety-two one cannot help people by doing things, only show them the way to help themselves. I knew I could only help Marie like that; but I believed I could "stiffen" her enough if I could communicate with her without being found out and sent away; and presently I saw a way to do it—a way with my old man's game of cards.

It was a trick that my little wife taught me when she was my little maid, seventy odd years ago. Seventy-one years! We were just betrothed. They did not leave young people alone together very much in those days. In the evenings we had to sit with our elders, and could not say the foolish things we wished to say, only eye and sigh, until my Annabel found a way with the cards. Ah, she had a swift mind! And a swift body. … These many years still …

"The cards shall stand for letters, Ron," she proposed. "The black aces shall be 'a' and the black kings 'b,' and so on, till we reach the black twos for 'm's,' and the red aces shall be 'n's,' and the red kings 'o's,' and so on, till we come to the red threes of diamonds and hearts—but I should put hearts first, dear sir!—for 'y's.' The red twos shall be more 'e's,' because we shall have no need for 'z's' to call each other zanies; and one wants so many 'e's.' So we can write letters to each other that none but we can read. Shall I lay out a hand for you, Ron?"

I remember the hand which she laid out—9 of hearts—5 of diamonds—10 of spades—10 of clubs—8 of diamonds—7 of spades—2 of hearts—ace of spades—10 of hearts—8 of hearts.

That spelt "sweetheart." You will see that it is so if you write out Annabel's alphabet.

I never told the trick to another for sixty years or more; but when Marie was a child—and like Annabel even then—she was always running to me—in that also very like Annabel—and I was hard put to it to find ways of amusing her without romping, for which I had become rather old, being eighty. So, for a quiet game, I taught her the spelling with cards, and we kept it a solemn secret—which children love—between ourselves. We had not played the game since she was twelve, but I hoped that she would still remember it.

In the evening, when her mother and father sat reading their newspapers, and Marie pretending to read a book, but staring over it, and I at my little table by the fire with my packs of patience cards, I called her to me.

"Come and see Great-Grand's new game of patience, sweetheart," I said.

She sighed uninterestedly, but she came. She was always attentive to me. I dealt off one of the packs (which I had arranged beforehand).

J spades—K hearts—A diamonds—8 diamonds—2 clubs—A spades—10 hearts—10 diamonds—3 hearts—7 spades.

I put my hand like a barrier after the last card, to show that the message ended there.

"Don't marry H." That was what it spelt.

She stared at the cards, frowned, started, began counting on her fingers. I shook my head warningly to stop her doing that openly, fearing that her parents might notice. So she pressed her fingers on the table instead. Annabel was like that, too—always added numbers one by one.

"It seems a hopeless lot," she remarked presently, and then I knew that she understood.

"You must move them into the right order," I said. "That is the game of patience, Marie—and of life—to set things right."

"I don't see how it can be done," she declared. "Everything is so unfavourable."

"It is a bad deal for a start," I conceded. "Let's cheat and begin afresh."

I dealt from the second pack, which also I had arranged beforehand—10 hearts—7 hearts—A diamonds—A spades—5 diamonds—A clubs—3 hearts—5 hearts—6 spades—8 diamonds—7 spades—J clubs—6 clubs—Q spades—4 clubs.

"Run away with Dick."

I knew that was the Christian name of her boy, though I had forgotten his surname for the moment.

She paused over this for a time, counting quietly with her fingers; shook her head.

"It doesn't seem possible," she said at last.

"Tut, tut!" I cried. "You watch me. This hand doesn't count, remember. It is only a lesson."

I thought that her father was listening, so I played one of the numerous forms of patience correctly, explaining it to her, for a time. Then, when George appeared to be quite absorbed in his newspaper again, I reverted to spelling—a word or so at the time, with intervals of real play between.

"Will you … if I show … a way? …"

"It's quite easy really, Marie," I said aloud.

"Well, I don't seem as if I can do it," she asserted.

Her father looked up, stretched himself, and yawned.

"Shall I come and have a try?" he asked.

"No," she refused. "I want to do it myself if I can. Great-Grand is going to show me. Now let me try."

