PURPLE AND FINE LINEN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11293, 10 February 1900, Page 3 (Supplement)

PURPLE AND FINE LINEN.

BT WILLIAM LE QUEUX,

Author of "Whoso Findeth a. Wife," "If Sinners Entice Thee." "The Day of Temptation," " The Bond of Black," etc, etc., etc,

[COPYBIGHT.]

CHAPTER (Continued.)

We went forth together, passing from room to room through the great country mansion. The place was handsome, of rather modern type, furnished glaringly in the manner which bespoke the parvenu. It possessed no mellow time-worn appearance, as did the dear old Manor House beside the Severn. The furniture and hangings were too apparently of the Tottenham Court Road type, and the art displayed was that of the art furnisher given carte blanche to furnish with the newest and most fashionable fancies in the matter of wall papers, dados, cornices, and art pottery. There were art carpets and art curtains, art cupboards and art chairs, art china and art chintzes. Art was everywhere in painful enamel and impossible greens. There were pictures too, but different, indeed, to the long row" of noble faces with their ruffles and doubtlets and their arms punted on shields in the corners that looked down so solemnly in the great hall at Heaton. The pictures in that modern mansion wcro of the queue-de-sieclc French school, daubs by the mis-called impressionists, and some rather too chic to be decent.

That a large amount of money had been expended upon the place I could not doubt, but the effect was that of dazzling the gaze by colour, and nowhere seemed there a good comfortable, old-fashioned sitting-room. All the apartments were arranged to please the eye, and not for personal comfort. Tho house was just the kind that a man suddenly successful in the city might set up in the vain endeavour to develop into a country gentleman; for to become such is the ideal of every silk-hatted business man whether he trades in stocks or stockings.

" That I should be compelled to show you over your own house is, to say the least, very amusing," said Gedge, as we were passing up the grand staircase. "If people were told of this they wouldn't believe it possible."

" I myself don't believe what you tell me is possible," I remarked. "But who gave orders for this furniture?" "You did."

" And who chose it—approved of the designs, and all that sort of thing?" " You certainly did," he answered. " Some of the ideas were, of course, Mrs. Heaton's.' "I thought so. I don't believe myself capable of such barbaric taste as those awful blues and greens in the little sitting-room." "Tho morning-room, you mean. " I suppose so. The whole place is like a furniture show-room—this style complete, thirty-five guineas, and so on, You know the sort of thing I mean." He smiled in amusement at my words. " Your friends all admire the place," he remarked.

" What friends?"

"Sir Charles Stimmel, Mr. Larcombe, jady Fraser, and people of that class." "I never heard of them in all my life. IVIIO are they?" I enquired interested. " Friends of yours. They visit here often enough. You surely ought to know them. Lady Fraser is your wife's dearest friend." " Fraser?" I said, reflectively. " The only Fraser I know is a baker in Clare Market, who supplies my old servant, Mrs. Parker, with bread." Then, after a pause, I added, " And you say that these people are friends of mine? Have I many friends?"

" Lots. A rich man has always plenty of good-humoured acquaintances." " They like to come down here for a breath of country air, I suppose—eh?" I laughed. " Thai's about it," he answered. " A good many of them are not very sincere in their friendship, I fear. The man who has money, lives well, keeps a good table, and has choice wines in his cellar need never be at a loss for genial companions."

" You seem to be a bit of a philosopher, my friend," I remarked. He smiled knowingly. " I haven't acted as your secretary without learning a few of the crooked ways of the world."

" What?" I exclaimed. "Don't I always act honestly, then?" This was something entirely now. " Nobody can be honest in finance." "Well,"'l said, resenting his imputation, " I wasn't aware that I had ever swindled a person of sixpence in my life." " Sixpences in such sums as they deal in at Winchester House don't count. It's the thousands." We passed a couple of gaping maid-ser-vants in long-stringed caps, who stood aside, looking at me in wonder. No doubt the news that a demented man was in the house had reached the servants' hall. I was, in fact, on show to the domestics. "Then you mean to imply that these financial dealings of mine— which, by the way, I have no knowledge whatsoever—are not always quite straight," I said, as we walked together down a long carpeted corridor.

