The Times' Red Cross Story Book/An Impossible Person

the cant phrase, people often said that General Sir John Beckford was a quite impossible person. A brave soldier, a true gentleman, a splendid creature physically—just so, but rendering himself absurd and futile by notions so old-fashioned that they had been universally exploded before he was born. A man who obstinately refused to move with the times, who in manner, costume, and every idea belonged, and seemed proud to belong, to the past.

Even his own relatives admitted the impossibility of him when, at the age of sixty, he gave effect to the most old-fashioned of all conceivable notions by marrying for love. If an elderly widower with a little son of nine wants somebody to make a home and help to rear the child, he should invite some middle-aged female cousin to come to his assistance; but if he wants a charming, attractive girl to renounce the joys and hopes of youth in order to soothe and gladden his dull remnant of years—well, he oughtn't to want it, and really it is not quite nice when he does.

Lady Jane Armitage, an ancient aunt, put this thought into very plain words and forced Sir John to listen to them. A mistake—not even a fair bargain. What is Cynthia to get, on her side? A seat in a carriage, a liberal dress allowance, perhaps a few more loose sovereigns than she has been accustomed to carry in that silly little gold purse of hers!

"The idea of money," said Sir John gruffly, "has never entered Cynthia's head."

"Perhaps not. But what else can you offer her? To hold your landing-net while you do your stupid fishing; to perform the duties of a nursery-governess for Jack; to enjoy the privilege of playing hostess when you entertain half a dozen other generals and their frumpish wives."

Sir John echoed his aunt's last adjective ironically.

"Yes," said Lady Jane, "but I'm different. I know I'm a frump, and your friends aren't aware of their misfortune. No, John, I tell you frankly, it isn't a fair bargain."

Sir John bit his grey moustache, ran a strong hand through his shock of grey hair, contracted his heavy brows, and then laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Inexplicable to you, eh, Aunt Jane? Well, let's leave it at that. But be kind to Cynthia all the same, won't you? Save her from the other frumps," and, ceasing to laugh, he stared at Lady Jane almost fiercely.

He was one of those men who consider it beneath their dignity to betray tender emotion, and who perhaps look sternest and most forbidding when they are feeling unusually soft and gentle. At any rate, he would not explain to his aunt that he believed the marriage to be an eminently fair bargain—an old-fashioned exchange—love for love—as much love on the girl's side as on his.

Lady Jane made no promise, but she proved very kind indeed to her new niece; endeavouring to find innocent amusement for pretty Cynthia, acting as her chaperon, watching over her, and growing fonder and fonder of her. She said that the young Lady Beckford was a model wife and a pattern stepmother. No one could have been more devoted to or wiser in her training of Master Jack.

Now, after five years, the boy was ready to go to a public school, and during these long summer days a holiday tutor had been giving him final preparation, ultimate crammed knowledge, and topmost polish of tone and manners. August had been spent at the Beckfords' country house in Devonshire, and the early weeks of September at their flat in Victoria Street. Lady Jane approved of everything that concerned these arrangements, except one thing. She approved of the public school, of the engaging of a holiday tutor, of all the care, devotion, and forethought with which the little man was being launched from the home circle; but she did not approve of the fact that Sir John had thrown the whole burden on Cynthia's slender shoulders, while he did his stupid salmon-fishing four hundred miles away in Scotland.

Not quite fair to Cynthia—leaving her all alone with a schoolboy and his tutor. Lady Jane, at considerable inconvenience, ran down to Devonshire to cheer and enliven her. Came back to London and at worse inconvenience stayed there, so as to be handy to act as companion, chaperon, advisory ally, whenever Cynthia wanted her.

But Cynthia wanted her scarcely at all, and allowed poor Lady Jane to perceive at last that uninvited companions are sometimes a tedium rather than a solace.

It was the last night of the holidays. To-morrow Master Jack and his tutor would disappear from Victoria Street.

Dinner had been ordered at an early hour, and Jack was scampering through his meal with excited swiftness. One last treat had been arranged for him. He was to be dispatched to a theatre presently in charge of George, the footman.

"I wish you were coming," said Jack, and as he turned to Mr. Ridsdale his eyes expressed eloquently enough the hero-worship that is so easy to kindle in young and ingenuous hearts.