She spread out all the cards, counted silently with her fingers before she picked out cards, and selected them one by one.

J spades—8 spades—K hearts—A hearts—10 spades—A spades—K spades—10 hearts—K diamonds—A clubs—J clubs.

"D. gone abroad," that spelt.

"I don't see how to get any further," she remarked.

"Of course you don't," I said. "That's wrong for a start. Well, I believe it is."

My grandson laughed and got up.

"Believe, eh!" he said. "How can you teach Marie if you don't know what's right and wrong?"

"I do know," I told him. "I keep trying to get her to do the right thing, but she won't."

"Show me the game," he asked, and came and sat down at the table. So I had to show him a variety of patience—I forget which it was—and only had the chance to spell out one more sentence to Marie before they said it was time for me to go to bed.

"I'll enquire."

While I was spelling that, I heard my grandson whispering to his wife. There was no need to worry about "the poor old devil," he said. "He's breaking up fast. He gets muddled even over his patience now; forgets to put red on black and black on red."

How I laughed to myself at that, as I lay in bed! Laughed so much that I became sad presently from the reaction.

"Not broken up yet," I told myself, "but broken-down in places—too many places. It is easy to say that I would enquire, but how am I going to do it? I can't trust their servants, or Giles. … Certainly not Giles. … The housekeeper I might. She's very fond of Marie. But I probably can't get a quiet word with her. Besides, I shall need someone outside the house to arrange with Marie's boy. An old man can still do things, but he must do them by deputy. Whom can I manage to see that would arrange this for me? … My lawyers? … No, they wouldn't do it; not if it weren't strictly legal, anyway. I want someone who'll be illegal for Marie, who'll consider her first, and second, and all the rest, and. … Why, the doctor!"

Yes, the doctor would do it. I had long since guessed his secret. He was young enough (only sixty) to love the child, and not young enough to court her. He would go through fire and water for the little girl, if I was not mistaken in him. He would do a deal for me, too. I had lent him some of the money to buy his practice when he was a curly-headed lad. I decided to appeal to Dr. Jarvis for assistance. Then I went to sleep for a few hours.

In the morning I announced that I must go and see Dr. Jarvis. I had a touch of gout, I declared. They said they would 'phone to him to come and see me. I knew that if he came to the house they would stay with us all the time, or suspect something if I sent them away. So I pretended to be crotchety and old-fashioned (crotchety I may be, but old-fashioned I am not. A man is not antiquated because he does not fall in with every new fad).

"Telephone!" I stormed. "I will not have my case discussed over the telephone for everybody in the post office to hear. They think that gout comes from nothing but drink! It would soon be all over the village that I had been drinking. Sworn to secrecy! Don't tell me! Besides, you couldn't tell that it was the doctor you were talking to; and there might be a mistake about what he said. I can never hear anyone properly on the cursed thing."

"That is because you are a little slow of hearing," my grandson's wife said. "But I'll send a note if you prefer." (She meant say that she'd sent a note. I saw her wink at George.)

"No, no," I refused. "I'm not going to tell you my symptoms. Women have no business to know about things inside people. The idea! There's no modesty in females nowadays. Look at the way they dress! Shameful! Besides, there's no need to waste ink and paper. I am quite capable of walking down to the doctor's—if I choose. If I don't choose, I shall ride."

"Very well," she said. "Take him in the motor, George."

"Take me!" I screamed. "Take me! I'm not a child! I won't go in the motor; I shall have a cab—a horse-cab, mind—and go by myself. I'm going to call on the doctor like one gentleman on another. … One gentleman on another. See?"

"You'd better humour him," she muttered to George; and then she whispered: "I'll 'phone and tell the doctor to pretend that he has gout, and give him something harmless."

They sent me in the dog-cart instead of getting a cab. I knew they did it to have an excuse to send Giles to drive it, and spy upon me, and report what I did and said. He followed me inside the doctor's gate, but I ordered him back.

"Giles," I said, "I am making a private call on the doctor."

"Yes, yes, sir," he said. "What I hear goes no further." (The liar!) "You see, you aren't quite so young as you were—not young enough to get about alone, and"

I held up my hand.