He looked at me in hesitation. " It's, of course, business," he answered. "Sharp business. I don't mean to imply that the dealings at Winchester House are any more unfair than those of any other financier in tho city, but sometimes, you know, there's just a flavour of smartness about them that might be misconstrued by a clever counsel in a criminal court."

"What!" I cried, halting and glaring at him. "Now, be frank with me, Gedge, Tell me plainly, have I ever swindled anybody?" "Certainly not," he said, laughing. "Why, it's this very smartness that has made you what you are to-day—a millionaire. If you had' not been very wide awake and shrewd, you'd have been ruined long ago." "Then, I suppose, I'm well-known in the city, eh?" '"' Your name's as well-known as Bennett s clock, and your credit stands as high as anyone's between Ludgato Hill and Fenchurchstreet." "Extraordinary!" I said. "What you tell me sounds like some remarkable fairy tale." " The balance at your bankers is sufficient proof of what may be a good many fairy talcs in certain prqspectuses, but there certainly is none in your financial soundness." We wandered on from room to room. There must, I think, have been quite thirty sleeping apartments, - guests' rooms, etc., all furnished in that same glaring style, that greenery-yellowy abomination miscalled art. "The next room," explained my secretary as we approached the end of the corridor, "is Mrs, Hcaton's boudoir. I expect she's in there. I saw Dalton, her maid, enter a moment ago." " Oh! for heaven's sake, leave her alone!" I said, turning at once on my heel. I had no wish to meet that awful rejuvenated hag again. I fancy Gedge smiled, but if lie did he was very careful to hide his amusement from me. He was, without doubt, a very welltrained secretary. The thought 'of Mabel Anson crossed my mind. All the recollections of the dinner on the previous night, and the startling discoveries I subsequently made recurred to me at that moment, and' I felt dazed and bewildered. This painted and powdered person could surely not be my wife when I loved Mabel Anson with all my soul. Only yesterday I had sat at her side at dinner, and had felt the pressure of her soft delicate hand upon mine. No. It could not be that I was actually married. Such a thing was utterly impossible, for surely no man could go through the marriage ceremony without knowing something about it. Hickman's treachery angered me. Why, I wondered, had he enticed me to his rooms in order to make that extraordinary attempt upon my life? Tho wound upon my head was undoubtedly due to the blow ho had dealt me. The theory that I had accidentally knocked my head against the marble statue and broken it was, I felt assured, only one of that fool Britten's brilliant ideas with which hojmisled his too-confiding, patients. If this were so,, then all the incidents subse- [ quent to my recovery of consciousness were

part of the conspiracy which .had commenced on the previous night with Hickman's attempt. We descended the stairs, passing the footman Gill who, with a bow, said:

"I hope, sir, you feel better."

"A little," I answered. "Bring mo a whisky and soda to the library. And the man at once disappeared to do my bidding. "I suppose he thinks I'm mad," I remarked. "This is a very remarkable menage, to say the least." In the great hall, as I walked towards the library, was a long mirror, and in passing caught sight of my own figure in it. I stooped, and with a loud cry of wonder and dismay stood before it, glaring at my own reflection. The bandages about my head gave me a terribly invalid appearance, but reflected by that glass I saw a sight which struck me dumb with amazement. I could nob believe my eyes; the thing staggered belief. On the morning before I had shaved as usual, but the glass showed that I now wore a well-cut pointed reddish-brown beard! My face seemed to have changed curiously, for I presented an older appearance than on the day before. My hair seemed to have lost its youthful lustre, and upon my brow were three distinct lines—the lines of care.

I felt my beard with eager hands. Yes, there was no mistake. It was there, but how it had grown was inconceivable. Beyond, through the open door, I saw the brilliant sunlight, the green lawn, the bright flowers and cool foliago of the rustling trees. It was summer. Yet only yesterday was chill, dark, winter, with threatening snow. Had I been asleep, like Rip Van Winkle in the legend? " Tell me," I cried excitedly, turning to the man standing beside me, " what's the day of the month to-day?" ''Tile seventeenth of July." "July!" I echoed. "And what year is this?"