"It would be scarcely polite," said Mr. Ridsdale, "for both of us to desert Lady Beckford."

"No," said Jack; "but I wish she'd come with us," and he turned to his stepmother. "Won't you change your mind?"

"I really don't feel up to it. Jack. I'm tired—I've had a headache since the day before yesterday."

"It might drive the headache away," said Jack, eagerly. "They say it's a tip-top piece."

His stepmother and his tutor both smiled as they looked at his bright and animated face. Lady Beckford's smile was simply affectionate; Mr. Ridsdale's was indulgent and patronising.

"A rousing melodrama, Jack! All noise and stamping."

"Yes," cried Jack, enthusiastically. "Murder and sudden death—just what I like."

"But not," said Mr. Ridsdale, "exactly indicated as a cure for a headache."

"Well, if I can't persuade you" and Jack turned to Yates, the butler. "Has George changed his things?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll be off." Jack pushed his plate away with a gesture that elegant Mr. Ridsdale could not approve of. It was too childish for a boy of fourteen—a little more polish required, in spite of so much polishing. "Good night," and Jack kissed Lady Beckford. "I shan't say good night to you, Mr. Ridsdale, because you won't have turned in before I get back, will you?"

"No; I'll sit up for you," and Mr. Ridsdale, smiling, spoke with rather strained facetiousness. "I'll be waiting to hear how the heroine was extricated from her misfortunes, how the villain got scored off by the funny man, and how virtue triumphed all round in the end. There! Cut along. Your escort is waiting for you."

Master Jack hurried gaily from the dining-room, and his boyish voice sounded for a few moments as he prattled to the footman. Then the hall door of the flat opened and shut, and the two elders were left alone to finish their dinner at leisure.

"Ah!" Mr. Ridsdale drew in his breath with a little sigh, and, looking at his hostess, spoke quietly and meditatively. "I know you often read people's thoughts, but I wonder if you could guess what I'm thinking now?"

"I'll try, if you like. You were thinking that perhaps, after all, Jack is too young still for the rough-and-tumble life of a big school."

"Oh, no," said Mr. Ridsdale, carelessly. "Jack'll do all right. They'll soon lick him into shape. No"—and his tone softened and deepened, though he was speaking almost in a whisper—"no; I was thinking this is the last night of my—my holidays; possibly the last time I shall ever sit in this pleasant room, or see you wearing that beautiful dress, or hear you playing classical music, that I don't understand, but love to listen to."

Truly it seemed a pleasant room, a remarkably pleasant room for a London flat. The evening was just cold enough to justify a fire, and small logs of wood in a basket grate sent dancing flames to light up the oak panels of the walls; electric lamps flashed brightly on silver and glass; a golden basket of peaches and another of grapes made the table appear a symbolised announcement of ease, luxury, even of sumptuousness; the butler, moving to and fro so promptly and yet so sedately, offered one delicate food and stimulating wine. It was all very, very pleasant.

Pretty things wherever one glanced—a mirror in a sculptured frame, some blue and white china on a long shelf, and, seen faintly, with the electric light just indicating their existence, rows of handsomely bound books behind latticed glass; altogether what would be described in stage language as a charming interior.

Any tutor, accustomed to the hard seats and coarse fare of a school hall, might feel regret at leaving such a room irrevocably, and might long afterwards yearn to see again the pretty things that it contained. But just now Mr. Ridsdale was looking only at his hostess, and he repeated the compliment about her dress.

"I admire you in that more than in any of the others," he said, softly, and rather sorrowfully.

"Because it is black, I suppose. It's quite old. But men always like black dresses. My husband does."

The dress was made of velvet, with some silver decoration across the front of the bodice, and it certainly appeared becoming. In it Cynthia Beckford looked very slim and young; fair-haired, but dark-eyed, naturally pale, but with a rapid flicker of colour; a person of frank, kind outlook, a simple and truthful sort of person, and yet with underlying depths of character or sensibility that proved astoundingly interesting to the few people who had studied her closely. Frenchmen would describe her beauty, such as it was, as belonging to the order that slowly troubles rather than quickly fascinates.