"I am young enough to dismiss a servant who disobeys me, Giles," I said, "just young enough for that!"

He looked at me and went back. Oh, there's a little of the old man left in me—a little left!

The doctor said that he was very pleased to see me. As a matter of fact, I think the boy was. He began about my gout without waiting for me to mention it, said he knew just the medicine that would suit my constitution. I laughed.

"Never mind about the gout, Jarvis," I said, "I haven't got it. If I had, I wouldn't take your confounded physic now, any more than I ever would. The medicine I want is for Marie."

He shot upright in his chair and put his hands on his knees.

"Marie?" he said. "Little Marie? What's ailing her?"

"What always ails them at her age," I said, "and the remedy's the usual one. Dick—Dick What the devil is the boy's name? Something like Johnson, but it isn't that."

"Jackson," he said. "Young Dick Jackson. So I always thought." He sighed. "But she's going to marry Harmer, a man nearly as old as I—balder. The second banns were read last Sunday. Do you mean to say you didn't know she was marrying him?" "She isn't," I said, "if I can stop it. Twenty years ago, Jarvis—aye, less than that—I'd have taken the child away, knocked anyone down who tried to stop me. By Heaven, I would have! Now—my boy, a man hates to own it, but I'm too old. … Still, with the help of a man who was Marie's friend—Marie's good friend, who wanted to see her happy with her boy—I may take you for that, eh?"

He nodded, paced the room.

"You may take me for that," he said. "But the girl's under her father's and mother's thumbs. I doubt if you can give her courage to resist them."

"No," I agreed; "just enough to run away from them, perhaps. But they've told her that the boy's abroad."

"They've told her a lie, then," he said.

"I thought so! I thought so. Where is he?"

"In London, I believe. Quite broken up over the affair, his people tell me. Marie wrote and gave him up, you know—wouldn't see him."

"Well, she's eating her little heart out for him. We can't have Marie's boy broken up. You've got to fetch him here; arrange with him to run off with her; have the licence ready and all that; some good woman—how about his married sister?—to chaperon her till they're man and wife. You fetch him and arrange all that."

He grunted; pulled at his moustache. "I dare say I could arrange all that," he said; "but can you arrange her part, and get her to carry it out?"

"Yes," I said, "if. … Do you know, Jarvis, sometimes I muddle things up nowadays; mean to do something and do something else. Awkward and annoying! But when I'm all right, I'm all right! Can't you give me something to take, to buck me up just at the emergencies? The times that matter to Annabel—I mean Marie. You see, she is like my wife was. Sometimes I say one name when I mean the other. … Yes, the child's very like Annabel. I expect that's why I'm taking all this trouble about her. Can you give me something of the kind, Jarvis?"

"I might. You'll run a bit of a risk in taking it, old friend."

"Oh, risk! Hang that! I can run risks all right. It's doing things where I fail. So you do all you can—arrange to see me and tell me what she's to do. You manage that for me."

"I'll manage that. I'll call to take you for a run; say that you've promised me to give motors a fair trial. Then we can talk alone. … The trouble is, how are you to communicate the arrangements to Marie? They're likely to be spying on her and on you. Do they let her be alone with you?"

"No," I said, "they don't, but I can tell her; right under their noses, Jarvis." I rubbed my hands. "I am playing an old man's game. I shall tell her with my patience cards."

He looked at me pityingly then, and I laughed.

"You think I am doddering," I said, "but I'm not, Jarvis. Listen. I'll tell you."

I told him how Marie and I could spell messages to each other with the patience cards. He laughed and kept patting me on the shoulder.

"An old man's game," he said, "eh? My dear friend, you aren't old! You'll never be old. Not too old to play for the young people."

"That," I said, "is the old man's game, Jarvis. His own doesn't matter. Mine hasn't since Annabel went, and I was younger than you are then. Ah, fifty-four was too young to die! She always said that she'd rather go when she lost her looks, but she hadn't lost them—not a bit of it. See her in this picture? I always carry it. She was fifty when it was taken, Jarvis. … A beautiful woman. … Such a saucy way. … Ah, they wouldn't have kept her from me! … A fine face, isn't it, Jarvis? A fine face?"