" Why, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, of course."

Ninety-six I gasped, standing glaring at him in blank amazement. " Ninety-six?"

"Certainly. Why?" "And I really losing my senses?" I cried, dismayed. " Yesterday was six years ago!" ;

CHAPTER XXI. GEDGE TELLS THE TRUTn.

"Yesterday six years ago!" he echoed, looking at me in blank bewilderment. "What do you mean?" " I mean that if what you've told me is really the truth," I cried, agape in wonder, " then it is the most astounding thing I've ever heard of. Are you absolutely certain of tho date?" " ..

"Certain? Why, of course!" "Of the year, I mean?" "Positive. It's eighteen ninety-six." " For how long, then, have you been my secretary?" I inquired. " Nearly five years." " And "how long have' I lived in this place?" "For nearly four." "And that woman?" I demanded breathlessly. "Is she actually my wife':" " Most certainly," he answered, a I stood stupefied, stunned by the amazing statement. " But," I protested, lost in wonder, " Yesterday was years ago. Jlow do you account for that? Are. you certain that you're not deceiving me? 1 ' , "I've told you the absolute truth," he responded. "On that I stake my honour." I stood aghast, glaring at my reflection in the mirror, open-mouthed as though I gazed upon some object supernatural. My personal appearance had certainly changed, and that, in itself, convinced me that there must be some truth in this man Gedge's statement. I was older, a trifle stouter than before, I think,. and my red-brown beard seemed to give my face a remarkably grotesque appearance. I had always hated beards, and considered them a relic of prehistoric barbarity. It was surprising that I should now have grown one. " Then according to your account I must have spent yesterday actually in this house?'

" Why, of course you did," he responded. " We were engaged greater part of the day over Laffan's affair. Walter Halliburton, the mining engineer, came down to see you, and we were together all the afternoon. He left for London at five."

"And where did I dine?"

" Here. With Mrs. Heaton."

"Don't speak of her as Mrs. Heaton!" I cried, in anger. "She's not my wife, and I will not have her regarded as such."

He gave his shoulders a slight shrug.

"Now, look here, Mr. Gedge," I said, speaking for the first time with confidence. If you were in my place, awakening suddenly to find that six years of your life had vanished in a single night, and that you were an entirely different person to that of twelve hours ago, what would you believe?"

He looked at me with a somewhat sympathetic expression upon his thin features.

"Well, I don't know what I should think." Then he added : " But surely such a thing can't be possible." "It is possible," I cried. "It lias happened to me. I tell you that last night was six years ago." Ho turned from me, as though he considered further argument unavailing.

My head reeled. What he had told mo was utterly incredible. It seemed absolutely impossible that six whole years should have passed without my knowledge: that I should have entered upon' a business of which I had previously known nothing; that I should have rapidly amassed a fortune, and most of all, that I should have married that powdered and painted woman who had presented herself as my wife. Yet such were the unaccountable facts which this man Gedge asked me to believe. He saw that I was extremely dubious about the date, therefore he led mo back to the library where there hung upon the wall a large calendar which quickly convinced me.

Six years had really elapsed since yesterday. In that vexing and perplexing present I reflected upon the puzzling past. That 1 happy dinner with Mabel at The Boltons, the subsequent discoveries in that drawingroom where she had sat at the piano calmly playing; her soft words of tenderness, and tho subsequent treachery of that dogfaced man Hickman, all passed before me with extraordinary vividness. Yet, in truth, all had happened long ago. Alas! I was not like other men. To the practical level-headed man of affairs "Today" may be sufficient, all-engrossing; but to'tho very large majority, a majority, which, I believe, includes also many of the practical, the business of to-day admits of constant pleasant excursions into the golden mists of " long ago," and many happy flights to the rosy heights of " some day." Most of those who read this strange story of my life will remember with a melancholy affection, with a pain that is more soothing than many pleasures, the housewherein they were born, or at any rate the abode in which they passed the earlier years of their lives. The agonising griefs of childhood, the disappointments, the soul-racking terrors, mellowed by the gentle touch of passing years, have no sting for our mature sensibilities, but come back to us now with a pathos that is largely tinctured with amusement.