"But I'm not like the General," said Mr. Ridsdale. "I admire that black dress, not any black dress."

He said it with a perceptible insistence, quietly but obstinately; as if conscious of subtle values in his own taste, and unwilling that it should be confounded with the ordinary likes and dislikes of another person—even though that person were as worthy and respectable as his temporary employer.

Mr. Ridsdale was a good-looking man of thirty, tall and thin, of easy carriage and elegant manners. Boys, big and small, among whom he had passed the better part of his life, always looked up to him, and sometimes adored him, as a perfect type of school-trained manhood; and girls, too, were frequently subjugated by his charms. He was the sort of man who is not as a rule dreaded by other men as likely to prove a dangerous rival; and yet one might well suppose that in certain circumstances he would be dangerous—for instance, if paying slow and unhindered court to a foolish and otherwise neglected woman. The dark eyes, the smooth, silky voice, the insidious flattery of its softening tones, might all be effective in a protracted attack on feminine foolishness of a certain age.

"To-morrow," he said, dreamily; "to-morrow—almost to-day," and he sighed as he took a peach from the gold basket.

Yates, the butler, had put cigarettes and matches on the table, and was about to leave the room, when the outer bell rang shrilly and sharply.

"Who can that be?" said Ridsdale, looking up. "A visitor! Oh, do tell him to say you're not at home."

The butler paused, waiting for instructions.

"It can't be a visitor," said Cynthia Beckford. "Some tradesman's messenger!"

"It may be old Lady Jane."

"She wouldn't come so late as this."

"I don't know," said Ridsdale, eagerly. "She comes at all hours. With your headache she would bore you to death." He leaned forward in his chair and spoke very softly. "And, remember, my last evening! You—you promised that you would play to me."

Cynthia Beckford hesitated a moment, and then told the butler that she was not at home.

"Yes, my lady. Not at home to anybody?"

"No."

The flicker of colour showed in her pale cheeks as she added explanatorily to Ridsdale, "It can't be anybody of importance."

Mr. Ridsdale sat listening. Then he got up, and spoke with an impatience that he did not attempt to conceal.

"That fool has let some one in—a man!"

Yes, a man's heavy footstep in the hall, and a man's voice—loud and assured, not making polite inquiries, but issuing curt directions.

"I have left my tackle and luggage at Euston. Get a cab presently and go and fetch it. Take this ticket."

"Yes, Sir John. Her ladyship is in the dining-room."

"Open the door, then."

Cynthia Beckford ran across the room to meet her husband; but, encumbered with a hand-bag and a travelling-rug, he was not able at once to accept her welcoming embrace.

"Well, Cynthia, my dear! Ridsdale, my dear fellow, how are you? But Where's Jack?"

General Beckford put his hand-bag on a chair by the sideboard, dropped his rug upon the floor, and, coming to the table, took Master Jack's vacated seat.

"We have sent him to a theatre," said Cynthia, "with George. I'd no idea that you were coming home, of course."

"Oh, I see. Gone to the play—with George?"

"We were all three going," said Mr. Ridsdale, "but Lady Beckford had a headache, so I strongly advised her to stay at home," and he smiled. "Rather fortunate—or you would have had a double disappointment."

"It would have been my own fault," and the General smiled too. "I ought to have sent you a telegram, Cynthia."

"What has brought you back so unexpectedly?"

"Impulse."

"Fish not rising?" asked Ridsdale.

"No. Wretchedly poor sport. So this morning I suddenly made up my mind that I'd had enough of it, and that home, sweet home, was the place for me. Well, well, what about the home news?"

Cynthia Beckford was instructing Yates as to her husband's dinner, but the General declared that he had eaten all he wanted in the train.

"I can't call it dinner," and he laughed good-humouredly. "But nothing more, thank you—unless perhaps a biscuit and a whisky-and-soda. Now, sit ye down. Don't let me disturb you. Go on with your dessert, Ridsdale—and then I'll join you in a cigarette, if my lady permits us," and he bowed to his wife with the antiquated air of courtesy that always seems so odd in these free-and-easy times.

They sat together, talking of Jack's health, his progress, his future career; and Mr. Ridsdale was able to speak most favourably of his pupil's prospects.