"Yes. … You think you can communicate sufficiently with Marie?"

"I must. What you must do, you can. All my life I've said that. … I'm not what I was, but the clockwork still runs. I'll do it."

"God strengthen you, my dear old friend! Now mark this in your mind. If I find him, I'll send you a box of pills; not unless. You've got that?"

"Yes. I shan't take them. I'm still young enough to hate medicine muck. Ha, ha, ha!"

"There will be nothing in them, anyway!" he laughed. "If we're arranging for him to come and fetch her, I'll send two boxes. Got that?" I nodded. "If I write asking you to come and lunch with me, that will mean that he's fetching her the day before the lunch. The day before, mind. You'll remember that?"

"I'll remember it," I said. "The day before. Yes, yes."

"But probably I shan't write, only come and fetch you for a motor run, and give you the exact particulars then. See?"

"I see," I said. "Now help me to the dog-cart, Jarvis. I'll pretend to be very tired and stupid, and you tell them that I'm breaking up, breaking up. Ha, ha! … Oh, those things I'm to have to buck me up if I feel muddled! Give me them."

"Um-m-m! … Well, it's for Marie. Our little Marie, eh? I'm getting an old chap. … Here you are. Just swallow one if there is special need to pull yourself together. Don't touch them if you can help it, because you'll feel rotten afterwards. … Ready? Take my arm and make out that you're tired—collapsed!"

As a matter of fact, I was very tired. When I arrived home I slept right up till dinner-time, and then I had dinner in my own room; but afterwards I crawled down to the dining-room.

"I must have my game of cards," I quavered (I need not have quavered so much!). "It is the one thing an old man can do. You come and watch, Marie. Learn something from your old great-grandfather while he lives with you. That mayn't be for long—not for long!"

She came and sat by the little table, and I spelt to her—in short pieces, because there are only two of each letter in a pack—and she spelt answers.

"Dick in London. … Fetching him."

"Afraid."

"Have things ready to go."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Afraid."

"Love casts out fear."

"I'll try." Then she spelt. "They watch me."

"When easiest?"

"Daylight. … Might creep ou"

(She hadn't another "t" for "out," but I nodded that I understood.)

"Why, Marie," her mother said, "you are becoming quite interested in patience!"

"Yes," she said, "I am really learning it. You must teach me again to-morrow, Great-Grand!"

She laughed and gave me a kiss, and then she went to bed. I heard her mother whisper to her father while I waited for Giles to fetch me—

"She seems quite to have made up her mind to it now. And the old man doesn't dream that she has any objection. He isn't so dangerous as I thought—quite doddering!"

Ha, ha!

The next morning the doctor sent me two boxes of pills. I made a great fuss about taking any, and made Marie bribe me by the promise to play patience in the morning. I thought that, as their suspicions were dulled, I might get a quiet word with her then; but her mother remained with us. So we had to spell.

"Dick's coming."

"When?"

"Can't say yet."

"There's only a week."

"Doctor's fixing up."

"God bless him."

We stopped spelling after that, as Marie's mother seemed to be watching us rather closely.

"It's a funny game of patience when you pick out the cards," she remarked.

I pretended to get in a rage, and cried out that I wouldn't play any more if she accused me of cheating, and swept the cards on to the floor.

"Your poor master is failing fast," I heard her whisper to Giles. "He even cheats himself at cards, and that is not like him!"

Even Clara had to do me that much justice.

In the afternoon the doctor called for me in his motor. He said that a little open air would be so good for me, if I could overcome my prejudice against cars. I pretended to make a great fuss about going, but went at last. I really do not like cars—they feel so confusing. I made him stop it in a lane while he talked to me.

"I can't think," I protested, "with the road and the hedges and everything jumping at me."

"I have seen Dick," he reported, when we were at a standstill under a big tree. "Of course he is willing to run off with Marie—more than willing—but he'd rather take her openly. His first suggestion was that he should come to the house and, supported by you and me, say that he wanted to marry her. She is just of age. If she chooses to go away with him, they can't stop her."