I stood there reviewing the past, puzzled, utterly unable to account for it. Age, the iconoclast, had shattered most of tho airy iols which my youth had set up in honour of itself. I had lost six of the most precious years of my life—years that I had not lived.

Yet this man before me declared most distinctly that I had lived them; that I had enjoyed a second existence quite apart and distinct from my own self. Incredible it seemed, yet it became gradually impressed upon me that what this man Gedge had told me was the actual hideous truth, and that I had really lived and moved* and prospered throughout those six unknown years, while my senses had at the same time remained dormant, and I bad thus been utterly unconscious of existence. ' But could such a thing be? As a prosaic man of the world I argued, as anyone in his right mind would argue, that such a thing was beyond the bounds of possibility. Nevertheless, be it how it might, the undisputed fact remained that I had lapsed into unconsciousness on that winter's night six years before, and had known absolutely nothing of my surroundings until I found myself lying upon the floor of the draw-ing-room of what was alleged to be my. country house. Six years out of ft man's life is a large slice. 'The face of the world changes considerably in that space of time. ■■ I found

myself living a .life which was so artificial and incongruous to my own tastes as to appear utterly unreal. Yet, as I made further .inquiry of this man Gedge every moment that passed showed me plainly that what he had said was the truth.

He related to me the routine of my daily life, and I stood listening agape in wonder. He told me things of which I had no knowledge ; of my own private affairs, and of my business profits; he took big leatherbound ledgers from the great green-painted safe, and showed me formidable sums entered therein, relating, he explained, to the transactions at the.office up in London. Some documents ho showed me, large official-looking sheets with stamps and seals and signatures, which he said were concessions obtained! from a certain foreign Government, and opened my private letterbox, exhibiting letters I had actually written with my own hand, but without having any knowledge of having done so. These revelations took away my breath. It could not be mere loss of memory from which I was suffering. I had actually lived a second and entirely different life to that I had once led in Essex-street. Apparently I had become a changed man, had entered business, had amassed a fortune—and had married.

Assuredly, I reflected, I could never have been in my right senses to have married that) angular person with the powdered checks. That action, in itself, was sufficient to convince me that my brain had been unbalanced during thoso six lost years. Alone I stood, without a single sympathiser—without a. friend. How this astounding gap in my life had been produced was absolutely beyond explanation. I tried to account for it, but tho reader will readily understand that tho problem was, to me, utterly inexplicable. I, tho victim of the treachery of that man Hickman, had fallen unconscious one night, and had awakened to discover that six wholo years had elapsed, and that I had developed into an entirely different person. It was unaccountable, nay incredible.

I think I should have grown confidential towards Gedge were it not that he apparently treated me as one whose mind was wandering. He believed, and perhaps justly so, that my brain had -been injured by the accidental blow. To him, of course, it seemed impossible that I, his master, should know nothing of my own affairs. The ludicrousness of the situation was to me entirely apparent, yet what could I do to avert it? By careful questions I endeavoured to obtain from him some facts regarding my past. "You told me," I said, " that I have many friends. Among them are there any persons named Anson?" "Anson?" he repeated reflectively. "No, I've never heard the name." "Or Hickman?" He shook his head. " I lived once in Essex-street, Strand," I said. " Have I been to those chambers during the time— five years you have been in my service?" " Never, to my knowledge." " Have I ever visited a house, The Boltons, in Kensington?" " I think not,' he responded. "Curious! Very curious!" I observed, thinking deeply of the graceful dark-eyed Mabel whom I had loved six years before, and who was now lost to me for ever.

"Among my friends is there a man named Doyle?" I inquired, after a pause. "Doyle? Do you mean Mr. Richard Doyle, the war correspondent." " Certainly," I cried, excitedly. "Is ho back?"

" He is one of your friends, and has often visited here," Gedge replied. " What is his address? I'll write to him at once."

"He's in Egypt. He left London last March, and has not yet returned."