"Capital," said the General. "I'm enormously indebted to you, Ridsdale. You seem to have done wonders. But I knew you would; I knew the boy was in good hands Seen much of Aunt Jane?" he asked his wife, abruptly.

"Yes." Cynthia was looking at the painted decoration on her dessert-plate, and she answered slowly. "Yes; Aunt Jane was with us at Lynton for a fortnight—quite a fortnight."

"I know; but I mean after that. She is in London, isn't she?"

Then Cynthia smilingly confessed that the long fortnight in Devonshire had exhausted the attraction of Lady Jane's society, and that she had lately avoided it.

"She is too kind for words, but"—Cynthia looked at her husband deprecatingly—"dear Aunt Jane can be rather boring."

The General laughed tolerantly.

"Ah, no companion for you. She belongs to another generation." His bushy eyebrows contracted and his voice became grave. "My generation. We old folk are poor companions."

"She doesn't belong to your generation." Cynthia flushed, and her lips trembled. She put out her hand and laid it on her husband's arm. "You are the best of companions—a companion that I have missed dreadfully."

"There!" General Beckford laughed gaily. "Did you hear that, Ridsdale? That's the sort of thing we old chaps like—even if we aren't vain enough to think we deserve it. Leave that where it is, Yates."

Yates was about to remove the hand-bag and take it to his master's room.

"Very good, Sir John."

"And you can go to Euston now—no hurry. Take a bus."

"Yes, Sir John."

"Smoking permitted?" And the General bowed again to his wife. "Light your cigarette, Ridsdale. No, I mustn't have any coffee on top of whisky and soda."

The little group at the table sat comfortably enough and talked lightly and easily. But somehow the presence of General Beckford had destroyed the graceful charm of the room.

He looked too big, too rough and shaggy for his delicately pretty surroundings. His grey hair was rumpled and unbrushed after the journey; his coarse grey suit suggested wild moorlands and brawling streams; his whole aspect was savagely picturesque rather than neatly refined.

No contrast could have been greater than that offered by the smooth, well-brushed, nicely polished young man who sat opposite to him on the other side of the small round table. The electric light shone upon Mr. Ridsdale's black cloth and black silk, his stiff white shirt and soft white waistcoat, his jewelled buttons, his pearl studs, his butterfly tie, his white hand fingering a cigarette-tube, his smooth forehead, and his sleek hair plastered and brushed back with studious art and infinite care. He seemed elegant, shapely, even beautiful, when you compared him with his travel-stained, unkempt host.

All the charm had been banished by the new-comer. It was another room now. And the ugly hand-bag on the distant chair seemed like an aggressive symbol of proprietorship. It seemed to be saying that, although one might wish the General at the deuce, one could not ask him to go there, because in sober fact the room belonged to him.

Yet, to an understanding eye, there was something noble and knightlike about the man; the ruggedness seemed blended with a certain fine simplicity, and even the old-fashioned tricks of manner and speech, by removing him from the commonplace mode of the hour, served to stimulate an effort to get at the man's real character. Certainly no poseur—a direct, straightforward creature. On reflection one might perhaps guess that a young romantic girl, whose imagination had been fired by the splendour of his fighting life, his deeds of daring, and so forth, could quite conceivably be cajoled into giving her untried heart to him.

"One more question, Cynthia." The conversation had languished while the General puffed at his second cigarette. "How's the music? Have you been assiduous in your practice?"

"Yes; I've played nearly every evening."

Mr. Ridsdale was conscious of an irksome constraint. Two are company and three are none. Deciding to leave the husband and wife together, he pushed back his chair and got up.

But the General would not let him go.

"No, no," he said. "Sit ye down, my dear fellow." Then to his wife: "If the headache isn't too bad, play something this evening. Run over your latest studies. Ridsdale and I will follow you directly."

Cynthia Beckford rose obediently and turned towards the drawing-room door. Her husband reached the door before Mr. Ridsdale could get to it, and he held it open for her, bowing low as she passed out.

"There!" He had switched on the light in the other room, and he stood in the doorway watching her. "Now delight our ears with your deft touch." Lady Beckford seated herself at the piano and began to play a plaintive and dreamy prelude by Bach.