"He's a fool," I snapped. "So are you, if you listened to that. She's obeyed her parents all her life, and she wouldn't disobey them now, especially not now, with the marriage due next Tuesday. It might have been done that way months ago, before she was engaged to Harmer, though I doubt it."

"And now she wouldn't?"

"Now she wouldn't," I said emphatically. "Annabel would have—ah, she had a spirit! I had to mind my p's and q's sometimes, bless her!—but Marie wouldn't—couldn't, Jarvis, It isn't in her."

"Then that's that," he said. "I told him it was my opinion. He said if it was yours also he would run away with her. He has procured a special licence, anyhow. What time and how will be easiest? How about to-morrow early?"

"Four o'clock to-morrow morning," I said; "the sooner the better. The longer she waits, the less nerve she will have! She shall come by the side gate into Bell Lane. I will tell her to … Goodness knows how I'm going to tell her 'to-morrow.' There are three 'o's' in that, and only two in a pack. Oh, well, I must do a 'patience' with two packs. … He will take her straight off! And marry her that morning?"

Jarvis nodded.

"His sister, Mrs. Innis, and I are going with them," he said. "I'm driving them in my car. Driving Marie to her wedding." He gulped. "God bless her. … Old friend, you mustn't fail."

"I mustn't fail," I agreed. "I'll get her out if I fight the way—if I fight the way. Afterwards he's got to fight, if they should find out and follow. He can keep her once he has her. They can't take her from him, any more than he could tear her from them. She'll just hold to whomever has her. She'll be all right—if I play my game right, my old man's game. God help me! When I worry I get muddled. It's my age, Jarvis—my age. You think one of those capsules will buck me up, Jarvis?"

"Yes. Don't take it if you can do without it. You've only got to tell her what to do, you know. Then she must manage to do it for herself. You go to bed and sleep."

I laughed.

"When I play a game I play the game," I told him, "even if I'm an old man. She'll come. I shall watch and see that she does. See that she does, Jarvis."

"Yes," he said, "but it will be a strain on you—a great strain. … It's a bit of a strain on me, you know. I suppose you understand?"

"God bless you, Jarvis," I said. "I understand. … You … Some things in life I don't understand. I don't. … Why we grow older in the body than in the heart. … Well, you'll stand the strain for her. How Annabel will chuckle if she can look down and see me! She was only like Marie in looks. There was more—more woman in her—a naughtier Marie. Pray Heaven she keeps her naughtiness! Well, I shall soon know. This is my last hand, I think, and then I go to Annabel with my winnings and losings. We always shared."

"This time," he said, "it must be a win!"

It was a win, but I felt the struggle more than I expected. It was a hard game to play that night. George took an unfortunate interest in our patience games. I had to play before him with one pack which I had arranged, and to sort it again, and could only signal to Marie between times. Fortunately someone called to see him for a few minutes, and I spelt fast then. My signals were these:

"To-night."

"Four in morning."

"Side gate."

"Dick. Motor."

"In lane."

"Four morning. Lane."

"Don't fail."

"Four. In lane."

"Understand me?"

I managed to spell the inquiry while her father was arguing about the play in another hand. Marie picked up the spare pack and seemed to play about with it aimlessly; presently slipped down.

3 hearts—2 hearts—9 hearts. Yes.

"No, no!" her mother cried. "You'll never learn poker patience if that's what you're trying, Marie. Put the nine under the three. You want to get a royal sequence with the hearts." She altered the cards and laid down two more—the ace and king of hearts; in our alphabet they spell No. The room seemed to swim round me then. I thought for the moment that Clara knew our trick, and was spelling. However, the queen and knave came next (p-q), and she said that the cards weren't shuffled, and shuffled them. So I concluded that it was only coincidence; but I could see that Marie was disturbed and trembling, and feared that she might be frightened from her purpose.

"You've spoilt Marie's hand," I said. "Let her have another, and begin with the same cards."

"Yes," Marie said. "I'll pick them out. Then mother can shuffle the rest."

She laid down 3 hearts—2 hearts—9 hearts, putting the 9 underneath the 3 this time. I knew that she meant me to understand that she stuck to her determination to go.

"Bravo, sweetheart!" I said. "That's the spirit for your game. When you make up your mind, stick to it."