I drew a long breath. Dick had evidently recovered from fever in India and was still my best friend, although I had had no knowledge of it.

What. I wondered, had been my actions in tliose six years of unconsciousness? Mine were indeed strange thoughts at that moment. Of all that had been told me I was unable to account for anything. I stood stunned, confounded, petrified. For knowledge of what had transpired during those intervening years, or of my own career and actions during that period I had to rely upon the statements of others. My mind during all that time had, it appealed, been a perfect blank, incapable of receiving any impression whatsoever.

Nevertheless, when I came to consider how I had in so marvellous a manner established a reputation in the city, and had amassed the sum now lying at my bankers, I reflected that I could not have accomplished that without the exercise of considerable tact and mental capacity. I must, after all, have retained shrewd senses, but they had evidently been those of my other self—the self who had lived and moved as husband of that woman who called herself Mrs. Heaton.

" Tell me," I said, addressing Gedge again. "Has my married life been a happy one?"

He looked at me inquiringly.

"Tell me the truth," I urged. "Don't conceal anything from me, for I intend to get at the bottom of this mystery." "Well," he said with' considerable hesitation, " scarcely what one might call happy, I think."

"Ah, I understand," I said. "I know from your tone that you sympathise with me, Gedge."

Ho nodded without replying. Strange that I had never known this man until an hour ago, and yet I had grown so confidential with him. He seemed to be the only person who could present to me the plain truth.

Those six lost years were utterly puzzling. I was as one returned from the grave to find his world vanished, and all things changed. I tried to reflect, to see some ray of light through the darkness of that lost period, but to me it seemed utterly inexistent. Those years, if I had really lived them, had melted away and left not a trace behind. The events of my life prior to that eventful night when I had dined at The Boltons had no affinity to those of the present. I had ceased to be my old self, and by some inexplicable transition mysterious and unheard of, I had, while retaining my name, become an entirely different man.

Six precious years of golden youth had vanished in a single night. All my ideals, all my love, all my hope, nay, my very personality, had been swept away and effaced for ever. ,

" Have I often visited Heaton—my own place?" I enquired, turning suddenly to Gedge. " Not since your marriage, I believe," he answered. "You have always entertained some curious dislike towards the place. I went up there once to transact some business with your agent,: and thought it a nice, charming old house."

" Aye, and so it is," I sighed, remembering the youthful days I had spent there long ago. All the year round was sunshine then, with the most ravishing snow-drifts in winter, and ice that sparkled in the sun so brilliantly that it seemed almost as jolly and frolicsome as the sunniest of sunlit streams, dancing and shimmering over the pebbles all through the cloudless summer. Did it ever rain in those old days long ago? Why, yes, and what splendid times I used to have on those occasions—toffee-making in the schoolroom, or watching old Dixon, the gamekeeper, cutting gunwads in the harnessroom.

And I had entertained a marked dislike to the place! All my tastes and ideas during those blank years had apparently become inverted. I had lived and enjoyed a world exactly opposite to my own; the world of sordid monoy-making and the glaring display of riches. I had, in a word, aped the gentleman.

There was a small circular mirror in the library, and before it I stood marking every line upon my face, the incredible impress of forgotten years.

" It is amazing I Incredible I" I cried, heartsick with desire to penetrate the veil of mystery that enshrouded that long period of imconsciousness. " All that you have told me, Gedge, is absolutely beyond belief. There must be some mistake. It is impossible that six years can have passed without my knowledge." " I think," he said, "that after all, Britten's advice should be followed. You are evidently not yourself to-day, and rest will probably restore your mental power to its proper calibre."

"Bah I" I shouted angrily. " You still believe I'm mad! I tell you I'm not. I'll prove to you that I'm not." "Well," he remarked, quite calmly, "no sane man could be utterly ignorant of his own life, It doesn't stand to reason that he could." , \

"I tell you I'm quite as sane as you are," I cried. " YetTve been utterly unconscious these six whole years."

"Nobody will believe you."

" But I swear it to be true," I protested. " Since the moment when consciousness left me in that house in. Chelsea, I have been as one dead."