"Beautiful! Your hand has not lost its cunning. Now go on playing— and don't think me ungallant if for a few minutes I close the door. A word or two with Ridsdale—on business. But we shall hear you, even through the door." Then he gently, and as if regretfully, shut the drawing-room door and came back to the table.

"Ridsdale"—and there was an apologetic tone in the General's lowered voice—"that wasn't quite honest of me. A ruse! I asked her to play the piano because I didn't want her to disturb us—and I didn't want her to hear what we were saying."

"Oh, really?" Ridsdale smiled, and glanced at the closed door.

"A confidence! I may trust you, mayn't I?"

"Of course."

"Implicitly, eh? But that goes without saying. I have trusted you so greatly already, haven't I? The boy—to consign him to your guidance. Well, you know what he is to me. I couldn't have better shown the faith I had in you"

"You're very kind, General. I—I've done my best with him."

"Exactly. But—well, this isn't about the boy. It's about myself. I am in trouble."

"Really?"

"I wasn't honest, either, in my explanation of why I came hurrying home. No, Ridsdale, it wasn't a sudden caprice. I had serious reasons for coming."

"Oh, had you?"

"Yes. I am in great trouble." And the General looked at Ridsdale keenly, as if seeking in his impassive face some expression of sympathy or encouragement; then he dropped his eyes and paused before he continued speaking. "I wonder if I ought to tell you? Yes, I will. You are one of ourselves. We have made you one of ourselves—something more than an acquaintance—a friend, eh? Yes, I'll tell you the whole thing."

"I am all attention."

"Thank you."

From the other room came the sound of Cynthia's plaintive melody, and, half-consciously listening to it, the General seemed to have transferred its wistful cadence to his own voice. His manner had changed completely. He looked preternaturally grave and sad, as he sat frowning at the tablecloth and tracing a small circle of its pattern with a strong brown finger, while he murmured his story.

"No, Ridsdale, what brought me home was a letter—a warning letter—about my wife."

"Before you tell me any more, may I say this? As a schoolmaster I often have to deal with anonymous letters, and my experience has convinced me that the only thing to do with them is just to chuck them into the"

"Just so. But this wasn't an anonymous letter."

"No?"

"No. The writer is a tried friend—a person of my own blood. I have the letter in my pocket here, but I won't bother you to read it. The warning conveyed was simple enough. It amounted to this: I was to guard my wife carefully if I did not want to risk losing her—because a man was attacking my peace and honour."

"Oh, I say"—Mr. Ridsdale spoke indignantly—"it would be an insult to Lady Beckford not to treat such a communication with the absolute contempt and"

"But, my dear Ridsdale," said the General, sombrely, "it is the communication that I have always prepared myself to receive, that I have been expecting to receive at any hour in the last few years."

"Nothing," said Mr. Ridsdale, firmly, "would persuade me to suspect Lady Beckford of"

"No, no, of course not. Please leave her out of it. I'm not thinking of her. I'm thinking only of myself—the attempted blow to me"

"You shouldn't for one moment believe"

"Why not?" said the General, sadly. "One is vain, but there are limits to one's vanity. One hopes just at first, perhaps—but later one begins to think and to understand. You know, with Cynthia and me, it was a convenient marriage—although it wasn't a marriage of convenience."

"Indeed, no—I know that well."

"Regard—and more than regard—entered into it. But there was the difference of years. At my age one has not the adaptability of youth; one cannot change one's ways, even if one wishes to. So I foresaw that with marriages of that sort a crisis sooner or later comes. Well, our crisis has come."

"I—I am sure you are mistaken."

"You heard what she said about Lady Jane boring her. Well, I bore her. Recently she has shown it plainly. In fact, that is why I went away—not to give myself, but to give her, a holiday."

"My good sir," said Mr. Ridsdale, earnestly, almost irritably, "I can assure you she has spoken of you every day in the most affectionate terms—regretting your absence, saying how she missed you, and so on."

"Has she?" said the General, with a sigh. "That may have been from a sense of duty—contrition—remorse. Pity for the old fogey whose presence could but weary her."

He got up, went to the drawing-room door, and opened it.

"Thank you, Cynthia. Charming! Don't stop playing. Please go on," and he shut the door again.