"That," said her mother, "is what I tell her! So we agree for once, Great-Grand!"

I went to bed at ten, but I could not sleep. At three I got up and dressed. At a quarter to four I crept out in the passage, listened at Marie's door, and heard her moving. At five to four I went out again. Before I went out this time I swallowed one of the doctor's capsules, and I put my revolver in my pocket. I did not mean anyone to keep Marie from going to her happiness.

It was well that I took the revolver, for just as Marie came out from her door Giles came out of his little room at the end of the passage. He must have heard her moving. She staggered—almost dropped the bag which she was carrying. He opened his mouth to speak, then saw me.

His mouth stopped open, but no sound came, for I held my revolver at his breast.

"One sound and I shall shoot you," I said quietly, very quietly. A man of my sort—the sort that I was—does not bluster.

"Go, child. I will look after him. There shall be no alarm before you are well away. Kiss me. I can't take my eye from him. God bless you! Now go."

I heard her faint steps go down the passage, and the faint sounds die out. "Come to my room, Giles. Don't try any games. If you startled me My hand is unsteady, you know. The revolver might go of!—might go off! No, walk backwards. That's it. Sit on the chair."

"Sir"

"Hold your tongue! You shall speak after I have heard them go."

"But"

"Silence!"

Presently I heard the engine start, then the motor. When the sounds ceased, I put the revolver in my pocket.

"Now, Giles," I said, "if you think it advisable to rouse the house, it doesn't much matter. They will never catch Miss Marie. If they do, it won't matter. They'll never get her from Mr.—Mr. Hang it, I'm growing old! I forget names—forget names!"

I suppose it was reaction. I broke down suddenly. Giles begged me "not to excite myself"; helped me to undress and get to bed; made me a cup of tea on the ring burner.

"What's done can't be undone, sir," he said. "I shan't tell 'em, if you don't wish it. The fact is, sir, I'm a poor man, and You'll remember that I stand in with you."

"You remember that, Giles," I said, "and we shall get on all right; and perhaps, when my will is read, you won't be sorry for humouring me. You're a good servant, and I know I'm a trying old man. But don't take me for older than I am."

"No, sir," he promised. "In your young days you must have been the very devil! Lor', what a stir there'll be in the morning! You keep quiet and know nothing about it."

That was my idea, for at my time of life you do not want a fuss. I pretended that I did not properly understand about Marie.

"Gone, has she?" I said. "Ah, going to get married or something, I expect! They do—they do! And just when she was beginning to take an interest in patience! Very unfortunate, very unfortunate! Well, well, I must play by myself, I suppose. Give me the cards."

"I believe," Clara stormed, "they are the only thing in life which interests you. Don't you realise what has happened? The disgrace to the family? Do you understand that Marie was to have been married next week, and that four days before the wedding she has run away with somebody else? What do you say to that?"

"Changed her mind," I said. "Must have changed her mind. Where's the pack with the lion-backs, Clara? I don't see that."

She muttered something about "hopeless old fool."

"There they are," she snapped. "Now you can play your confounded"

"Oh, let him alone, Clara!" George growled.

"Your old fool's game," she finished.

I sat back in my chair and looked at her.

"An old man's game, Clara," I said, "is to help the young. The cards are sometimes useful for that."

"Good Heavens!" cried George. He is quicker-witted than she. "You old devil, what have you done?"

"You'll find out," I said; "and if you try me too far, you'll find out what I'll do!"

We stared fiercely at each other—were still staring when a servant brought in a telegram for me.

2 spades—A spades—10 hearts—10 diamonds—6 clubs—2 hearts—J clubs— 2 clubs—A clubs—10 hearts—6 spades—2 diamonds.

"My game of patience was worked out all right," I told them, "The last hand I shall play that matters, I expect. I shan't tell you the play. It was a secret between your grandmother and myself and Marie. But I'll tell you what the telegram means. Married. Marie! If I live long enough, I'll teach Marie's child my old man's game!"

But I do not wish to stay here so long as all that. I want to go and play with Annabel. I seem lately to feel that she is very near. Sometimes I stop in the middle of my old man's game to reach my hand across the table … and some day she will take it.