' He laughed incredulously. The slightly confidential tone in which I had spoken had apparently induced him to treat mo with indifference. This aroused my wrath. I was in no mood to argue whether or not I was responsible for my actions.

" A man surely can't bo unconscious while at the same time be transacts business and lives as gaily as you live," he laughed.

" Then you impute that all I've said is untrue, and is due merely to the fact that I'm a trifle demented—eh?

" Britten had said that you arc suffering from a fit of temporary derangement, and that you will recover after perfect rest."

" Then by taking me around this house, showing mo thoso hooks, and explaining to me, you've merely been humouring me as you would a harmless lunatic !" I cried, furiously. " You don't believe what I say that I'm perfectly in my right mind, therefore leave me. I have no further use for your presence, and prefer to be alone," I added harshly.

" Very well," he answered, rather piqued. " If you wish, I'll, of course, go."

" Yes, go. And don't return till I send for you. Understand that! I'm in no humour to be fooled, or told that I'm a lunatic."

He shrugged his shoulders, and muttering some words I did not catch, turned and left the library.

CHAPTER XXn. BKOKKN THREADS. He is a faint-hearted creature indeed, who. while struggling along some dark lane of life, cannot, at least intermittently, extract some comfort to himself from the thought that the turn must come at last—the turn which, presumably, will bring him out upon the well-metalled high road of happy contentment.

I do not know that I was exactly fainthearted. The mystery of it all had so stunned me that I felt myself utterly incapable of believing anything. The whole thing seemed shadowy and unreal. And yet the facts remained that I was alive, standing there in that comfortable room, in possession of all my faculties, both mental and physical, an entirely different person to my old self, with six years of my past lost and unaccountable. Beyond the lawn the shadow of the great trees looked cool and inviting, therefore I went forth, wandering heedlessly across the spacious park, my mind full of thoughts of that fateful night when I had fallen among that strange company, and of Mabel, the woman I had loved so fondly and devotedly. Sweet were the recollections that came back to me. How charming she had seemed to me as we had lingered hand-in-hand on our walks across the Park and Kensington Gardens ; how srift and musical her voice, how full of tenderness her bright dark eyes, how idyllic was our love. She had 'surely read my undeclared passion. She had known the great secret in my heart. Nevertheless all had changed. In a woman's life half-a-dozen years is a long time, for she may develop from girl to patron in that space. The worst aspect of 'the affair presented itself to me. I had, in all probability, left her without uttering a word of farewell, and —on her parthad no doubt accepted some other suitor. What more natural, indeed, than she should have married.

That thought held me rigid. Again, as I strolled on beneath the rustling elms which led straight away in a wide old avenue towards where a distant village church stood a prominent figure in the landscape, there recurred to me vivid recollections of that last night of my old self—of the nitounding discovery I had made in the drawing-room at The Boltons.

How was I to account for that?

I paused and glanced around upon the view. All was quiet and peaceful there in the mid-day sunlight. Behind mo stood the great white facade of Denbury; before, a little to the right, lay a small village with its white cottages—the village of Littleham, I afterwards discovered—and to the left white cliffs and the blue stretch of the English Channel gleamed through the greenery. Prom the avenue I turned and wandered down a by-path to a stile, and there I rested, in full uninterrupted view of tho open sea. Deep below was a cove—Littleham Cove, it proved to be—and there, under shelter of the cliffs, a couple of yachts were riding gaily at anchor, while far away upon the clear horizon a dark smoke-trail showed the track of a steamer outward bound.

The day was brilliant. It was July in Devonshire, that fairest of all counties— and July there is always a superb month. The air, warm and balmy, was laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle, and the only sounds that broke the quiet were the songs of the birds, and the soft rustling of the trees.