Ridsdale, rising from the table also, had gone to the fireplace. He pulled out a cambric handkerchief, and rubbed the palms of his hands with it. Then he put his hands in his pockets, and, standing with his back to the fire, turned towards the General, politely attentive to, if not cordially sympathetic with, the General's doubts and fears.

"Now, look here, Ridsdale, that's all about it. I've given you the facts, and I ask you to help me."

"Delighted. But how could I possibly"

"Help me to find the man."

"Why, I don't believe he exists."

"Oh, yes, he does."

"Did your friend give you no hints—of any kind?"

"None whatever."

"Ah, just what I thought! Believe me, it's some ridiculous misapprehension."

"No; my informant is not a fool, or a person who supposes that I am lightly to be trifled with."

The General's manner had changed again. The sadness had gone from his eyes and the wistfulness from his voice. Pride was the note that sounded now in the carefully suppressed voice. He squared his big shoulders, threw back his massive head, and, indeed, looked somebody who would be extremely unlikely to be trifled with, either by chance acquaintances or old friends.

"I am a soldier, and I think as soldiers used to think in the bygone days, when we were taught that we ought to harden our thoughts until they become as undeviating as instincts. If I'm called upon to guard and defend something placed in my charge, the thought of what to do is an instinct—to go out and meet the danger half-way. The safest method of defence is to deal promptly with the enemy that threatens. Now, where is the enemy? Help me if you can. His name has been withheld from me—for obvious reasons"—and the General snorted scornfully. "I am advised to be moderate, to avoid a scandal. It was a woman who wrote to me. It was Lady Jane"—and he gave another snort. "She didn't want to make mischief—as she calls it—and she implores me not to be old-fashioned. But I am old-fashioned—I'm not ashamed of it either—so old-fashioned that when I have found my man I shall force him to give me satisfaction."

"A duel?"

"Yes."

Mr. Ridsdale laughed deprecatingly.

"That's all very well; but, really. Sir John, you can't put back the clock quite so far as that. This is 1912, not 1812, you know."

"I don't care whether it is or it isn't."

Though he did not raise his voice, the General spoke with so much intensity that Ridsdale started.

"That may be; but—ah—Sir John, you won't easily get—ah—other people to share your opinions."

"I'll get him to share them, and that'll be enough for me. Ridsdale, you're not a woman—you needn't take your cue from Lady Jane and urge moderation. At least you can guess at what I'm feeling."

"Yes; but I think without cause—quite without cause."

"This century or the last, it must be the same code when things dearer than life are at stake. That's how I feel. So you may guess if I'll follow the mode of 1912, and seek aid from a private detective office, or ask for reparation in a court of law."

"No, I'd never suggest that you should. What I beg you—what your best friend of either sex would beg you—is not to do anything rash, not to excite yourself needlessly."

In truth, General Beckford was exciting himself. His voice vibrated harshly; one could see the immense effort required to keep it at its low pitch. He stared and glared, shook his shaggy hair, and looked altogether like some grey old lion who had been brought to bay in a cruel hunt, and was ready to spring upon his closest tormentors.

"All right, Ridsdale. But help me, don't preach to me. There, I swear I'll do nothing without thought. I have thought. I have thought it all out. Bring me face to face with my enemy. I answer for the rest. Now, who is he? We don't know so many people, she and I. Help me to run over their names, or, better still, use your brains on my behalf. She has been more or less under your observation lately. You must have seen her comings and goings—the people she was in touch with. Have you observed anything suspicious?"

"No; nothing whatever."

"Some too attentive visitor?"

"No."

"It doesn't matter." The General shook his grey mane and paced to and fro. I'll find him unassisted," and he stopped abruptly. "Ridsdale, so surely as I stand here, I'll find that man, and compel him to satisfy me."

Ridsdale drew out the cambric handkerchief and passed it across his forehead. Then he laughed lightly. "General, please forgive me for laughing. But really when any one is so carried away by excitement—well, you yourself will laugh to-morrow when you remember the wild things you have said in your excitement."

"You think that the fellow perhaps isn't a gentleman, and that he may try to refuse?"

"I think that, whether he is a gentleman or not, he will certainly refuse to break the law of the land at your bidding."

"Yes; but I'm prepared." And the General smiled grimly, and spoke with a kind of sly triumph. "I shall ignore his refusal. I shall put a pistol into his hand and make him fight."

"I doubt it."

"An unloaded revolver! Ridsdale, don't you see? I'll give him an unloaded revolver, with six cartridges. I'll have the same myself—and I'll begin to load. When he sees me load he'll know that he must do something if he means to save his skin. When he sees me load my weapon, he'll load his weapon too. I shall watch him as a cat watches a mouse. If he raises his arm, up goes mine. If he fires, I fire. We bang at each other at the same moment."

"Impossible."

"Why impossible? If I get him alone he can't help himself."

"He'd treat you as a madman—give you in charge to the nearest policeman."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't. I'd get between him and the door."

"Apart from the fact that it would be murder if you succeeded, you wouldn't succeed."

"I should. You don't know how the pressure of immediate peril quickens people's movements. Point by point I'd press him down the line I meant him to take. It's so simple—not a weak spot in the infallible logic of the thing. The clock would be put back as rapidly as if destiny moved its hands."

Ridsdale laughed again, very lightly.

"Look here," said the General, eagerly, "try it. You don't understand what I mean. Let me show you what I mean. Act it with me."

"Act it? I—I don't follow."

"Rehearse it. Let me show you how it works. We'll go through it point by point—and if you can show me a weak spot, I'll thank you with all my heart."

As he spoke, eagerly and enthusiastically, but still almost in a whisper, the General had hurried across to the chair that held his ugly leather bag.

"See here!" He had opened his bag, and the electric light flashed upon the bright metal of a pistol. "Here—another one," and the light flashed again. "A revolver for him and for me. Now help me to rehearse the trick. Here. Take your weapon. You see it's open at the breech."

He had come to the fireplace and was offering one of the two revolvers.

Mr. Ridsdale hesitated about taking it. "Really, you know. General, I doubt if I ought to encourage you in"

"Catch hold. You're not afraid of firearms, are you?" And the General smiled.

"No, of course not."

Mr. Ridsdale took the pistol, and the General hurried across the room to the door that led into the hall.

"Watch me carefully," he whispered. "I am locking this door."

For the second time the aspect of the pleasant, comfortable room had altered; the prettiest things in it looked ungraceful, grim, forbidding; its atmosphere—even the air one breathed—was different. What was happening in the room seemed dream-like, grotesque, quite unreal; and this sense of unreality involved one's perception of the material, unaltered world outside the room. The sounds of music floated towards one as if from an immeasurable distance.

But probably the queer notion of unsubstantiality in surrounding objects was directly caused by the strangeness and oddness of the General's antics. He was no longer himself; he was a person acting a part—as it would be acted on a brilliantly lighted stage.

"See!" he whispered, as he came creeping back towards the leather bag. "I have manœuvred you into the worst possible position. I have cut you off from escape. That door is locked. This door I guard."

One could hear one's heart beating above the far-off ripple of the music.

"Watch me," said the General. "Never take your eyes off my hands. See! Here are six cartridges—and I put them down, so—on your side of the table." He stepped back swiftly and cautiously. "See! Here are six cartridges for me—on my side of the table." And he sprang away, to his old post in front of the drawing-room door. "It is all fair play. I give as good a chance as I take myself. We stand at equal lengths from our ammunition. You follow it all, don't you? You catch my meaning?"

Mr. Ridsdale, staring at his empty revolver, nodded.

"Very well. Now, if you value your life, prepare to defend it. See! I am going to load."

The General's acting was rather good. Deriving stimulus from his natural emotions, he achieved some fine artistic effects. His flushed face, his bent brows, his fierce attitude and swift movements, indicated the determination of implacable wrath.

And Ridsdale, too, represented his assumed character well enough. His cheeks were livid, his breath came gaspingly, the hand that carried the revolver shook perceptibly—altogether an excellent simulation of surprise, apprehensive doubts, if not of craven fear.

"One!"

The General had crept to the table, taken a cartridge, and was slipping it into the chamber.

"There!" he whispered. "Automatically you have done it too. I told you so. Wait! Lift your hand at your peril. My turn. Two!"