I sat there trying to decide how to act. For the first time it occurred to me that my position was one of a certain peril, for if I did not act with tact and caution that woman who called .herself my wife, aided by that idiot Britten, might declare that I was mad, and cause me to be placed beneath restraint. Therefore, to gain my freedom, it was evidently necessary that I should act with discretion and keep my own counsel. I looked around upon the fair panorama of nature spread before me. The world was six years older than when I had known it. What national events had, I wondered, happened in that time? Place yourself in my position, and picture to yourself the feeling of bewilderment that overcame me when I reflected upon what might or might not have transpired. There crept over me a longing to escape from that place, the habitation of that awful woman with the powdered cheeks, and to return to London. All my life and pleasure had been centred in the giant capital, and to it I intended now to go back and seek, if possible, the broken thread of my history which might lead me to an elucidation of the marvellous mystery. The world around me, the calm blue sea, the cloudless sky, the green grass lands, the soft whispering of the foliage seemed so peaceful that I could scarce believe that so much evil, so much of human malice, could exist. ' The tranquillity of my surroundings induced within me a quieter frame of mind, and I set to planning carefully how I might escape and return to London. To endeavour to do so openly would, I saw, be to draw upon me the spies of my hideous wife. Was I not believed by all to be insane? Then certainly I should not be allowed to go at largo without someone at my side. I wanted to be alone. The presence of a second person entertaining suspicions as to my sanity would seriously hamper me, and prevent me prosecuting the inquiries I intended to institute regarding my past. No. To escape successfully I should be compelled to fly to London, and once there alter my appearance and assume another name. Search would undoubtedly be made for me, but once in London I felt confident in being able to foil any efforts of my wife's agents. Therefore I sat upon the stile and calmly matured my plans. The chiming of a clock, apparently in the turrit upon my own stables at Denbury, fell upon mv cars. It struck one. Then the sharp ringing of a bell—the luncheon bell— followed.

Gedge had told me that the place was near Budleigh Salterton. Was it near enough, I wondered, for me to walk there, and was there a station? There might, I reflected, be a map in the library. I would be compelled to trace it out and seek my route, for I was absolutely ignorant of that corner of Devonshire.

Yes. My best policy, I decided, was to return to the house, act as indifferently as possible, and meanwhile complete my plans for escape. I retraced my steps to the house by the path I had traversed, and upon the lawn was met by the man Gill, who announced:

" The luncheon-bell has rung, sir. I hope you feel a little better, sir." "Oh, much better," I answered, airily, and with an effort at self-possession followed him into the imitation old-oak dining-room, which Gedge had shown me during our tour of the place. The woman with the powdered cheeks was already seated at the head of the table erect and stately, with an expression of hauteur which ill became her.

"I hope you feel better after your walk," she said, as I seated myself. " Ob, much better," I responded in a tone of irony. " The pain has practically passed." "You should really rest," she said in that squeaky artificial tone which so jarred upon my nerves.. •" Do take the doctor's advice.."-

It was on the tip of my tonguo to' make a r : further unwriteable i emark regarding the doc« tor, but I managed' to control myself and' ; reply: ' ; ■-• . ,•':.•• ■■ l ' "Yes. I think after luncheon I shall lay. down for a little time! I have, however,* some pressing letters to write first.",-: :

" Let Gedge attend to your correspondence " for to-day," she urged with that mock juvenility which rendered her so hideously ridicu- -. lous. . ... ' *jj '~"■•.;•: ■;* " No," I responded. "I have unfortu- ' nately to attend to several pressing matters personally. Afterwards I will rest." ■' : ;', ■;>-' " Do, there's a dear," she said. 1 ' '.•

I bit my lip. She nauseated me when she used that affectionate torm. The only woman I loved was Mabel Anson, but whether she were still alive, or whether married, I knew no.t. The/very thought that I was bound in matrimony to this woman sitting in the high-backed chair of carved oak was disgusting. I loathed her.

How I continued to eat the dishes Gill handed me, I know not, nor do I remember what conversation passed between my pseudo wife and myself as we sat there. Many were tho abrupt and painful silences which fell between us.

She struck me as an ascetic, strong-minded woman, who, before others, fawned upon me with an affected devotion which in cm of her age was ludicrous, yet when we were alone she was rigid and over-bearing, with the positive air of ono who believed mo far beneath her alike in social station and in intellect. When Gill was absent she spoko in a bard, patronising tone, which so angered me that with great difficulty I retained my temptr. Yet it was my policy, I knew, to conceal my thoughts, and to lead her to believe that the words I had uttered and my failure to recognise her were owing to the blow I accidentally received, and that I was now, just as I had been before— husband.