Ridsdale, copying the General's slightest movement, was loading as the General loaded.

"Three! That's it. Three left. When you take the last, step back. I'll not raise my arm till you are back on the hearth. I swear it. Four!"

The music had ceased, but neither of them noticed. In a silence broken only by the sound of panting respirations, they loaded the fifth and sixth cartridges, and simultaneously sprang away from the table.

"Now!" The General had been the quicker. His arm was up. "Now answer me." The ferocity in the hissing words was terrible to hear. "Are you the man?"

"I—I Upon my word, I—don't understand such folly."

"You blackguard! This is not acting." The concentrated passion behind the words seemed to send forth waves that struck one's beating heart with flame and ice. "Now answer me, or—so help me, God I—I'll shoot you."

Then the drawing-room door opened. The General, instinctively dropping his arm and turning, shouted at his wife:

"Go back! Go back, I tell you!"

There was a blaze as if all the electric lamps had exploded, and a crash that seemed to shake the walls. Then again came the flash and the roar. Mr. Ridsdale had fired twice.

For a moment the room was full of smoke. Then the dusty cloud rose, grew thin. The lamplight, shining unimpeded, showed General Beckford still upon his feet, standing square and erect, with Cynthia desperately clinging to his breast.

"What's this?" said the General, loudly and sternly. "Has the smoke blinded you, Cynthia? Why have you come to me? Your place is not here. Go to your lover's arms."

But she clung to him closer. She was stretching her slender figure to its fullest height, trying to cover his limbs with her limbs, his face with her face, madly straining to make a shield of trembling flesh large enough to protect him from danger.

"The coward!" she wailed. "The miserable coward! He shot at you when you weren't looking. He tried to kill you!"

"Then get out of the way," said the General, "and let him try again. Can't you see how you're hampering him? This is his chance and yours. Don't spoil it. Let him set you free."

But Cynthia only trembled, sobbed, and clung.

"Very well," and the General laughed harshly. "We have been interrupted, and my opponent must kindly understand that his chance is gone. Cynthia, do you hear? He won't shoot again. Now, stop whimpering, and answer me."

"Yes, I want to tell you everything."

"Is this man your lover?"

"No—no."

"But he has endeavoured to be?"

"Yes."

"Then why has he remained here?"

"I was afraid to send him away."

"Why? What were you afraid of?"

"You. I thought if you knew you'd do something dreadful."

It was curious, but it seemed as if suddenly these two—the husband and the wife—were quite alone. If the man they spoke of had been swept a thousand miles from the room, they could not have disregarded him more completely than they did now. Cynthia had linked her hands round the General's neck; she was looking up into his stern, unflinching eyes, her voice was strong and clear as she answered each question.

"When did he first insult you?"

"Two days ago."

"But you knew what he meant before that?"

"No, I didn't. I knew he admired me—and I thought it rather amusing; but I never dreamed he would dare. And then, when he did dare, I thought if you heard or guessed it would be too dreadful. I blamed myself—yes, I blamed myself. But I thought it was only two days, and then he'd be gone for ever—with no fuss and no scandal. My darling, don't you believe me?"

"Is there nothing else to tell?"

The General was glaring down into his wife's eyes.

"Before God, that is all. Oh, don't you believe me?"

"Before God, I do."

Very gently Sir John released himself from the clinging hands, held one of them for a moment; then, bowing ceremoniously, kissed it.

"Mr. Ridsdale!" His manner was perfectly calm as he turned to the ignored guest, and he spoke quietly but heavily, with an old-fashioned style of humour that was too pompous to be quite successful. "My wife called you a coward just now; but, honestly, I could not apologise if she had called you a fool as well. Those are blank cartridges that we have been playing with. Oh, yes, it would have been dangerous otherwise. But I'm always careful. In fact, when I have to deal with gentlemen of your kidney, I'm almost as afraid of firearms as you are yourself. And, à propos, the hall door is open I didn't really lock it."

Mr. Ridsdale silently crossed the room.

"Then good night to you. Yates will be back directly, and when he has packed your things, where shall he take them?"

"Ah—er—say, the St. Pancras Hotel."

"And I may send your cheque to that address? Thank you. Good night!"