What a hollow sham that meal was! Now that I think of it I cannot refrain from smiling at my extraordinary position, and how I showed her delicate attention in order to tho more impress her of my solicitude for her welfare.

When at last she rose it was with a hope that I would go to my room and rest.

I seized the opportunity, " I shall," I answered. " But don't let them call me for dinner. I will have something when I awake. Britten has ordered perfect quiet." " Very well," she answered. Then turning to Gill, she said, " You hear. Mr. Hcaton is not to bo aroused at dinner."

" Yes, madame," answered the man, bow« ing as we both passed out.

At once I walked along to tho library, shut the door, and locked it.

I had much to do to prepare for my flight.

Yes, as I had expected, there was an ordnance map of the Teignmouth district tacked to the wall, and searching, I quickly, found Denbury marked upon it, standing on. the Exmouth road over the High Land or Orcombe, half-way between that place and Budleigh Salterton. The South-Westem railway ran, I saw, from Exmouth to London, by way of Exeter, and my first impulse was to walk into Exmouth, and take train thence. The fact' that I was probably known at that station occurred to me, therefore I made up my mind to avoid the terminus and join the train at Lympston, a small station further towards Exeter. Taking up my pen I made a rough sketchplan of my route, which passed Littlcham Church, then by the left-hand road struck across country, crossing the high road to Exmouth at right angles, continuing through the village of Withycombo Raleigh, and keeping straight on until it joined the main road to Exeter. At tho commencement of the village of Lympston it was necessary, I saw, to turn sharp to the 1 left, and at the'end of the road I should find tho station, close to the River Exe.

In order to avoid mistaking tho road and entering the town of Exmouth I made a full and careful plan which, when completed, I placed in my pocket. The distance, I calculated roughly, was between five and six miles over a road rather difficult to find without a map. Among the books on the table I found a Bradshaw with the page of local trains turned down, and from it learned that a train with connection from London stopped at Lympston at five minutes to eight p.m., while the train in connection with the up-mail from Exeter stopped there at twenty minutes past eight. Tho latter I decided upon taking. The fact that I had expressed my desire to sleep would prevent Gill coming to call mo at the dinner hour, and by tho time I was missed I should bo well on my way to London. #

The question of money occurred to me. I had noticed some loose gold and a couple of five-pound notes in one of the drawers which Gedge had opened, and having a duplicate set of keys in my pocket I transferred the whole— a little under twelve pounds—to my pocket. > Then I took out my cheque-book. It vas too large to be carried in the pocket, therefore I tore out a couplo of dozen or so, folded them, and placed them in an envelope.

I recognised that I could draw money with them, yet the bank need not know my whereabouts. If these people, who would, I suppose, call themselves "my friends," mado active search to find the fugitive " madman" they would certainly obtain no clue from my bankers. In the same drawer as the cheque-book I found a black leather portfolio, securely locked. .

The latter fact impressed me. Everything else was open to my secretary, who possessed keys, both to writing-table and safe. But this was locked, apparently because therein were contained certain private papers that I had wished to keep from his eyes. No man, whoever he may be, reposes absolute confidence in his secretary. Everyone has some personal matter, the existence of which he desires to preserve secret to himself alone.

I drew forth the locked portfolio, and placed it upon the blotting-pad before me. It was an expansive wallet of a kind such as I remembered having ,<een carried by banker's clerks in the city from bank to bank, attached by chains to the belts around their waists.

Surely upon my ring I possess a key to it. I looked, and found a small brass

key. It fitted, and a moment later I had unlocked the wallet and spread my own private papers before me.

What secrets of my lost life, I wondered, not thosj carefully-preserved letters and documents contain?

In eager, anxious wonder I turned them over.

Next instant a cry of dismay broke involuntarily from my lips, as within trembling fingers I held one of those papers—a letter addressed to me.

I could scarce believe my own eyes as I read it. ' Yet the truth was plain—hideously plain,

(To be continued on Wednesday next.)